“Merry Christmas,” all the girls chimed.
An unreadable expression fell over the King’s face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He placed his hand over Lily’s dark curls. Lily had pulled herself up to his trouser leg and gnawed on it, leaving a wet spot. He lifted her to his knee.
“We never thought about how you felt,” said Azalea, closing her hands in fists so she didn’t have to see the red marks across her palms. “We’ll be better. I’ll be better.”
The King placed his firm, solid hand on Azalea’s shoulder. She looked up into his eyes, and saw they had a light in them not so different from Mother’s.
“And I,” he said. “You will be a fine queen, Azalea.”
Azalea flushed from this unexpected praise, but beamed as the girls giggled and nudged her. The King stood, Lily wrapping her arms about his neck.
“Mourning is over,” he said. “I am in earnest. Draw the curtains. Your mother would not have wanted it to last as such.”
The girls cheered and danced, tugging on the King’s suitcoat as he helped them to open the drapes.
The sword was mended and sworn on in parliament. In spite of the King’s limps and bandages, he set to work on the palace with the help of Mr. Pudding and the regiments. What couldn’t be unmagicked with the sword’s weakened force was burned or replaced. Regiments with axes cleared away the thorny bushes that choked the palace and gardens. Spider lamps were destroyed, and the mirrors and windows replaced. The ceiling was repainted white, too, the cupids cowering at the corners until they were painted over. It was surprising, the King said, how much Keeper had magicked within the short time he had been able.
Every day the King would return long after the sun had set, arriving at Fairweller’s manor, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The girls, waiting for him, flocked to his side and brought him to the dining room for hot pheasant and other Fairweller-esque food, and they would eat as a family.
“All this work and replacements,” said Azalea as they ate dinner one evening, roast quail and artichokes. “How can we afford it?”
“Parliament has granted us a sum,” said the King. “And we will accept it graciously. The palace has needed renovation for quite some time.”
“May we come with you tomorrow?” piped Flora. “Oh, please?”
“No,” said the King.
“Oh, but we miss it so much!” said Goldenrod.
“Please, let us go!”
“Pwease, oh, pwease!”
The girls leaped from their chairs and swarmed to the King, tugging on his suitcoat.
“Please, Papa! Papa!” they cried. “Oh, Papa, please!”
They went.
The palace felt different. It wasn’t the hustle and come-and-go of cranes and workers and glass smithies who mended the facades and tower and windows, bowing when the girls peeked at them working. Nor was it the eager Herald reporter who perched about the gate of the palace, inkwell at the ready, begging to be invited in, and only getting a slammed gate in reply from the King. And it wasn’t the way the sunlight shone through the palace in patches, like it used to.
For the past year, there had been a tension about it, weighing like the darkness. But like the drapery, it had gone. The palace hadn’t felt this bright since before Mother had taken ill.
“Most of the palace has been unmagicked,” said the King, leading them into the east wing, to the gallery. “But you all have keen eyes. If you see anything I missed, raise the cry. Don’t step on the rug. It’s a bit…peckish.”
Azalea searched the familiar gallery, taking care to stay away from the rug, wanting to hug the spindly, stain-prone furniture and kiss the portraits. None of them had red eyes now. They looked lifelessly ahead, to Azalea’s relief. A second glance revealed a somewhat changed portrait of Great-Aunt Chrysanthemum. Her eyes were crossed.
“Ah,” said the King, following Azalea’s gaze. “I unmagicked that one at the wrong time, unfortunately.”
“Papa?” said Flora as the younger girls gathered around a new portrait leaning against the wainscot. It was a fine portrait, one thick with strong brushstrokes and rich colors. Azalea gaped at the figure; tousled auburn hair, sweet smile, and a light in her eyes that sparkled nearly off the canvas.
“Great scott,” said Azalea, wanting to embrace the painting. “It looks just like her!”
“I know,” said the King. He looked pained.
“How could we possibly afford it?” said Bramble, her fingertips twitching as though to touch it. “This was done in a Delchastrian conservatory, for certain.”
“Miss Bramble!”
The words rang through the gallery. Everyone turned quickly. Bramble blanched.
There, in the doorway at the end of the hall, stood Lord Teddie. He loped across the gallery floor, over the magicked rug, and halted several paces from Bramble. She clutched the sides of her skirts so tightly her hands shook.