“Well, Az.” Bramble tapped her spoon against the rim of her bowl. “He hasn’t made a great show of loving us.”
Azalea set the bowls down on the table with a clatter. “You too? How could you all think such a terrible thing? He—he wanted to open the ball with me, remember?”
“Because Mother told him to,” Delphinium whispered. “And he left you with Fairweller.”
Azalea threw a spoon at Delphinium—it missed and hit the drapes of the window seat behind her—and she turned hard, her skirts swishing behind her. She strode to the door.
“I’ll go fetch him, and bring him up now,” she said, her hand grasping the latch so tightly her hand throbbed. “You’ll see. It’s not true! You’ll see!”
The door was open when Azalea reached the library. She knocked on the wainscot next to the doorframe, and peeked in.
A figure hunkered over the King’s desk. Azalea, disappointed, saw it was not the King, but Mr. Pudding. He was wrapping books in cloth, in his slow, elderly sort of way, and smiled when Azalea came in.
“Miss!” he said. “It’s dropping chill, miss.”
“Where is the King?” said Azalea.
Mr. Pudding’s smile faded, and he couldn’t seem to meet her eyes.
“He’s left, miss. Off to th’ port.”
Azalea’s nails dug into her palms; something hard tangled in her throat.
“He didn’t!” she said.
“He said he didn’t want to disturb, what with the bustle and upset of business and such, miss. Er…miss…”
Azalea swept from the library, her knuckles ghost white.
Azalea knew, in her subconscious mind, that what she was doing was quite stupid. She disliked horses, yet managed to saddle Thackeray with a side saddle by herself, and now jostled upon him to the port. Azalea hated riding. Dancing was easier, and it couldn’t buck you off. It also didn’t smell so…horsey.
In her fervor, Azalea had forgotten a cloak. The freezing sleet soaked her thoroughly. She hardly noticed it. Hot, burning blood flooded through her, and it kept out the chill.
The port wasn’t far. All the ships docked and managed their trade at the Rosings River, which ran through the city. Pinpricks of streetlamp lights grew larger as Azalea neared the dock. By this time she had lost the reins, which dangled and whipped about, and she grasped for dear life to Thackeray’s mane. Sleet cut in drifts as Thackeray’s hoofs clattered onto the wooden planks.
In spite of the weather, the port hustled with activity. Dozens of men led soaked horses up a ship’s plank, and loading cranes lowered nets of crates onto other ships. Azalea caught the smell of wet, old wood and saw Fairweller in the distance, before she heard the King shouting orders. She wove through the mass of cavalrymen and horses.
“Sir!” Azalea yelled. She pushed her horse into a graceless canter to the King, some lengths away, but lost her balance on the saddle and fell as Thackeray pulled up next to Dickens. She grabbed at the satchel hanging over Dickens’s back and discovered, as it clanged to the ground, that it was the silver sword.
The sword was a dull, dented, mottled thing with a swirled cage handle, and it usually lay in a case in the portrait gallery. The King brought it to speeches and parades, because it had been owned by Harold the First, and had Historical Importance. Azalea realized he would be taking it with him to the war, too.
“Azalea!” Two sturdy hands helped Azalea from the wet wood to her feet. The hands turned her around, and Azalea found herself face-to-face with the King, worry lining his brow. “For heaven’s sake! You haven’t even a cloak.”
“I didn’t think of it,” said Azalea, realizing that she shook. Her black dress clung to her, wet through.
The King unbuttoned his thick-weave coat, pulled it off, and slung it over Azalea’s shoulders. It encased her so heavily she nearly buckled underneath it. He then lifted the sword from the planks and inspected it, frowning.
“You’ve put a crack in it,” said the King, showing her a tiny hairline mark before slipping it back into its satchel sheath. “This is governmental property, Azalea. What are you doing here?”
“You’re leaving,” said Azalea between shivers. “You didn’t even say good-bye! The girls—”
Shouting interrupted her, men yelling to the King about load lines, splitting regiments, supplies. The smell of wet horse, the words the King shouted back, the creaking of the poles and hooves on the planks—all felt foreign to her. Azalea grasped the King’s coat about her neck, tightly, and the boiling hotness escaped to her tongue.
“You can’t leave yet!” she said. “Rule number twenty-one! We have rules!”
The King turned to her, his fine red uniform now black from the rain. Lightning flashed, casting harsh shadows across his face. “I cannot leave the men here, Azalea! They need their general.”