Keeper yanked on the sash, so hard it brought her in sharply. She stumbled out of the rhythm. Using one hand, Keeper spun her hard, pulled her arms up with the sash, and wound it around her wrists, like a spider wrapping up a moth.
Smooth. Tight. So quick, Azalea didn’t realize she had been caught until her wrists throbbed with the tightness, and she was pressed, hard, against Keeper’s chest. Her fingers pulsed red.
Keeper wound one arm around her waist, the other gripping the twisted sash at her wrists.
“She’s been caught!” The girls’ cry of disappointment echoed from the bridge.
Azalea tried to writhe free. Keeper held her firmly. The sash burned.
“Now, now,” he said, breathless. He turned his hands a touch, and the crimson sash dug into Azalea’s skin. “Excellent dance, my lady. You are the best I have ever danced with. You should take pride in that.”
“Let me go.”
“You have very pretty lips,” he said, keeping his hand at the pinching sash. “I’ve often wondered if you kiss as well as you dance….”
His fingers tightened about the sash, sending shoots of pain up her arms and making her knees weak. He brought his hand from her waist and entwined his long fingers into her hair, cradling and twisting at the same time.
And then, he leaned in to her neck, breathing against it. The hairs on the back of Azalea’s neck rose. Choking, she couldn’t cry out as his fingers gripped her hair, and his lips traced, just touching her skin, to hers—
In a jolt, Keeper jerked back, his head yanked at a full square angle. He made a strangled, inhuman noise.
Azalea caught a glimpse of an Adam’s apple a-bob, and shook free of the sash. Blood rushed to her fingers. She gathered her skirts and ran out the entrance, down the silver stairs, choking back something that was like sobs but not quite.
“Az!” Bramble caught Azalea before she collapsed onto the bridge. “Are you all right? You’re dead pale. Why wouldn’t he let you go? His back was to us. What happened?”
Azalea shook her head. “Nothing—nothing.”
“What—what happened to him? At the end?”
Azalea looked at Clover, uncertain.
“He…lost his balance,” said Clover. “Or…something.”
“It looked like his ponytail had revolted against him,” said Bramble.
“Look,” whispered Goldenrod.
They looked. In the pavilion, Keeper swept about, his cloak billowing behind him. He was prowling. His eyes glinted as he searched over each piece of the dance floor.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Azalea. “We’re not coming back.”
CHAPTER 24
Azalea’s wrists throbbed as she helped the girls undress and unpin, tugging slippers from their feet and tucking them in. She built up the fire and turned down the lamps. Then, with a candle, she slipped down the two flights of stairs to the ballroom. To her relief, it was unlocked. She slumped in front of the nearest pier glass, shaking. After a moment to breathe in the calming, familiar nutmeg-and-fabric smell of the ballroom, she pushed up her sleeves to examine her pulsing wrists.
They were swollen and red, a welt ringing each like a mottled bracelet. Azalea touched them and winced. Her eyes stung.
Keeper had guessed she had given up. She had. She felt as though a needle and thread was sewing her throat shut, piercing and winding. She buried her face in her hands, throat too tight, and quaking too hard, to even cry.
“Princess.”
Azalea jolted away from the mirror, nearly overturning the candle.
“I’m sorry…. It’s…only me.”
In the dim light, by the ballroom doors, stood Mr. Bradford, rumpled as always, but face sober with a deadly solemnity. He walked to her and knelt. Over his arm was slung an old, ragged piece of fabric. Azalea recognized the cloak that hung in his shop’s closet.
“Are you all right?” said Azalea. “Why are you—?”
“Miss Azalea, I followed you.”
Azalea’s brows knit together as he brought out his handkerchief. He unfolded it in his hand, and revealed an old gold pocket watch, with swirls about the cover, black inside the creases. He took Azalea’s hand and pressed the watch to it.
Azalea frowned at it, taking in the worn gold swirls. Realization dawned.
Giving a cry, Azalea reeled backward, and the pocket watch clattered to the marble.
“Your watch!” she said.
Mr. Bradford took her trembling hands in his large ones. His fingers brushed her sore wrists, and Azalea gave a shuddering gasp. In a moment, his suitcoat was about her shoulders, and he had lit a fire in the grate.
“Yes,” he said, still trying to calm her. “Yes, I followed you, followed you. Through the passage. And the silver forest. Everything.”
Azalea felt as though she was bumbling through an unfamiliar dance step, her feet late on the rhythm and catching underneath the gentleman’s.
“H-how?” she managed to stammer.
Mr. Bradford fumbled with the threadbare, moth-eaten cloak over his arm.
“It is a family secret, of sorts. See here.”
He stood, strode several paces from her, and with an awkward flourish, brought it over his shoulders.
He faded into the darkness.
Azalea leaped to her feet, searching over the red velvet curtains, turning hard to see where he had faded to. Disappeared to. It frightened her—it was too much like Keeper!
In an instant, Mr. Bradford reappeared, solid and visible again, the cloak now off his shoulders and rippling in his hands.
“A wraith cloak!” said Azalea as he pulled her to the fireplace. Azalea’s legs shook, and relieved, she dipped to the floor, dress pooling around her.
“The same.” Mr. Bradford clumsily folded it, and knelt in front of her again. “It has been passed down in our family. Your ancestor, Harold the First, gave it to us, but, ah, as uneventful as Eathesbury is, we’ve never used it. When I saw you at the graveyard, looking so white, I knew something was wrong. I knew it.”
Azalea stared at him, the fire flickering highlights in his eyes.
“So…I thought I should do something,” he finished lamely.
“You saw everything?”
Mr. Bradford gave half of a crooked smile. “I did knock.”
“You didn’t see Mr…. Mr.—”
“Mr. Keeper?” Mr. Bradford spat the name. “Oh, yes, I saw Mr. Keeper. Rather hard not to. I saw him try to kiss you. Or what he said was a kiss. I want to snap his head off!”
Azalea had her hand over her mouth, shocked that someone as solemn and dignified as Mr. Bradford could have such venom. He took her hands, gently, and pushed up her sleeves, revealing her swollen wrists. His fingers traced the bruises.
“You stopped him,” said Azalea. She bowed her head, shy. “You kept him from—from—”
“Ah, yes, my lady!” Mr. Bradford smiled his crooked smile in full. “His ponytail was simply begging to be yanked.”
Azalea gave a surprised laugh. Mr. Bradford grinned.
“Tell me everything,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Everything you can.”
The story fell from Azalea in gushes, as though it had been dammed up. She told him of the discovery, of Mr. Keeper, the slippers, dancing every night, the oath, and the watch. With difficulty, she told him about the haunted ball, and Mother, and realizing who Keeper was.
She tingled as she told him everything, but it wasn’t breath-stealing or overwhelming. The oath magic could somehow see that Mr. Bradford knew the secret.
When she had finished, the fire had dimmed. She sat next to him, studying his knobbly gentlemanish knuckles, wishing to rub her cheek against his shoulder. Mr. Bradford brought his knees to his chest, deep in thought.
“My father told me about the High King,” he said to his steepled fingers. “I never believed that he could actually capture souls. I always thought it just rumor. Souls. That’s the deep sort of magic. It really was your mother?”
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Azalea could still feel Mother’s lips pressing against her fingers. The thread’s weave. She turned her head.
“It was…ghastly,” she said.
In the warm hearthlight, Mr. Bradford took her hands and gave her a weak, crooked smile. “Princess,” he said, “I haven’t taken the oath. We’ve got to tell someone.”
“The King!” said Azalea.
“Just so!” Mr. Bradford squeezed her hands. “This devil Keeper has got to be freed sometime. I doubt very much your father will care to have the High King D’Eathe living underfoot! We can organize the cavalry and bring him to a court of law. If he must be freed, then we do it on our terms. Not his.”
The blood rushed to Azalea’s cheeks in a warm wave, but quelled at a new thought.
“I’m not sure Keeper can be killed,” she said. “The blood oath—”
“Flummery,” said Mr. Bradford, bringing a smile to Azalea’s lips. “The King surely would know what to do. He knows magic better than any of us.”
Us. That word, and Mr. Bradford’s firm, steady hand about hers, sent courage to Azalea’s heart. It wasn’t just her anymore. Azalea wanted to cry and dance and sing all at once. She leaped to her feet, the weak dizzy-headedness of missed meals tripping up her steps.
“Oh, Mr. Bradford!” she said. “You’re wonderful—oh—I could kiss you!”
Azalea immediately pulled back, the hot flush prickling to the very roots of her hair.
“Oh,” said Mr. Bradford, who was pink, even in the dim light. “Well.”
“I—I suppose I should go…wake the King, then,” Azalea stammered.
“Oh—yes. Oh—no. Don’t. It’s nearly morning, and you’re dead on your feet. First thing tomorrow? We’ll find the King.”
“Oh—yes. Naturally—first thing. Of course.”
“Naturally.”
“Of course.”
“Wait…here.”
Mr. Bradford produced a small package from his suitcoat pocket and, going to her, unfolded a napkin from a crumbled muffin. They had eaten cardamom-egg muffins for tea, a great holiday treat. Azalea couldn’t bring herself to eat hers, so she had given it to Ivy. Ivy, in turn, had given it to Mr. Bradford, which meant that she was awfully fond of him. She never gave up food willingly. Mr. Bradford now offered it to Azalea in his large, cupped hands.
Azalea took it, blinking away almost-tears. She looked at him, his soft brown eyes and tall form, and contemplated raising herself on her toes and kissing his ear, or his cheek. In a great blush, she almost did—then pulled back, remembering that morning just a few days ago.
Instead, impulsively before leaving, she reached up and smoothed his mussed hair.
Mr. Bradford beamed.
Azalea awoke the next morning, late and to an empty room, but giddy and glorious, fully embued with Christmas spirit. She sang when she dressed, sang when she pinned up her hair, and daintily danced her way through the corridor and down the stairs. Every time she turned a corner, she added an extra spin, her skirts brushing the wallpaper.
After a quick, late breakfast of cinnamon bread and cream (holiday breakfast—Christmas Eve), Azalea learned from Mrs. Graybe that the girls were out giving Mr. Bradford a tour of the gardens before it snowed again. Azalea grinned, thinking of what sort of tour that would be. They would make him pull them across the frozen pond, and probably balance on the bridge railing, just to see if he could do it.
The King was out in the gardens, too, said Mrs. Graybe, discussing R.B. with a gentleman. Terribly impatient to find him and Mr. Bradford and get the whole business done with, Azalea donned a cloak and began to comb the bright, sunny-snow gardens.
It was nearly tea, the wind blowing in gusts and ushering in a storm, when Azalea found the King in the straw-smelling stable, saddling Dickens. Over Dickens’s back, in its rapier sheath, was the sword. Azalea remembered that the King had promised to have it mended today.
Next to Dickens stood an unfamiliar chestnut horse. Azalea recognized the owner. It was the rain cloud fellow—Mr. Gasperson. Azalea wondered what his business was, to be with the King on Christmas Eve. They spoke in low voices, and Azalea glimpsed a silver wax seal on a folded letter. The royal imprint.
“…as soon as Miss Bramble is willing, of course,” said the man in dark, rumbling tones. He mounted his horse.
“As you say.” The King looked up from Dickens’s side, seeing Azalea at the stable door. “Miss Azalea,” he said.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Azalea. “I need to talk to you. I’m not interrupting?”
“No, it is quite all right.”
Intrigued, Azalea waited until the gentleman had ridden away, giving her a polite nod as he passed, before she pulled the creaking door closed. The King remained at Dickens’s side, buckling and harnessing and adjusting straps.
“Bramble?” said Azalea. “Willing? What did you give him?”
The King cinched the saddle. “It is going to snow,” he said. “You should head in.”
“Mrs. Graybe says you’ve been talking to him all morning,” said Azalea, stubbornly curious. She did not like how the King deflected her question.
“Azalea, did you have something to talk to me about?” said the King.
“Oh, yes,” said Azalea. She hesitated. “Tell me about Bramble first. Please. I’m supposed to watch out for the girls.”
An odd expression crossed the King’s bearded face. He considered Azalea, sizing her up. He paused.
“Well,” he said.
“Well?” said Azalea encouragingly.
The King gave a nod. From his suitcoat he produced a green broken-sealed letter. He handed it to Azalea.
“He has inundated me with letters this past week,” said the King. “Three a day at least. He’s even bought a town house on High Street. This is his most recent letter. Tell me what you make of it.”
Azalea eagerly unfolded the much-creased letter and read the hurried, loopy handwriting.
Your Most Exalted Majesty, Your Grace, etc., etc.:
I don’t know what ruddy else I can offer. You won’t have a fig to do with my lands or my money or anything, I suppose, of value to anyone else. I suppose that makes you a good father but it certainly makes things rum for me. I haven’t anything else to offer, but a sincere heart, one that aches for Bramble, her sweet, plucky spirit, her smart whippish mouth, her heart, and her dear hand.
“Her hand?” said Azalea.
I’m in agony now, hoping that my steward will convince you. If not I think I’ll break all the windows in the house and drown myself in a bucket.
A most sincere heart—
Lord Edward Albert Hemly Haftenravenscher, Esq.
Azalea stared at the letter.
“Marriage!” she said. “Lord Teddie wants to marry her! Marry Bramble!”
The King smiled. “Just so,” he said. He slipped the letter from Azalea’s hands. “He thinks her a run-a-hoop in a croquet game, raspberry jam on toast, cadmium red in a paint set. That is what he has written.”
“He’s around the twist,” said Azalea. “Breaking all the windows? He’s mad.”
“Ah, no,” said the King. “It’s only madness if you actually do it. If you want to break all the windows in the house and drown yourself in a bucket but don’t actually do it, well, that’s love.”
Azalea was consternated. “You told him of course not, didn’t you?”
The King paused. In a long, heavy moment, everything turned upside down, and Azalea thought, Oh, no…
“Ah, Azalea.” The King put a hand on her shoulder. “I told him he could.”
“What!”
“I just sent the marriage contract with his steward,” said the King. “I certainly told him no often enough. But—ah.” The King placed both his hands on her shoulders. “He loves her. He doesn’t give a fig for her dowry; he loves her for who she is.”
Azalea mouthed wordlessly at the King until words finally pushed themselves to her mouth.
“But—but—that’s not the way it’s done,” she stammered. “You can’t just arrange Bramble’s marriage without even asking her! That’s not how it is done nowadays!”
“I am perfectly aware of how it is done nowadays,” said the King crisply. “I am not that old. You yourself said that if Lord Teddie proved himself in earnest—”
“Not like this!” said Azalea.
“And furthermore,” said the King, his tone rising in volume and crispness, “since when are any of my wishes not met with outright rebellion from you all? Do you honestly think if things were not arranged as such, Bramble would even consider it?”
We watch out for each other, Azalea had promised Bramble. The King would never arrange your marriage—and I would never let him—
Azalea’s nails dug into her palms, clenching so hard they broke the skin. She paced up and down the aisle between the stalls, scattering straw with each step. Her skirts snapped as she turned. Her cheeks blazed, hot and feverish. Dickens grew skittish at Azalea’s sudden movements.
“How dare you!” said Azalea, fists shaking. “My sisters will have a choice! Sir, you’ve got to get that contract back!”
“I will not—”
“Mother never would have allowed you to do such a thing!”
“Don’t tell me what your mother would do or would not do!” The King yanked Dickens to the mounting block. “I am already aware I am not her. You shall have to accept me and my decisions, painful as that is!”
The rage snapped.
In quick, sharp movements, Azalea yanked the reins from the King with her own stinging hands. With a sleek, almost dancelike leap, Azalea maneuvered past the King and jumped from the block onto Dickens. Her black skirts settled over his sides and tail.
“I’ll take the sword to the silversmith,” she said. “I broke it, didn’t I?”
“Come now, Azalea, don’t use that tone,” said the King, holding out his hand.
Azalea kicked it away with the flat of her boot, and dug her heels into Dickens’s flank, just as a gentleman would. Dickens leaped forward. The jolt nearly threw her off. In a moment she was galloping off through the stable door.