“Oh, do stop whining,” said Delphinium as they nudged her to the edge of the pavilion among the foliage, abloom with silver roses and pearls. “Have you ever seen such dancing in all your life?”
Kneeling up and peeking through the lattice, Azalea’s temper dissolved. She inhaled the scene like a sugar dessert. The ladies wore dresses she only dreamed of, brocade and gold trim, with towering white plumed wigs. The gentlemen wore frilled cravats about their necks and brightly colored waistcoats. Nothing like the conservative, boring black suits of Eathesburian gentlemen.
“Are they real?” Eve whispered. “It feels almost…hollow.”
The girls ducked as a couple swished near the ledge. The lady’s massive skirts should have caused a breeze, but Azalea felt nothing.
“Magic,” she whispered.
“Magic or not,” Delphinium whispered, “we really should have been invited to this. It’s our palace, after all.”
Azalea felt a tug on her nightgown sleeve and found Ivy pointing with insistence to the dessert table at the far side of the pavilion. It had been set with iced buns, treacle tarts, candied plums, chocolate-dipped strawberries, linen napkins with lace at the edges. A dark-gloved hand plucked one of the napkins from the pile, and Azalea’s heart stopped.
A gentleman stood there, by the table. He was dressed all in black. Not boring black, but dashing black. One so smooth that stars would have gotten lost in it. He wore a costume of a long waistcoat and a sweeping cloak that brushed the edge of the marble.
It complemented his face, a specter of high cheekbones with hints of long dimples. His midnight hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and his eyes—even across the distance—blazed pure black. Azalea had never seen anyone so…beautiful.
While Azalea stared, the gentleman took the lacy napkin in his long fingers and ripped it in half. With ease, as though it was made of paper. He doubled up the pieces, halved them again, then again, until they were just tiny bits. Then he raised his hands to his lips, and blew.
The pieces fluttered, transforming into sparkling bits of snow, swirling over the dancers. The girls sighed in awe.
“Who is he?” whispered Flora and Goldenrod at the same time.
“No idea,” Azalea whispered. “But he’s real.”
The gentleman’s eyes swept over the scene and, in a fleeting moment, stopped on the lattice the girls peeked through. On Azalea.
Azalea’s heart jumped in her throat, and she ducked into the bushes, pressing up against the side of the pavilion. She waited for her heartbeat to slow down enough that she could distinguish the beats from one another, then dared another peek through the lattice.
This time, her eyes met black boots. She bit back a gasp and craned her neck.
The gentleman was leaning on the railing, looking into the distance. He hadn’t seen them! Azalea covered Lily’s tiny mouth as they all stared up at him, frozen.
The gentleman released a sigh. A long, sad sigh, as though torn from the depths of his soul. Then, abruptly, he walked away. The girls exhaled.
“That,” whispered Bramble, “was close.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
This time no one argued. They crawled to the bridge and were nearly to the steps, when Azalea glanced up at the dancers one last time—
And saw Ivy among them.
She stood just next to the dessert table and had helped herself to a plate, a napkin, and every goody she could reach. She beamed as she piled cream bun after chocolate roll on her already-stacked plate. No one had noticed her, either, not even the gentleman, who stood at the other side of the pavilion, taking a dancer’s hand. Her small white-nightgowned form blended in with the tablecloth.
“Oh, no,” whispered Delphinium. “No no no!”
“Blast it, Ivy, do you always have to eat?” seethed Bramble.
Azalea stood as high as she dared and tried to catch Ivy’s eye. It seemed to take hours. Ivy hummed and licked her lips and picked up a dough ball that had rolled off her plate.
When Ivy did finally look over at the entrance, Azalea motioned desperately. Ivy blinked, nodded at Azalea, set her plate on the floor, took the hem of her nightgown, and brought it up so it made a basket. Her chubby little legs skipped to the table, where she proceeded to gather enough food in her nightgown to share with all of them.
“No, Ivy, no,” Azalea moaned. “That was a come here motion!”
And then Ivy, her skirt heavy and swinging with foodstuffs, walked straight across the dance floor.
“They might not see her,” whispered Delphinium. “They might not. She’s small enough—”
The dancers screamed.
Skirts rustled, heels clattered against the marble, masking the entrance. The music-box orchestra clicked and ground to a stop, as though something had caught in the gears. In all the frenzy and billow of skirts, Azalea heard Ivy’s tiny five-year-old voice cry:
“Lea!”