Azalea did not care for that old silver-mottled tea set. Several hundred years ago, before Eathesbury had streetlamps and paved roads, the palace had been magic. The reigning king, the High King D’Eathe, had gone mad with it. He magicked the drapery to twine around servants’ necks, made the lamps flicker to life as one passed, and trapped unfortunate guests in his mirrors, never to release them. Azalea’s ninth-great-grandfather, Harold the First, had overthrown him, but still pockets of magic remained in the palace. The old tea set was one of these. It even had a pair of sugar tongs that snapped at the girls’ fingers if they wanted more than one cube. The girls called them the sugar teeth, and Azalea guessed they were quite as evil as their creator had been.
“If you wake her,” Azalea threatened in a low voice, picking up the full teacup and setting it on its platter, “I will have you melted down into napkin rings, I swear it.”
The teacup hopped back onto the sofa arm and nudged and prodded at Mother’s hand. Azalea grabbed it and pinned it between the dented sugar bowl and teapot. The sugar teeth hopped out of the bowl and bit her fingers.
“Ow!” Azalea snapped. “Why, you little—”
Mother stirred.
“Oh, goosey,” she said. She opened her eyes and pushed a smile. “Don’t be cross. They’re only trying to help, you know.”
“They’re bullying you,” said Azalea, whose spirits rose in spite of seeing the pain in Mother’s eyes. Mother had a plucky way of smiling that deepened her dimples and brightened the room. “I’ll take them to the kitchen. How are you feeling?”
“Mmm. Better. Where are the girls? I wanted to see them, too.”
“Out and about. In the gardens, I think.” In the hustle and come-and-go of preparations, Azalea had lost track of them. They hadn’t even come to see her in her ballgown. Mrs. Graybe and one of the maids had had to help her dress in the kitchen, tightening her stays while she traced her toes on the wood floor, impatient.
“Oh,” said Mother. “Well. If they are having a jolly Christmas Eve, then…I’m glad for it. Ah, but look at you! Princess Royale! You look a picture print! The green makes your eyes pop. I knew it would.”
Azalea caught her reflection in the glowering tea set. Auburn ringlets framed her face, and her tightly strung corset flushed her cheeks. From shoulder to waist she wore a silver sash. She looked regal, and nothing like herself.
“Everyone says I look like you,” said Azalea shyly.
“You lucky thing! Do a Schleswig curtsy.”
Azalea’s feet took over and she dipped into a curtsy before her mind fully realized it. It flowed from the balls of her feet to her fingertips in one rippled movement and a rustle of skirts. She disappeared into a poof of crinolines.
“Masterful!” Mother laughed. “You’re better than me! Up, up, up. Very good! Ladies’ cloaks, in the library, gentlemen’s hats—”
“In the entrance hall. Yes, I remember.” Azalea stood and smoothed her skirts.
“Brilliant. The gentlemen will be mad for you. Dance with every single one and find which one you like best. We can’t let parliament do all the choosing.”
Azalea’s toes curled in her dance slippers.
She hated the sick, milk-turning feeling that came when she thought of her future gentleman. She pictured it as a sort of ball, one that lasted a lifetime, in which parliament chose her dance partner. And she didn’t know if he would be a considerate dancer, one who led her through tight turns with ease, or if he would lurch through the steps. Or worse, if he was the sort of partner who would force her through the movements and scoff at her when she stumbled at his hand. Azalea tried to swallow the feeling away.
“I wish you could come,” she said.
“Your father will be there.”
“That’s not the same.” Azalea leaned down and kissed Mother, inhaling the sweet smell of white cake and baby ointment. “I’ll miss you.”
“Azalea,” said Mother, reaching out to place her hand on Azalea’s shoulder. “Before you go. Kneel down.”
Azalea did, a little surprised. Her skirts poofed about her. Poof.
From the end-table drawer, Mother produced her handkerchief, a folded square of silver. Silver was the color of the royal family. The embroidered letters B.E.W. glimmered in the soft light. Mother took Azalea’s hands and pressed them over it.
Azalea gasped. Mother’s hands were ice.
“It’s your sisters,” said Mother. “You’ve done so well to watch out for them, these months I’ve been ill. You’ll always take care of them, won’t you?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Promise me.”
“Of…course,” said Azalea. “You know I will.”
The moment the words escaped her lips, a wave of cold prickles washed over her. They tingled down her back, through her veins to her fingertips and toes, flooding her with a cold rain shower of goose prickles. The unfamiliar sensation made Azalea draw a sharp breath.
“Mother—”
“I want you to keep the handkerchief,” said Mother. “It’s yours now. A lady always needs a handkerchief.”
Azalea kept Mother’s cold hands between her own, trying to warm them. Mother laughed, a tired, worn laugh that bubbled nonetheless, and she leaned forward and kissed Azalea’s fingers.
Her lips, white from pressing against Azalea, slowly turned to red again.
“Good luck,” she said.
The King did not look up from his paperwork when Azalea rushed into the library. Two flights of stairs in massive silk skirts had left her breathless, and she swallowed the air in tiny gasps.
“Miss Azalea,” he said, dipping his pen into the inkwell. “We have rules in this household, do we not?”