“We won’t look like Fairweller’s spawn anymore.” Bramble grinned. It faded, however, when she saw Azalea’s expression. “I mean—you’re excited, right?”
Azalea cupped bubbles in her hands, then dipped them into the water, thoughtful.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s just…he told me not long ago he didn’t feel ready to lift mourning.”
“But now he is,” said Delphinium, beaming. Her smile disappeared when she saw Azalea’s face, and she clutched her pink dress to her chest.
“He never remembered our birthdays,” she said.
“Do you remember his?”
Delphinium flared pink. “Well…that’s different.”
Azalea rubbed the cool porcelain beneath her chin. “Only I was thinking,” she said. “He’s always gotten us gifts for Christmas, but…we’ve never given him anything.”
Bramble shrugged. “He’s never asked for anything.”
“He has. Just in a different way. He’s our papa, isn’t he?” Azalea raised her eyebrows at her sisters, a trace of a smile on her lips. “Well, now we’re going to act like it.”
Azalea was proud of them. She couldn’t help but be proud. All of them, even Delphinium, had agreed to dress again in black. None of them knew how long the King would want mourning to last, yet not one complained. They rollicked through Fairweller’s austere peppermint-smelling manor of waxed floors, doilies, and boxes of chocolates, and pulled the curtains closed. Even the servants helped, after Clover explained things to them.
“Good-bye, sunlight.” Delphinium sighed as she closed the drapery in Fairweller’s gallery. It dropped shadows over portraits of Fairwellian ancestry, all dressed in black. “Good-bye, daytime.”
“Sunlight, daytime,” said Bramble. “Hullabaloos!” She pushed the curtains of the next window closed with a flourish.
“Bramble,” said Azalea suddenly. “Have you written Lord Teddie yet?”
“Who?”
“Lord Teddie,” said Azalea. “You wanted me to write him. Don’t you remember?”
“What are you on about?” said Bramble, smiling at her with knit brows.
Azalea glanced at Bramble’s hands, clutching the curtain fabric. Her knuckles were white.
“What is all this?”
Azalea nearly leaped for joy at hearing that voice, though every piece of her ached. The King stood at the end of the gallery, leaning heavily on a walking stick, his military satchel over his shoulder.
“Papa!” said Azalea, as they flocked to him like sparrows to bread. “Oh—sit down. You’re going to fall over.”
“I am not falling over,” said the King as the girls pushed him to the nearest chair. He eased himself onto the brocaded velvet, wincing. He was winded, bandaged, pale, and worn, but—his beard was well trimmed. A good sign. If he could shave, he was certain to feel all right.
“You are up at last, Miss Azalea,” said the King, inspecting her as she fussed over him. “You are looking better.”
“You are looking better, for being shot!” said Azalea, as the girls sat down around him, on the polished wood floor.
“The ball hit his waistcoat button,” said Eve. “That’s what Sir John said.”
“And…it pierced his skin.” Bramble looked entirely unconvinced.
“I beg your pardon?” said Azalea. “His waistcoat button? Didn’t you see all the blood?”
“Azalea,” said the King.
“You all saw it! It was all over the floor! Pints of it!”
“Azalea,” said the King again, and something in his tone made her stop. She met his eyes. An odd light shone in them, and she remembered snow that burned.
“You’re all right?” she said.
“Well enough.” The King gave her a trace of a smile.
“Your satchel is so heavy,” squeaked Hollyhock, who fiddled with the clasps. “What’s in there? Open it up.”
The King smiled, shrugged the satchel off his shoulder, and pulled out a wrapped bundle. He unrolled the fabric, and a long, heavy piece of silver fell onto the floor, clanking against the fine wood. He gave the fabric another shake, and a hilt clattered on the ground.
“We dragged the river for it,” said the King.
“The sword!” Azalea scooped up the pieces. “I’ve ruined it!”
“Ah, well. Yes and no,” said the King. “It would have broken sooner than later. Of course, the circumstances could have been better, but—” The King smiled, and Azalea saw a touch of wryness to it, almost like Bramble’s. “It can be mended. Now, what is all this? Draping the windows? What of your dresses? Hadn’t you new ones?”
The girls clasped their hands in their laps, turning their eyes shyly to the ground. Azalea spoke.
“It’s our gift,” she said. “To you. We know mourning means a lot to you. And…we don’t really mind it. We can go without dancing and things a little longer.”
“Especially since our Great Slipper Scandal quickened the undead and nearly destroyed the palace,” said Bramble. “It put us off dancing for at least an hour. Anyway. Merry Christmas…P-Papa.”
“Merry Christmas,” peeped Hollyhock.