That night, after fish stew and biscuits in their room, the girls click-clicked down to the pavilion, slower this time. No one felt like dancing, but they did anyway. Their movements were ungainly and unbalanced. By the third dance, the younger girls whined and sat on the sofas, eating cream buns. Azalea tried to coax them into a simple reel, but they wouldn’t budge.
So she danced by herself. The hard soles gave her speed when she spun, and the girls cheered for her. It ended badly; she overbalanced and twisted her ankle. The girls flocked to her side in an instant, helping her up while Azalea insisted she was fine. Standing with careful balance, her cheeks warmed as she turned to the entrance and realized Mr. Keeper had seen her fall. His dark eyes drank her in, but he pulled back, as she was flanked with so many sisters. Azalea felt the strange thrill of fear and delight course through her.
“Perhaps my ladies ought to retire for the night,” he said in his chocolate-smooth voice, as the girls tagged after Azalea, who, with Bramble’s help, limped past the entrance.
“Thank you, Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea, sure her face was crimson. She could feel the sticky slickness of blood between her toes. “I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you for letting us dance here.”
The faintest of smiles traced Mr. Keeper’s lips.
“I’m sure I can think of something,” he said.
Everyone put up a fuss the next morning about wearing boots. Azalea coaxed and teased and eventually they all laced up, making faces. Hollyhock made the most noise, and Azalea realized why after removing a spool of thread, a spoon, a penny, and three green buttons from her shoes. Since their boots were passed from sister to sister, the younger ones were expected to stuff the toes if they didn’t fit.
“Oh, Holli.” Azalea sighed, stuffing Hollyhock’s boots with her own stockings. “These things won’t help your feet. What about the old samplers from last week?”
“I los’ them at the pavil’n,” Hollyhock mumbled. Her face was radish red, almost matching her hair. “I took off m’ boots and no one saw me but I forgot t’ put them back on.”
Azalea sighed again. Hollyhock was always losing things.
“I hate being poor,” said Delphinium, serving herself some porridge from a pot on the round table. “If we weren’t, we could afford shoes that actually fit and weren’t worn by a hundred older sisters.”
“You know, speaking of losing things, I can’t find my embroidery needle anywhere.” Flora pursed her lips as she finished dressing Lily in a frilly black outfit. “I was nearly finished with the sampler, too.”
“That’s rum,” said Bramble as she buttoned up her blouse, ignoring her bowl of porridge. “Last week I lost my pair of lace gloves.”
“Really, you all,” said Azalea. “Perhaps we should index everything like the King does, just so we know where things are.”
Lessons began late that morning; Tutor was already asleep at the table. Books and grammarians were passed around, slates and chalks, and Azalea began the lessons in a whisper. Hardly two minutes later, the King arrived at the folding doors, a bowl of stir-about in his bandaged hand and a stack of post in the other. He appeared preoccupied, but when he saw them all, he drew up.
His eyes took in Tutor Rhamsden, dozing over his cane, and Azalea, standing at the head of the table, SPONDEE, SPONDERE, SPONSUM written on her slate.
“Young ladies,” he said.
“Good…m-morning,” Clover managed to stammer. The rest of the girls sunk in their chairs, keeping their eyes on their chalk-smudged hands. The King frowned but did not comment. Instead he set his bowl on the table and handed Azalea the stack of letters he held.
“Miss Azalea,” he said. “These are addressed to you.”
The room burst with a ruffle of whispers, skirts, and the scraping of chair legs, as the girls flocked to Azalea, looking over her shoulder with oohs and aahs. These were nice letters, embossed with swirled words and sealed with ribbons.
“Invitations!” said Delphinium.
“For balls and things!”
“Oh, Lea, you’re so lucky you’re of age!”
“Just remember, they’re not inviting you because you’re you, they’re inviting you because whoever marries you gets—”
“Oh, shove it, Delphi!”
“Open them!”
“Why would they send invitations?” said Eve, always so logical. “We’re in mourning.”
“It’s impolite not to,” said Azalea. “When Mother was ill, we still received invitations, though they knew she couldn’t go. I’ll show you how to write a letter of declination this afternoon.”
One by one, Azalea broke the wax seals. She recognized names from the Yuletide guests and several of Mother’s friends, all inviting her to upcoming balls and promenades and drawing-room dances. Pleased, Azalea saw that several also instructed her to bring “Miss Bramble,” and one even included Clover in the invitation, though she wasn’t of age quite yet. Bramble grinned, almost shyly, and Clover lowered her pretty blue eyes to the tablecloth, beaming. Azalea passed the invitations around, giving the girls a chance to touch the embossing and smell the perfumed stationery.