“Azalea,” said the King in a firmer tone. “Come now, follow the rules. Besides, it is your chance to have the final say, is it not?”
“I always have the final say!” said Azalea. “How horrifically unromantic!”
“Well, do you want me to send him away?”
“No! Don’t do that!”
“Go to it,” said the King, pushing her through the ballroom doors. He nearly closed them on her skirts, in his rush to shut them. Azalea turned about in a whip of crinolines and kicked the door.
“Thanks a lot!” she said.
A polite cough-laugh sounded behind her. Azalea turned to the marble dance floor, seeing the highlights of sun against the new gilded mirrors and the crisp light cast over Mr. Bradford. Wearing a fine suit, he looked the most uniform Azalea had ever seen him—his collar lay flat and his cravat was pinned straight. His blond-brown hair, however, remained incorrigibly mussed. He clutched his hat, kneading the rim, and beamed at her.
“Princess,” he said.
“Captain!” said Azalea, hugging the door behind her. She beamed at him, giddiness tickling her. It was all she could do to keep from giggling.
“You look pretty, as always,” he said.
Azalea grinned, deciding not to remind him that the last times he had seen her, she had been soaked, frozen, unconscious, and a torn mess of the undead.
“You’re running for parliament?” said Azalea.
“Yes—I should have done ages ago. I was a coward, I think.”
“Balderdash. You don’t smash through a ballroom window if you’re a coward.”
Remembering the task at hand, Azalea’s smile flickered, and she swallowed. She remained hugging the ballroom doors, the latches pressing against her back.
“Mr. Bradford,” she said. “I’m not going to propose to you.”
The twinkle in Mr. Bradford’s eyes faded. So did his smile. He managed to keep it on his face. It looked painful.
“Oh,” he said.
“Mr. Bradford?”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind it so very much if…you know…you proposed to me?”
The light in Mr. Bradford’s eyes jumped to life. He beamed so largely it almost wasn’t crooked.
“If you want,” he said.
He walked to Azalea, put her hand on his arm, and escorted her to the middle of the ballroom. Azalea’s boots click clicked across the marble.
“Before anything,” he said as he brought her around to face him, “I want to give you this.”
Fumbling in his suitcoat, he produced a small package wrapped in brown paper and string, and gave it to Azalea. Curious, she tugged at the strings of the light package until they unknotted. The paper fell away.
It was a silver handkerchief. Supple and soft, just as Mother’s had been. In the corner were the embroidered initials A.K.W.
Azalea laughed and cried at once. She threw her arms around Mr. Bradford’s neck, wanting to embrace him so deeply she could feel his soul.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”
“Well—I—never even said anything,” he said.
Even so, he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her. Azalea pressed her cheek into his collar, rumpling it, and breathing into his cravat. It smelled of fresh linen. She felt Mr. Bradford’s cheek pressing the top of her head. His lips touched her hair.
A muffled voice startled them both.
“When are you going to kiss her?”
They pulled away. In the ballroom windows, noses and hands pressed against the glass, were the girls. They stood among the prickly rosebushes, beaming wicked little grins. Delphinium and Eve whispered and giggled to each other; Bramble wore a magnificent grin on her face and a spark of light in her yellow-green eyes.
Another figure stood among them. This one had his arms folded across his chest, stiff and firm and formal….
…Yet he did not look displeased.
“Those rotten little spies!” said Azalea.
Mr. Bradford laughed and threw his hat across the ballroom floor. He pulled Azalea into an under-arm turn, her skirts flaring out and brushing against his trousers. His hand led her so easily, with just a turn and twitch of his fingers, that Azalea felt dizzy; happily so. He brought her in again, and spun her out.
This time, Azalea didn’t spin back into his arms. Instead, she dipped into a curtsy. She gave this curtsy her all; every muscle and fiber of her focused on melting into a deep, flawless dip. Legs twisting, she disappeared into the poof of skirts pooling around her. She buried her nose in them, nearly kissing the floor, her right arm extended to Mr. Bradford, her left tucked behind her. A finer Soul’s Curtsy, Azalea was sure, not even Mother could do.
She dared a peek at Mr. Bradford, whose mouth hung slightly agape. When she giggled, he laughed, too, and fell to his knees in front of her. He nudged her. The thin, crystal string of balance snapped. Azalea fell over, and into his arms. She blinked up at his face. He smiled, but more intent and solemn, and Azalea instinctively closed her eyes as his large hand gently touched her face, bringing it to his in a kiss.