“I was young,” he said quietly. “And a fool. The High King had made an apprentice of me, teaching me charms and bits of magic. But he went mad, surely you know of this. When I heard of what he did to souls—” The gentleman touched a finger to a vine at the arched doorframe, tracing it, thoughtful. “Well—I joined the rebellion, naturally.”
The pieces congealed in Azalea’s mind. The same rebellion headed by her ninth great-grandfather, Harold the First. Azalea listened, rapt.
“It was a betrayal the High King refused to suffer.” The gentleman’s long fingers closed over a silver leaf and snapped it from the vine. “I was found, naturally. I was no contest for his magic. And it wasn’t good enough for him to simply kill me. Instead, within his fine magic palace, he magicked me here. I was made the keeper of this pavilion. Because, more than anything, the High King loved to dance.”
Eve choked on her tea.
Bramble said, “You’re making that up!”
Flora said, “Was dancing even invented back then?”
The gentleman laughed.
“You like dancing, do you?” he said. “You would have been impressed with the High King. Every night he brought his court to dance in this pavilion. And I, a part of it, tending to it, the servant and fool of the High King. Humiliating.
“And then, after countless nights of dancing, the High King and his court vanished. In some trick of magic, I, too, faded into the walls and foundations of this building, a helpless piece of thought among the bricks and granite. Only recently have I been released enough to become keeper again, though still nothing more than a piece of magic, like this pavilion, and still unable to go beyond these steps. So it is.”
The gentleman finished, smiling sadly. Azalea grasped her teacup in her hand, feeling the porcelain beneath her fingers. Trapped…the gentleman had been confined to the palace—just like them.
“You poor thing,” said Flora.
“Are—are you hungry?” said Clover. “Do you need food—or—anything?”
The gentleman laughed. “Why, you charming little thing,” he said. “No. I am quite all right.”
Azalea said, “What is your name?”
The gentleman’s black eyes turned to Azalea. They took in her shabby, soot-streaked nightgown and her auburn hair, unpinned to her waist. A hint of a smile graced his lips as Azalea, flushing pink, pulled Lily closer to hide herself.
“Keeper,” he said. “That is what I was called by the High King. I have no other name anymore.”
Keeper. An unusual name, for a most unusual story, and a most mysterious gentleman.
“Pray forgive me,” said Mr. Keeper. His long dimples appeared as he smiled. “I will lower the water presently and let you free. But please, may I have the honor of asking who you all are?”
Azalea flushed, remembering her manners. She curtsied and introduced them all, from herself—“Azalea Kathryn Wentworth, Princess Royale”—to Bramble, Clover, Delphinium, Evening Primrose, Flora, Goldenrod, Hollyhock, Ivy, Jessamine, Kale, and tiny Lily, now asleep on Clover’s shoulder. Each girl bobbed a curtsy at her name, and Eve gave the “But I’m just Eve, really, not the Primrose part,” which she said at every introduction. The gentleman gave them each a bow, so graceful he rippled.
“Wentworth,” he said. He smiled.
The pavilion shimmered in the silver mist, and the magic lulled them. Jessamine yawned and leaned against Clover’s leg, and Kale curled up in a little ball at Azalea’s feet. Azalea knew they had to leave but wished they didn’t. Her eyes met the Keeper’s, across the lilac-silver pond, and he still kept the smile on his lips.
“Princess Azalea Kathryn Wentworth,” he said. “Look in your pocket.”
Azalea touched her nightgown pocket, feeling a flat, stiff piece of paper. Puzzled, she pulled out an envelope embossed with silver swirls. The girls leaned in and gave oohs as she broke the seal and unfolded it.
The Princesses of Eathesbury
are
formally invited to attend
a ball
tomorrow night
courtesy of
the Pavilion Keeper
“Was it a dream?” said Flora, the next morning, snuggling into her pillow. All the girls had slept late and awakened with excitement shining in their eyes.
“No dream,” said Bramble, grinning a sleepy, wry grin. She scuffed the floor near the fireplace. “Dreams don’t leave sooty footprints.”
A fizz of delight sparked in the air. A great tingle of excitement they hadn’t felt since the Yuletide. Azalea felt for the invitation in her nightgown pocket—and found nothing. Magic, again.
The girls chattered sleepily over a breakfast in the nook, stirring their porridge but too thrilled to eat it. Azalea insisted they at least try to eat, before lessons began.
“It’s so…unusual,” said Clover, turning her spoon in her mush, her pretty face almost aglow. “That gentleman…”
“Mmm!” said Delphinium. “That gentleman!”
Warmth rushed to Azalea’s ears as she thought about the gentleman; the way he glided across the floor, the way he blew on the bits of napkin in his hand and how they had swirled into snowflakes, how his dark eyes had taken her in.
“He’s a rogue,” said Azalea firmly. She coaxed a spoonful of porridge into Kale’s little mouth. “I have a mind not to return.”