“Wow,” said Hollyhock. “Wow!”
The blush still heated Azalea’s face. She turned to the girls, smiling as the invisible orchestra tuned and sprang into a lively melody.
“A schottische!” said Azalea. “Do you remember this? Mother taught it to us hardly a year ago—you’ll remember! Come along.”
They joined hands, and Azalea taught them the dance. Step-hop, hop, touch, hop. She taught them to turn their feet just so, and the girls learned it quickly. Even two-year-old Kale stepped on the right beats in the next dance, a spinner’s reel.
Quadrilles, gorlitzas, a redowa waltz, and more reels. The hours passed, the girls laughing as Azalea turned them in the steps.
She loved this. The feeling of stretching herself tight, releasing, spinning, falling breathless and feeling the air across her face. Seeing her sisters so happy, their pale cheeks pink with delight. It was magic.
Lord Bradford’s watch read well past one when the girls finally sat down together in the middle of the dance floor, exhausted, happy, their dresses like black blossoms over the milky dance floor. The youngest girls had fallen asleep, curled up on the red velvet sofas, and Lily, who had been passed from sister to sister and squealed with glee every time she was spun, slept soundly on a chair cushion. Her skirts poofed in the air, revealing ruffly little pantelettes.
“My slippers are worn out,” said Delphinium. She untucked her feet and showed everyone her pink toes, peeking through the seams.
“Mine, too,” said Hollyhock. She sat with her feet forward, her small green shoes torn. All the girls adjusted positions then, showing their ragged slippers. They laughed and wiggled their toes.
“That means a job well done,” said Azalea. “When you wear out your slippers like that. That’s what…what Mother used to say.”
The girls grew quiet. Flora clasped her hands in her lap. Azalea blinked at the ceiling, strings of pearls swooping in arcs above her.
“I miss her,” Flora whispered.
Goldenrod nodded. Bramble pursed her lips and stared at the floor. Clover traced a vein in the marble, just barely touching it with her fingertip.
“When—when I dance,” she said quietly. “When I dance, I—I forget all the—the bad things.”
Eve toyed with her spectacles. “Like Mother not being here,” she said.
“Like mourning,” said Delphinium.
“And the King,” said Bramble quietly.
“I—I only remember the good things. That is the b-best thing about d-dancing.”
“Then come back.”
The low, smooth voice startled them.
“Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea, standing quickly. The girls stood as well, smoothing down their black skirts. Mr. Keeper stood at the entrance, his face a touch sober, his voice steady.
“You cannot dance up there,” he said, quietly. “I can see you are in mourning. But you are welcome to dance here, among the magic. Please. Come and mend your broken hearts here. Come back, every night.”
Azalea felt like laughing and crying at the same time.
CHAPTER 9
The next day, the girls brought the worn slippers to lessons in a basket, and after Latin Azalea taught them how to mend the torn seams. It took a stronger needle and thimbles, and Azalea only managed a mediocre job of repairing the dainty things. Even the twins, who had clever hands, took several hours before they had stitched the slippers properly. Everyone became frustrated at the task, and Hollyhock, brash and unthinking at eight years old, threw her thimble across the table.
Azalea understood their impatience, though it disheartened her. They couldn’t request the services of their shoemaker, even in secret. Mr. Pudding was in charge of the accounts while the King was gone, and they couldn’t stir up any suspicion. Azalea tried to be cheerful.
“I think we may be able to make them last two or three weeks,” she said, bundling the last pair of slippers into the basket. “If we back them with a sturdier fabric, and are careful. That’s plenty of dancing.”
“Oh, only two weeks?” said Flora.
“What if we danced barefoot?” said Hollyhock.
“Why, Hollyhock,” said Azalea raising her eyebrows and turning to the red-headed, freckled girl.
“Where were you born?” Bramble and Clover chimed with Azalea, their fingers at their collars in a gesture of shock.
Everyone giggled. That was one of Mother’s phrases. Hollyhock ducked her head, beaming sheepishly.
“I know,” she said. “I forgot.”
“I wouldn’t want—want Mr. Keeper especially to—to see our ankles again,” said Clover, who busied herself retying the slippers’ ribbons into dainty bows. “His eyes seem to catch everything.”