The girls only answered with blinky, sleepy eyes. Anxiety seizing her throat, Azalea paced the dance floor, searching the marble, wondering if it had fallen from her pocket during the ribboned mazurka. She couldn’t just lose the watch like that—it wasn’t hers!
Azalea turned again, and this time the weighty, dark form of Mr. Keeper stood in the entrance, a silhouette of roguish ease. His hands cupped around an object, holding it close to his nose. Eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, as though breathing it in. Azalea caught a glimpse of gold between his long black fingers.
“Mr. Keeper!” said Azalea, relief washing over her. She strode to the entrance. “You found it!”
Mr. Keeper’s eyes snapped open, sharply black. Sighting Azalea, the sharpness diminished, and a flicker of a smile appeared. He lowered his hands. The watch, fob, and chain nestled in his gloved palms.
“Yes,” he said smoothly. “It had clattered to the edge here. Forgive me.”
Azalea made to pluck it from his hands, but his fingers closed on the watch, and he pulled back.
“Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea.
“Such a fine clock,” he said softly. “It belongs to your gentleman?”
Azalea’s breath caught from her throat to her chest, and her heart thumped in her corset. At the lattice beside them, the leaves rustled in the unfeelable breeze.
“Not…mine,” Azalea stammered. “Please, Mr. Keeper, if I could have it back—”
Mr. Keeper reached out and brought her hand to his. Azalea gasped; the press of his fingers seemed to touch her core. He felt so solid. It both thrilled and frightened her. Turning her palm upward, he placed the watch and chain in her shaking hand and curled her fingers over it. His hands lingered upon hers.
Then, in a silky movement, he released her hand and bowed them out, so quickly Azalea couldn’t recall even going over the bridge. She clasped the watch in her hand so hard the gold ornament curls imprinted her hand through her glove.
Several hours later, when her heartbeat had slowed to its normal pace, and Azalea didn’t blush every time she thought of Mr. Keeper’s hands on hers, she turned up the lamp on the round table in their room, retrieved a bit of newspaper from under her bed, and sat on a pouf, studying both the watch and the paper.
The Delchastrian war had had two battles in the past month, which worried them all. Between lessons and meals, and now slipper mending and sleep, Azalea read the Herald aloud to the girls. Worry etched in their faces. Afterward Azalea would have them tear and roll old tablecloth fabric for bandages.
This past week, however, the girls had squealed with delight over the paper. Azalea’s name was mentioned in Lady Aubrey’s gossip column. Lady Aubrey wrote the “Height of Society” news, which, in Eathesbury, usually involved a discussion on why Lady Caversham and Minister Fairweller would be such a fine match. Mother had never approved of Lady Aubrey’s column, and Azalea did not either—in theory. She couldn’t help but be interested this past week, when she was the subject.
“It looks like Lady Aubrey’s given up on Fairweller,” said Bramble, teasing and holding the paper just out of Azalea’s reach. “Look who she’s slated to be your fine gentleman.”
Azalea managed to grab the paper from Bramble’s hands, and the girls read over her shoulder. Lady Aubrey wrote of a Delchastrian gentleman, one dripping with lands and railways, who had the most unfortunate surname: Haftenravenscher. She spoke of what a marvelous match it would be economically, and had even interviewed him:
Lord Haftenravenscher states, “I think it would be corking to meet the princesses! I say, did you hear their palace was magic? It must be corking to live there. Our mums were great friends, ages ago! Like sisters! I say—it was a rum blow to hear the news. What a piece of you that takes. I say.”
The rest of the article followed more or less the same, with a lot of “I say”s.
Delphinium giggled at the paper. “Imagine having that surname! Azalea Haften-rafen-what?”
Bramble rolled her eyes and slipped the paper from Azalea’s hands.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said, rolling it up and tapping Delphinium on the head with it. “Someone as rich as him would never bother with us. Read the article. We’re just sport to him.”
Azalea ran her fingers through her long auburn hair, feeling a touch unwell. Bramble was right, of course. In fact, if there would be an arrangement between her and Lord Haftenravenscher, he would probably resent her for being penniless. It all felt like an ill-timed dance of accidents.