“If it’s true,” she said slowly, “then we all have more of a hand in our future gentlemen than I thought.”
“It’s me that has the arranged marriage, remember?” Azalea folded her arms. “The rest of you get your choice.”
Bramble looked up from the pool and smiled, but it hadn’t any wryness to it.
“No, Az,” she said. “I don’t think we do.”
She stood, dried her hand on her skirts, and kept the unhappy smile still on her face. She dipped a deep, graceful Schleswig curtsy to Clover.
“Clover,” she said, “is so beautiful. She is the prettiest of all. You saw how Mr. Hyette was with her. He would have been delighted to marry her.”
Clover fumbled with the flower she pinned in Kale’s hair.
“Horrors,” she said, trying to smile.
“Once she comes of age in December,” said Bramble, “she’ll be snatched right up by the first gentleman who sees her. Like a golden nightingale. And she’s so blasted sweet. She’s far too sweet to object. She would just go along with it.”
Clover blushed furiously. “N-no,” she stammered. “It won’t—be like—like that.”
“And me,” said Bramble, and even her pushed smile faded. “Well…me. I’ve got too little dowry and too much mouth. And no gentleman likes that. The King will be grateful to have anyone take me.”
The fountains burbled, the trickling masking the girls’ silence. Azalea touched her stomach, thinking of the terrible sick feeling that overwhelmed her every time she thought of her future gentleman. Now, she realized, Clover and Bramble had it, too. They looked miserable.
Azalea stood.
“There’s a dance Mother once taught us,” she said, walking to the standing pool. Among the lily pads stood twelve octagonal stepping stones, in a circle. The water lapped just above them. “Here, on the stones. Let’s try it.”
Though not a soul was about, the older girls were slightly worried that someone might wander by and see their ankles. Still, with a little coaxing, everyone’s shoes and stockings lay in a jumbled pile, and Azalea walked about the rim of the pool, helping everyone to their granite stones. They nudged the lily pads off with their toes.
Azalea took her stone, slimy and skiffed with water, and the girls giggled as the water lapped at their toes. The point of this dance was balance: jumping from stone to stone without falling into the water.
“You always manage it,” said Bramble, curling her toes on the slick stone. “Turning things right.”
“That’s what sisters do,” said Azalea. “We watch out for each other. Don’t we? The King would never arrange your marriage—and I would never let him. I promise.”
Bramble’s thin lips curved in a smile to the water at her feet.
Azalea counted off; two emphasis beats in six, everyone made ready to step off—when the hydrangea bushes a length away rustled and bobbed. The girls nearly slipped off their stones.
“Someone’s there,” whispered Jessamine as they all caught themselves.
Azalea followed her bright blue eyes into the bushes.
“Ah-ha!”
The girls shrieked. Azalea fought for balance on her stone, her hem dipping into the pond. A splash sounded behind her, followed by another splash, and Azalea twisted around, finding Kale and Eve sitting in the water, coughing and sputtering and soaking wet. Eve’s spectacles were askew. Kale had a lily pad on her head.
Laughter sounded from the bushes. Mr. Hyette emerged, a walking stick tucked underneath his arm, laughing heartily. He clapped his hands.
“Well done, my ladies,” he said. “Well done. Caught you dancing in public, and in mourning. Oh, dear, won’t the King be pleased I’ve put a stop to it.”
Kale inhaled a deep, sputtering breath and let out an ear-ripping scream.
“You terrible man!” cried Eve above Kale’s screams, leaping to her stockings. “How dare you!”
Mr. Hyette laughed even more heartily. “You have very dainty ankles,” he said.
Azalea snatched up her boots and stockings from the jumbled pile and marched straight to the palace, crossing over the grass and through the bushes. The girls ran after, leaving a trail of water. Mr. Hyette laughed and strolled after them.
“Your Majesty!” Azalea shrieked when they reached the kitchen. “Your Ma-jes-ty!” Combined with Kale’s screams and the girls’ angry voices, the entire racket echoed throughout the palace.
The King emerged from the library, paperwork in hand, eyebrows furrowed.
“Well, what is it, what is it?” he said crossly. “Can you not let me work for five minutes at a time?”
The girls burst into angry cries. Kale let out another piercing shriek.
“Him—him—him—” said Delphinium, pointing a shaking finger at Mr. Hyette, who laughed still. “He—he—him!”
“He—he—he was spying on us!”
“And we weren’t even wearing our boots!”
“Or even our stockings!”
Thumpfwhap. The King threw Mr. Hyette up against the paneling. Mr. Hyette’s head slammed against the wainscot.
Kale stopped midscream, hiccupped, and giggled.