“Oh, we shall see about this!” he growled. With catlike dexterity, he jerked about and lunged at nothing. His hands caught on something invisible, clawing it to the ground, wrestling. A twist, and the invisible something had slammed Keeper to the floor again.
The wraith cloak!
Mr. Bradford! Azalea’s heart jumped.
But no—the invisible figure’s movements were…stiffer. Firmer. Harder.
“Sir!” cried Azalea.
Keeper clawed at the air, tearing it, revealing a floating head with blood smeared across the cheek. Another hard yank, and Keeper tore away the rest of the old, tattered cloak, revealing the King.
The King managed one more resounding punch to Keeper’s face before Keeper, with great effort, thrust the King into the drapes, two windows away from Azalea. In a moment, the golden rope cords bit into his suitcoat, restraining him tightly. It must have hurt, but the King made no sound. Instead, bound to the drapes, he glared at Keeper with such a look in his eyes as Azalea had never seen before.
“Well, well, well,” said Keeper, breathing heavily. “What a marvelous surprise, Your Grace. And a wraith cloak! I welcome you both heartily.” Keeper gave a mock bow and paced around the King, scrutinizing him. He smiled. His teeth gleamed. “So pleased to meet you at last. We’ve been having a marvelous time, these past months, your daughters and I. You know, you really shouldn’t have raised them to be so trusting.”
Keeper leaned in to the King, just inches from his face, breathing quiet words on his skin. “I’ve waited hundreds of years for this moment, thinking of all the ways I could possibly hurt you most. This will be amusing.”
The King did not reply. His face was so taut Azalea could see veins and muscles.
Keeper strode to Azalea, untangling her from the cords, and dragged her in front of the King. He grasped her hard around the waist, her hands in back, the pain keeping her from writhing out of his grip. She managed a good kick to his leg.
“Eldest to youngest,” said Keeper. “If the ones in the mirror don’t die first. That is the unfortunate side effect of the mirror charm. You leave them in too long, and they die. Pity, pity. And now, I remember a very pretty curtsy Miss Azalea once did. What was it called? Ah, yes…the Soul’s Curtsy…”
He snapped Azalea about to face him, and the world spun in her vision. She swallowed a yelp. Her trembling hands were grasped tightly in Keeper’s long fingers, her hair tangled over her face. He twisted her fingers and bent them back, pain coursing to her shoulders, and her knees gave way. She fell hard to the floor. She gave a choked cry.
“What fun—”
Crack—snap—CRASH!
Keeper released Azalea as the drapes and rod ripped from the wall, gilded iron, thick bolts, heavy velvet and all crashing to the floor. Azalea collapsed to the ground as the King tackled Keeper and threw him against the marble.
Crack.
A pistol’s shot, from beyond the twisting bushes, ripped the air.
The world exploded.
The sharp sound of smashing glass burst through the air. From all sides, the velvet draperies billowed. Hooves clacked against the marble, crunching over the smashed glass, and the curtains struggled in the form of velvet-horses and riders, fighting against the inky branches that snagged and cords that tangled.
Far on the right, a horseman broke free, revealing none other than Minister Fairweller on LadyFair. At the same time, through the window nearest the ballroom doors, Mr. Pudding had ripped a rod from the wall and contended with the snaring, scratching branches at Thackeray’s feet.
Sir John fought through, and next to him, branches gouged a gentleman, untangling them from his mount’s neck. Mr. Gasperson, Lord Teddie’s steward! Azalea only just had time to recognize him, when Lord Teddie on horseback bashed through the window next to her, face scratched, trailing tangled branches after him. Determination was written across his face. He kicked the branches away, and they broke to pieces, splintering across the floor like glass.
And then, at the window over her, Dickens’s hooves smashed through, mounted by Mr. Bradford. Azalea caught a glimpse of hard stoniness in his face, a pistol flashing in his hand, snow whirling around him. The dappled light of the falling glass reflected in fragments across the wall. The ballroom blasted in bright, shouting, chaotic pieces, glass grinding under horses’ hooves, gentlemen and horses alike scratched and bleeding.
Azalea managed to push herself upright, dodging the discord of horse and glass. A hand grasped her wrist, and though the grip was not hard, it still hurt. Azalea swallowed the cry when she saw it was the King. His face had jagged claw marks across it, bleeding.
“Do you still have it?” he said.
Azalea knew precisely what he meant. She dove for the handkerchief across the ballroom floor, pain rippling through her, and rushed to the mirrors.