“Masterful!” Mother laughed. “You’re better than me! Up, up, up. Very good! Ladies’ cloaks, in the library, gentleman’s hats—”
“In the entrance hall. Yes, I remember.” Azalea stood and smoothed her skirts.
“Brilliant. The gentleman will be mad for you.”
“I wish you could come,” said Azalea.
“Your father will be there.”
“Actually, no,” said Azalea. “He’ll be up here with you. I’ll end up dancing with ghastly Fairweller.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mother.
“Great scott,” said Azalea. “I’m dreaming it. Again!” And she awoke.
For a while she lay staring at the bedcurtains draped above her, her hair in auburn tendrils over the pillow.
That dream! She thought she’d gotten rid of it. She’d not had it for at least three weeks. That was better than at first, when it came nearly twice a week, three months in a row. It was always so real. She could smell Mother’s white-cake, medicine, and baby-ointment scent, and feel the warmth of the fire next to Mother’s chair. Azalea wished she could dream about the picnics and trips to the market. Not Mother’s last minutes, when she was in such pain. Azalea hated thinking of Mother in pain.
And yet Azalea wished she could have made the dream last longer.
Fumbling for Lord Bradford’s watch in her nightgown pocket, Azalea clicked it open, feeling grateful for it all over again. With the windows hidden behind black drapery, even daytime in the palace felt like night.
Still early. Azalea tucked the blanket around Kale, her bedmate, and made certain Lily slept in her bassinet, then slipped from the room.
Although it was June, the ballroom’s marble floor was cool against Azalea’s bare feet. The lamp she held made the chandeliers glimmer and reflected back from the mirrors. She set the lamp down and curtsied deeply to her reflection, pointing her back toe, lifting her arm out. She loved the stretch and pull of her legs when she danced. She lifted herself onto her toes and released into a spin, feeling her nightgown breeze around her, fixing her view on the far wall through each turn, her feet turning, her head turning faster, stopping at each rotation as her body swirled beneath her.
“Y-you look beautiful.”
Azalea eased out of the spin into a curtsy, then straightened to see Clover at the doors, holding Kale in her arms. The outlines of sleepy girls in nightgowns appeared behind them.
“Good morning,” said Azalea, smiling. “Early morning. Did Kale wake you?”
“Good guess,” said Bramble. She ran a hand through her tangled knee-length hair.
Azalea smiled and shook her head. Though only two, Kale had a screaming voice to shame a prima donna. In fact, once she started screaming, she only stopped if she got what she wanted, or if she threw up. Azalea lifted her from Clover’s arms, and Kale latched her hands around Azalea’s neck. Azalea shifted, keeping Kale’s mouth from her shoulder. Kale was also a biter.
“You—you had—the dream again, didn’t you?” said Clover as they all sat down around the lamp. Her golden hair reflected the lamplight. “That’s—why you came down here?”
Azalea shrugged.
“M-maybe you should—should write the King about it,” said Clover. “He might—know what to do.”
“Have you run mad?” said Bramble. “What would he care?”
Clover gave a half shrug and lowered her eyes to her hands.
“Come now, everyone,” said Azalea, straightening up. “We made an agreement. No talking about the King.”
The girls clasped their hands and kept their eyes down. It reminded Azalea of when she had returned to the palace that late December night, shivering, so soaked she dripped puddles on the rug. She didn’t tell the girls then. They could read it in her face. They had helped her into dry clothes and brushed and braided her wet hair, all without a sound.
Azalea didn’t say anything after that, either, because the words would fester and burn, searing anyone who heard them. So they blistered and raged inside her, curling into tightness in her throat. She hid it well in front of the girls. Tiny crescent scars marked her palms.
“What were you dancing?” said Goldenrod.
“Oh, just this and that. I thought a zingarella”—Azalea smiled and said to the ceiling—“if only I could find enough people to dance it with me.”
With a cry of delight, the girls jumped to their feet and Azalea lined them up, showing them how to point their toes and turn on the balls of their feet, and how to jump lightly with just a flick of their foot. A rosy pink touched their pale cheeks, and the mirrors along the wall caught their smiles as they turned, all seeming to feel the warm bit of flicker inside them. Azalea loved dancing for that glow.
“But the zingarella is a closed dance,” said Delphinium, after she had executed a perfect spring-and-land in third position. “All the good dances are. I wish we were old enough to dance with gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen, shmentlemen,” said Azalea. “Don’t you remember lessons with Mother? We danced reels and quadrilles and all sorts of things without a partner.”
“But it’s different, with a gentleman.”
Azalea considered, thinking of the Yuletide ball and the dizzy thrill of being led in perfect form. Stepping as one with a gentleman, sweeping past the other dancers in a billow of skirts. Dancing was different with a gentleman.
A lamp appeared at the ballroom doors, giving highlights to the mirrors and chandeliers. Mr. Pudding, white hair mussed, held the lamp in one hand and rubbed his face with the other. Azalea realized, with all the laughing and dancing, that they had made quite a racket.
“Dancing again, misses?” he said.
Azalea gathered the girls, now yawning and dragging their feet, and herded them out the ballroom to the grand staircase.
“Now, miss, I don’t think it will do, not at all,” said Mr. Pudding as Azalea nudged them up the stairs. He stood at the bottom of the staircase, holding the lamp and frowning. Mr. Pudding’s frowns were nothing like the King’s. Mr. Pudding’s frowns were actually more perplexes. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, signaling an almost-lecture-but-not-quite-because-he-was-just-the-royal-steward-and-not-the-King. “I can understand cutting about a time or two, it’s not so much dancing I’m worried about, misses, even I myself would turn the other cheek when you trip about, misses, but it’s against the rules and I’ve taken charge of ye all, y’ see, and I can’t let you break the rules of mourning, not even for dancing, which I know your mother loved. I’ll have to lock the ballroom, misses, and I’m afraid that if I catch y’ at it again, I’ll feel it my duty to write your father.”
The girls inhaled sharply at this last bit, the word “father.” They leaned into Azalea’s nightgown as Mr. Pudding, fumbling with his great ring of keys, locked the ballroom door with a click-click. Seeing the younger girls start to tear up, he gave them his lamp and promised to send biscuits and tea to their room, nearly crying himself. But he did not unlock the ballroom.
“I think really he means it, this time,” said Delphinium as they trudged up the creaking staircase, dragging sleepy younger sisters. “He actually locked the door. And he’s never threatened to write the King before.”
“That lock’s nearly impossible to pick,” said Eve, tugging on the ends of her pretty dark hair, which she did when she was worried. “That could be a problem.”
“Our problem is that we’ve been getting caught,” said Azalea. She carried both Jessamine and Kale, one on each arm, and rested on the landing. She leaned against the wallpaper, underneath the dusty portraits of Great-Aunts Mugwort and Buttercup, and exhaled. Every morning these past months, when Mr. Pudding arrived with the Harold Herald, the girls took it from his hands and pored over it, eating their porridge and sorting through every article, hoping for news of the war. Their loyalty ended there. The King could manage himself. Clover once suggested writing him, a thought they quickly squashed. Azalea was sure her pen would snap in two if she tr
ied.
“No more dancing,” said Azalea. “We can’t get caught again. This is our secret.”
“He’ll write the King—”
“Oh, the King,” Azalea spat. The words burned, singeing the air. “What right has he to know? The King is not a part of this family!”
Clover cradled Lily’s curly head to her chest, biting her lip. Flora and Goldenrod clasped their dainty hands in each other’s. Azalea tried to soften her words, but words from a tight throat could only come out taut.
“He’s not,” she said. “No need to let him know.”
Tap. Tap. Clinkety tap-tap.
It had been two weeks since they had last danced, and Azalea lay in bed, awake again. A dream hadn’t roused her this time, but rather an odd tinny noise that had been clinking across the wooden floor of their room, under their beds and butting against the wainscot with a clinkety tap-tap. It sounded like…well, quite honestly, it sounded like a spider dragging a spoon.
Azalea knew it couldn’t possibly be that (or, rather, she hoped it wasn’t), but even so, she heaved herself from the bed and grasped one of Hollyhock’s boots, strewn across the floor. The tapping now clinked from the fireplace, and Azalea caught a glint of silver among the soot. Raising the boot, she tiptoed to the unlit hearth.
The fireplace in their room was massive—so large that Azalea could stand up in it and her skirts wouldn’t brush the sides. The silver hopped. Azalea dove.
In a puff of soot, Azalea found herself sitting in the hearth, and the silver bit skittering away like mad. Azalea grabbed at it and was rewarded with a very sharp, very familiar bite.
“You!” Azalea seethed, leaping up. Now she recognized the half-hopping half-skitter motion. The sugar teeth! Azalea sprang and laid a heavy foot on the teeth. They struggled beneath her bare foot like a mouse in a trap.
Still in the hearth, soot streaking her nightgown, Azalea grasped the sugar teeth tightly, so they wouldn’t nip her, and examined them. They had been dented and were now black with soot. Azalea wondered what they were doing about, wandering the palace on their own. Normally they wouldn’t leave sight of the rest of the magic tea set in the kitchen, clanking against the cream bowl and flicking sugar cubes at anyone who happened to pass by. Come to think of it, Azalea hadn’t seen that tea set for several months, at least. She leaned against the fireplace brick wall, wondering where it had gone.
And then she pulled away from the fireplace wall, because the brick her shoulder had leaned against was curiously uneven. Forgetting the sugar teeth—which hopped out of her hand and skittered away—she traced her fingers over the etching. It was hardly visible in the dim light, and covered in soot. In fact, because of the shape of the mantel, unless one actually stood in the fireplace, one wouldn’t see it.
Azalea’s heart pounded against her nightgown. She brushed the soot away from the brick. Her fingers shook. The form of the etching grew discernible—a half-moon D, with three lines slashed through the middle.
A magic passage!
CHAPTER 7
Azalea stared at the wall. Her heart beat in her ears.
A magic passage! In their room! She tried to remember everything Lord Bradford had said about passages, those months ago. The King used them as storage rooms now, yes, but, well, magic was magic! Azalea wondered how large this room was. If it didn’t have too many trunks or boxes about the sides, could it possibly be large enough to—
Azalea curled her toes in the soot, aching to leap in the air.
How had Lord Bradford said to open it? Rubbing silver on it. Well, that was fortunate! Azalea cast her eyes about for the silver teeth and found them sitting at the edge of the rug.
“Come along,” she said, in her nicest whisper. “I won’t hurt you.”
The sugar teeth skittered away.
“You rotten little—” Azalea started to go after them, pulling Mother’s handkerchief from her pocket to protect herself from the bite—and then stopped.
The silver glimmer of the handkerchief always caught her off guard. A light tingling sensation washed over her, and Azalea held up the piece of silver fabric, smiling. The King had given this to Mother years ago, embroidered with her initials and the color of the royal family. Though the fibers were soft and pliable, like linen, it was made of actual silver thread.
Stepping back into the hearth, Azalea touched the handkerchief to the DE mark. She paused, wholly unsure of what it would do. Even so, excitement tickled her fingers. She rubbed the handkerchief against the brick.
At first, nothing happened. Azalea’s arm grew tired. Half a minute of rubbing, and just as she was about to give up, the mark grew warm. Then hot, then it burned through the handkerchief to her fingers. Azalea pulled away sharply.
The DE symbol glowed silver. Azalea gasped. The mortar around the bricks began to shine, spreading the molten silver light to the other bricks, so bright that Azalea shielded her eyes. The silver seeped across the wall to form a tall arch edged with glowing swirls and leaves.
The light burst.
It took several moments for Azalea to be able to see again. When she could, her breath was stolen. The fireplace wall had transformed to an arched doorway, edges glowing with ivied curls and leaves. A thin curtain of silver sheen billowed gently in the archway, gossamer drapery in a slight breeze.
A tink tink tappety startled Azalea, and she found the soot-covered sugar teeth at her feet. They leaped up and tugged on the hem of her skirt.
“Shh, go away,” Azalea whispered, casting a glance at her sisters’ beds.
The teeth dropped to the ground, the metal squeaking. It almost sounded like a whimper.
“Oh, now you want to come?” said Azalea.
The teeth hopped around madly.
“Oh…very well. But you have to behave.” Azalea scooped them up into her pocket, and hesitated. She knew that all she would find was, perhaps, old furniture and books, but…still. Casting a glance back at the beds, and seeing the bedsheets stirring, Azalea threw hesitations aside, took a deep breath, and stepped into the glowing, glimmering silver.
It felt as though she had stepped into a silver waterfall, ice cold, washing over her head and shoulders. An inside-of-a-teapot smell suffocated her. Another step, and Azalea inhaled a breath of fresh air. Shivering, she shook away the tendrils of twinkling light and rubbed her arms.
She stood on a small wooden landing, about the size of the fireplace. In front of her, stairs curved downward. Azalea swallowed, pressed her hand against the brick wall, and began to descend. The rickety wood creaked underneath her bare feet, and darkness enveloped her. Her hands shook as she felt her way about. She wished she had brought the lamp.
A hard, scuffing sound shattered the silence. Azalea cried out.
“Stop, stop, stop,” came a voice from above her. “Really, Az, you’re as bad as Kale!”
Light filled the passage, and relief flooded through Azalea as Bramble emerged around the corner, holding Lily and grinning a wry, delighted grin.
With more thumphing and scuffing down the creaky stairs, all eleven of Azalea’s sisters appeared around the bend, sleep in their feet, but mouths open and faces alight. Clover was the only one with enough sense to bring the lamp.
“The room burst with light,” said Bramble. “It was like waking to a sunrise—and we haven’t seen that in months. Az…the fireplace wall—”
“I know,” said Azalea. “Can you believe it?”
The girls huddled closer to Azalea, and as they crowded about the lamp, she told them what Lord Bradford had said about magic passages. She told them about the sugar teeth, escaped from the kitchen cabinet and caught in their room, and using the silver handkerchief to open the wall. The girls’ eyes, already wide, grew wider with fascination.
“I should have woken you all,” said Azalea when she finished. “I was too eager to wait, I suppose. But I’m glad the passage stayed open for you. Is it still?”
“No,” said Eve. “It’s solid now.”
> “The mark is on this side, too,” said Bramble. “I suppose we’ll give it a rub when we need to get out.” She shivered, looking at the brick around her. “I wouldn’t want to be trapped in this place.”
“Where does it lead?” said Flora.
“I don’t know.” Azalea peered into the darkness, into the curve of more stairs. “Probably it’s just a storage room, but it might have bits of magic left to it, like the tower. Want to find out?”
“Yes!”
Clover handed Azalea the lamp, and Azalea led them down the stairs, holding it high. The staircase descended much farther than she expected, and only after several lengthy minutes did the passage lighten. They turned the next curve, revealing an archway below. A soft, silver light emanated from it. Azalea’s brows furrowed. Bright moonlight? Indoors?
The girls stayed back as Azalea descended to the doorway. Hands quavering, she leaned against the edge and looked.
She stepped back, dumbfounded.
The scene washed over Azalea like a crystal symphony. A forest.
But nothing like the wood behind the palace! Every bough, branch, leaf, and ivied tendril looked as though it had been frosted in silver. It shimmered in the soft, misty light.
Azalea inhaled, catching the muted scent of a morning fog, with a touch of pine, and stepped through the doorway into the bright forest. Everything sparkled in bits, catching highlights in glisters as she moved. Even the path beneath her feet. She turned to a glass-spun tree on her left. Silver ornaments glowed among the delicate silver leaves—glimmering glass plums. Azalea touched one. Its edging glittered as it swayed. Next to the ornament, strings of pearls swathed each branch in swooping arcs.
“It’s so beautiful,” whispered Flora. The girls had followed Azalea through the doorway, their voices hushed.
“Like winter, when the snow’s just fallen,” Goldenrod whispered.
“Or…the Yuletide trees,” said Clover.
Azalea thought it looked a mix of all of them—the gardens, the palace, and the Yuletide—all mixed into one and dipped in silver.