Entwined (8 page)

The gentleman released a sigh. A long, sad sigh, as though torn from the depths of his soul. Then, abruptly, he walked away. The girls exhaled.

“That,” whispered Bramble, “was close.”

“Let's get out of here.”

This time no one argued. They crawled to the bridge and were nearly to the steps, when Azalea glanced up at the dancers one last time—

And saw Ivy among them.

She stood just next to the dessert table and had helped herself to a plate, a napkin, and every goody she could reach. She beamed as she piled cream bun after chocolate roll on her already-stacked plate. No one had noticed her, either, not even the gentleman, who stood at the other side of the pavilion, taking a dancer's hand. Her small white-nightgowned form blended in with the tablecloth.

“Oh, no,” whispered Delphinium. “No no
no
!”

“Blast it, Ivy, do you always have to
eat
?” seethed Bramble.

Azalea stood as high as she dared and tried to catch
Ivy's eye. It seemed to take hours. Ivy hummed and licked her lips and picked up a dough ball that had rolled off her plate.

When Ivy
did
finally look over at the entrance, Azalea motioned desperately. Ivy blinked, nodded at Azalea, set her plate on the floor, took the hem of her nightgown, and brought it up so it made a basket. Her chubby little legs skipped to the table, where she proceeded to gather enough food in her nightgown to share with all of them.

“No, Ivy,
no
,” Azalea moaned. “That was a
come here
motion!”

And then Ivy, her skirt heavy and swinging with foodstuffs, walked
straight across the dance floor
.

“They might not see her,” whispered Delphinium. “They might not. She's small enough—”

The dancers screamed.

Skirts rustled, heels clattered against the marble, masking the entrance. The music-box orchestra clicked and ground to a stop, as though something had caught in the gears. In all the frenzy and billow of skirts, Azalea heard Ivy's tiny five-year-old voice cry:

“Lea!”

Azalea sprung.

“Over the bridge!” she yelled. The girls untangled themselves from the bushes, tripping over one another as they fled. Azalea leaped up the pavilion stairs and shoved
her way through the dancers, who screamed again. Ivy stood in the middle of the floor, clutching her nightgown hem to her chest, her chin quivering.

Azalea skidded to Ivy and grabbed her around the middle, scattering tarts everywhere. Ivy let out a cry. Azalea
ran
. Her soot-streaked nightgown flapped against her legs and her hair streamed out behind her as she dashed to the entrance. The dancers backed away—

—and
disappeared
.

“My lady! Wait!”

Azalea rushed down the stairs and stumbled to the bridge.

“Please, my lady!”

She careened into the girls at the arch of the bridge, and they scrambled to find their footing.

“If you don't stop, I'll make you stop.”

Azalea dared a glance back at the gentleman. Kneeling on the stairs, he dipped a gloved hand into the water.

A rushing, gushing pouring rumbled through the mist.

The girls shrieked as water streamed and frothed over the lower ends of the bridge. They fled back to the middle arc, water surging past the willow branches and lapping at their heels. In just seconds, the lake rose to the top of the pavilion stair, enveloping the silver rosebushes and locking the girls on the bridge's arched center.

The water settled. The willow branches floated. The girls huddled to Azalea.

“I said
please
.” The gentleman stood. He was breathless, pale, as though he had exerted himself to sickness. He leaned against the doorway lattice, panting. “Aren't you supposed to do what I say, when I say
please
?” He removed his wet glove, finger by finger, then wrung it out. Drops plinked into the lake.

“This is my only pair,” he said. “I do hope you're happy.”

Azalea opened her mouth to stammer out an apology, or a cry, or anything, but the words caught in her throat. The younger girls clung to her nightgown skirt. The gentleman, still breathless, eased into a smile, and then into the most graceful bow Azalea had ever seen. His arm swooped behind him.

He laughed as he straightened.

“My ladies,” he said. “Do forgive me. Did I frighten you? Oh, dear, I must have. Look at you, all huddled together like that.”

The girls kept their mouths clamped shut.

“You're pale as pearls,” said the gentleman. His voice was smooth as chocolate. “You must forgive me. Only it is the first time I have seen
real
people since the High King D'Eathe.”

T
he reflections of the rippling water danced over them, casting highlights onto the lavender mist.

“D'Eathe,” Clover stammered.

“You're
old
!” said Hollyhock.

“No one can live for over two hundred years,” said Eve, tugging on the ends of her dark hair. “It's impossible.”

The gentleman laughed, though it had an edge to it.

“I
am
old,” he said. “The inside of me is cracked and faded with dust. But I am not dead. And—I am not living, either. I am…undead.”

The girls cast one another confused glances. Azalea remembered the stories she'd heard about the High King. He could capture the deads' souls….

“It is difficult to explain,” said the gentleman. “But I owe you this much. Please.”

In a sleek, silky movement, the gentleman produced dainty teacups on saucers by cupping his hands together and unfolding them. Each teacup filled to the brim with tea; he slipped them into the water and blew, sending them drifting and bobbing to the girls like candles on tiny boats.

The girls scooped up the saucers from the water, all exclamations, and Ivy had slurped the last drop from her teacup before Azalea could stop her, smacking her lips with delight. Sighing, Azalea cautiously took a sip of tea. The flavor of butter and berries melted over her tongue, leaving nothing to swallow. Magic tea.

“I am a highborn gentleman,” he said as they pressed the teacups between their hands. “A lord. When the High King D'Eathe reigned, I was a member of his court.”

The girls inhaled a tight, hard breath, all at the same time. The gentleman smiled, tight-lipped.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I was his
friend
, even. Ah, do take heart. I am not so villainous. I was only a boy.”

And then he spun a story with his smooth chocolate voice, so enthralling the girls forgot the teacups clasped in their hands and hung on every word.

Azalea imagined their small country when the gentleman had been young, with the city's streets dirt and not paved, with the wood wild and the palace new.

“I was young,” he said quietly. “And a fool. The
High King had made an apprentice of me, teaching me charms and bits of magic. But he went mad, surely you know of this. When I heard of what he did to souls—” The gentleman touched a finger to a vine at the arched doorframe, tracing it, thoughtful. “Well—I joined the rebellion, naturally.”

The pieces congealed in Azalea's mind. The same rebellion headed by her ninth great-grandfather, Harold the First. Azalea listened, rapt.

“It was a betrayal the High King refused to suffer.” The gentleman's long fingers closed over a silver leaf and snapped it from the vine. “I was found, naturally. I was no contest for his magic. And it wasn't good enough for him to simply kill me. Instead, within his fine magic palace, he magicked me here. I was made the keeper of this pavilion. Because, more than anything, the High King loved to
dance
.”

Eve choked on her tea.

Bramble said, “You're making that up!”

Flora said, “Was dancing even invented back then?”

The gentleman laughed.

“You like dancing, do you?” he said. “You would have been impressed with the High King. Every night he brought his court to dance in this pavilion. And I, a part of it, tending to it, the servant and fool of the High King. Humiliating.

“And then, after countless nights of dancing, the High King and his court vanished. In some trick of magic, I, too, faded into the walls and foundations of this building, a helpless piece of thought among the bricks and granite. Only recently have I been released enough to become keeper again, though still nothing more than a piece of magic, like this pavilion, and still unable to go beyond these steps. So it is.”

The gentleman finished, smiling sadly. Azalea grasped her teacup in her hand, feeling the porcelain beneath her fingers. Trapped…the gentleman had been confined to the palace—just like them.

“You poor thing,” said Flora.

“Are—are you hungry?” said Clover. “Do you need food—or—anything?”

The gentleman laughed. “Why, you charming little thing,” he said. “No. I am quite all right.”

Azalea said, “What is your name?”

The gentleman's black eyes turned to Azalea. They took in her shabby, soot-streaked nightgown and her auburn hair, unpinned to her waist. A hint of a smile graced his lips as Azalea, flushing pink, pulled Lily closer to hide herself.

“Keeper,” he said. “That is what I was called by the High King. I have no other name anymore.”

Keeper. An unusual name, for a most unusual
story, and a most mysterious gentleman.

“Pray forgive me,” said Mr. Keeper. His long dimples appeared as he smiled. “I will lower the water presently and let you free. But please, may I have the honor of asking who
you
all are?”

Azalea flushed, remembering her manners. She curtsied and introduced them all, from herself—“Azalea Kathryn Wentworth, Princess Royale”—to Bramble, Clover, Delphinium, Evening Primrose, Flora, Goldenrod, Hollyhock, Ivy, Jessamine, Kale, and tiny Lily, now asleep on Clover's shoulder. Each girl bobbed a curtsy at her name, and Eve gave the “But I'm just Eve, really, not the Primrose part,” which she said at every introduction. The gentleman gave them each a bow, so graceful he rippled.

“Wentworth,” he said. He smiled.

The pavilion shimmered in the silver mist, and the magic lulled them. Jessamine yawned and leaned against Clover's leg, and Kale curled up in a little ball at Azalea's feet. Azalea knew they had to leave but wished they didn't. Her eyes met the Keeper's, across the lilac-silver pond, and he still kept the smile on his lips.

“Princess Azalea Kathryn Wentworth,” he said. “Look in your pocket.”

Azalea touched her nightgown pocket, feeling a flat, stiff piece of paper. Puzzled, she pulled out an envelope
embossed with silver swirls. The girls leaned in and gave
oohs
as she broke the seal and unfolded it.

The Princesses of Eathesbury
are
formally invited to attend
a ball
tomorrow night
courtesy of
the Pavilion Keeper

“Was it a dream?” said Flora, the next morning, snuggling into her pillow. All the girls had slept late and awakened with excitement shining in their eyes.

“No dream,” said Bramble, grinning a sleepy, wry grin. She scuffed the floor near the fireplace. “Dreams don't leave sooty footprints.”

A fizz of delight sparked in the air. A great tingle of excitement they hadn't felt since the Yuletide. Azalea felt for the invitation in her nightgown pocket—and found nothing. Magic, again.

The girls chattered sleepily over a breakfast in the nook, stirring their porridge but too thrilled to eat it. Azalea insisted they at least try to eat, before lessons began.

“It's so…unusual,” said Clover, turning her spoon in her mush, her pretty face almost aglow. “That gentleman…”

“Mmm!” said Delphinium. “That gentleman!”

Warmth rushed to Azalea's ears as she thought about the gentleman; the way he glided across the floor, the way he blew on the bits of napkin in his hand and how they had swirled into snowflakes, how his dark eyes had taken her in.

“He's a rogue,” said Azalea firmly. She coaxed a spoonful of porridge into Kale's little mouth. “I have a mind not to return.”

The girls yelped, horrified.

“Oh,
no
!” cried the twins.

“You
can't
!” said Eve.

“We
have
to go back,” said Delphinium. “I need to dance so much, my feet hurt.”

“Az,” said Bramble, pulling her chair closer, so they saw eye-to-eye over the cream pitcher and threadbare tablecloth. “Don't you see how
perfect
this is?
Finally
we have a place to dance, one where no one could possibly discover us!”

“Of
course
I've realized it!” said Azalea. Her toes curled in her stiff boots, aching to spring into a dance. “It's just so—extraordinary!”

It twisted her thoughts, thinking of the Pavilion
Keeper living in the walls of their palace, unknown to the royal family. The King knew about that passage—surely he did; hadn't Lord Bradford said as much? But the Keeper and the magic he couldn't possibly know of. To him the passage was a storage room, possibly for old trunks and broken furniture. He couldn't know of the Keeper, with his dark, rakish eyes and sleek ponytail.

No, the King
definitely
did not know of Mr. Keeper.

What had happened, Azalea wondered, to free the Keeper enough from the walls of the palace—enough to magic a storage room into a fairyland—but not enough to free himself?

“Even if we wanted to dance,” said Eve, who looked crestfallen, “we couldn't. We don't have any dance slippers.”

This put a damper on everyone's excitement. They couldn't dance barefoot, not with a gentleman there, and they couldn't dance in their old, heavy boots—their feet would get twisted. As if it could hear them, rain began pattering against the draped windows.

“Actually,” said Azalea, slowly folding her porridge with her spoon. “I think we might.”

She brought them all upstairs to the east attic, and among the dusty broken toys, the dripping roof, and ramshackle furniture, she unlatched a trunk. Before mourning, they had practiced dancing every day, so much
that they had worn out the seams of their slippers. They even had a shoemaker who would bring the repaired slippers to the palace each morning. It was a luxury that Mother insisted on and the King reluctantly allowed.

Since mourning, they hadn't been allowed to dance, but they had the slippers they hadn't used on Christmas. Azalea pulled out a bundle and unwrapped it, revealing eleven brightly colored pairs of slippers. The girls ooohed.

They tried them on, right there in the dusty attic, and everyone was delighted to find that the slippers still fit. A little tight, but slippers never hurt the feet like boots did. Delphinium turned a graceful spin, sending puffs of dust about them.

“I feel like a princess,” she said.

 

That night they readied in a flurry of delight. Hair brushed, pinned, and braided; dresses buttoned, tied, poofed, and smoothed. Azalea produced dried flowers from a box underneath her bed, and the younger girls beamed as the older girls pinned the delicate crinkly blossoms in their hair and tied their slippers.

With the handkerchief and another burst of silver, the girls shivered as they passed through the billowing magic waterfall. Tonight the silver forest dripped here and there, though instead of raindrops, it dripped pearls. They reflected the light of the lamp as they fell. Azalea caught
one in her hand, and it wetted her glove as a normal raindrop would, but left a pearly white spot.

Just before the bridge, Azalea set down the lamp and pulled the willow branches aside, revealing the glimmering white pavilion. The girls clasped hands and walked forward. Pearls rained into the water with soft
ploop
s.

The Keeper stood at the entrance, cutting a sharp, smooth outline against the white silver. He dipped into a bow, so deep he fell to one knee.

“You came,” he said.

“Of course,” said Azalea, forgetting that she ever had doubts.

“Welcome,” he breathed. “My ladies.”

He extended his arm to the dance floor. With a squeal of delight, the girls bounded up the steps and onto the marble. Azalea smiled and followed after, her slippers so soft she could almost feel the marble veins. They looked about them, taking in the velvet, backless sofas on the sides for resting, the dessert table piled with chocolates and buns, the domed ceiling above them.

Azalea turned to see the Keeper at the entrance, folding his arms, his black eyes on her. She turned her head, feeling a blush rise to the tips of her ears.

“I do hope my ladies will enjoy their night of dancing.” The Keeper backed out of the entrance, onto
the first stair. Delphinium gave a cry of protest.

“You're leaving?” she said.

Mr. Keeper smiled. Even his smiles were sleek.

“I do not dance,” he said. “I am only the Keeper. I leave dancing to those who are more gifted than I.”

The white rain gusted in thick patters above them, and pearls dripped in sheets over the sides. A curtain of white masked the Keeper from the entrance. When the drops subsided and the bridge and rosebushes were revealed once more, he was not there.

“Wow,” said Hollyhock. “Wow!”

The blush still heated Azalea's face. She turned to the girls, smiling as the invisible orchestra tuned and sprang into a lively melody.

“A schottische!” said Azalea. “Do you remember this? Mother taught it to us hardly a year ago—you'll remember! Come along.”

They joined hands, and Azalea taught them the dance.
Step-hop, hop, touch, hop.
She taught them to turn their feet just so, and the girls learned it quickly. Even two-year-old Kale stepped on the right beats in the next dance, a spinner's reel.

Quadrilles, gorlitzas, a redowa waltz, and more reels. The hours passed, the girls laughing as Azalea turned them in the steps.

She loved this. The feeling of stretching herself tight,
releasing, spinning, falling breathless and feeling the air across her face. Seeing her sisters so happy, their pale cheeks pink with delight. It was magic.

Lord Bradford's watch read well past one when the girls finally sat down together in the middle of the dance floor, exhausted, happy, their dresses like black blossoms over the milky dance floor. The youngest girls had fallen asleep, curled up on the red velvet sofas, and Lily, who had been passed from sister to sister and squealed with glee every time she was spun, slept soundly on a chair cushion. Her skirts poofed in the air, revealing ruffly little pantelettes.