“He…sort of…cut in,” said Clover, to the side of her. Her skirts still swished from Keeper spinning her out. She blinked, her pretty face alight with surprise.
Keeper took Azalea’s hands in his, sending a shiver up Azalea’s spine, before she could pull away. He lifted them just above their lips, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time.
“Ah, the holiday window,” he said, turning her about with ease. His cloak hem brushed the marble. “It didn’t seem right for you to dance it without a gentleman.”
Azalea’s eyes narrowed. A hot flick of temper sprung in her chest, coursing to her hands. She didn’t like being pushed. Instinctively, she tugged her hands away.
“Clover was doing fine—” she said.
Lightning fast, Keeper snatched her hands back. He gripped them so tightly, Azalea inhaled sharply. Her fingers throbbed in his grasp.
“You haven’t been looking for it,” he said. His voice was soft and low. His eyes bore into her, and she avoided them by looking at his neck, eye level for her. A muscle clenched in his neck, just above his cravat. “You haven’t even been trying.”
“We have,” whispered Azalea, hot blood searing her cheeks. Her fingers throbbed in Keeper’s squeezing grip. “Let me go.”
Keeper smiled, gently. “Perhaps you could try just a touch harder?”
Azalea writhed her hands from his grip. They slipped from their gloves, which remained hanging in his long fingers.
“We have until Christmas,” she said.
Keeper, his eyes never leaving her, tucked the empty gloves into his waistcoat. For the first time, Azalea realized how dead and cold his eyes were. Unlike Mr. Bradford’s, they had no light in them.
“So you do,” he said.
The next day, Azalea’s fingers were bruised and swollen. It hurt to hold a pen and button her blouse, and she was annoyed and angry.
“Honestly, if no one is going to help me find the sugar teeth,” said Azalea as they bundled up for the gardens, “then we shouldn’t even be dancing there.”
An uproar of protestations and foot stomps met this, as well as a thundercloud over the girls’ temper. Azalea clenched her fists, which only hurt her fingers more.
“What about the stream?” said Bramble. “Have you looked there? The sugar teeth are probably nosing about for the rest of the tea set.”
Taking Bramble’s advice to heart, Azalea strode to the furthermost part of the gardens that morning. This part of the gardens hadn’t been tended to for years; tree roots broke up the pathway into stumbling bricks, and the dried fall leaves of the trees blocked out the sun, branches right at eye level. It smelled of rotting wood and wet weeds. Ivy, moss, and tree roots grew over everything, and it was coated in a blanket of crispy fall leaves.
Lord Howley, the newest gentleman of the game, followed after Azalea. He was a Delchastrian MP, had thick sideburns and a mustache, and was so arrogant he wouldn’t even speak to the younger girls. He had badgered and badgered Azalea, asking her where she was going, until she finally told him.
“Magic tea set?” he said, tripping over a tree root. “I thought the Eathesburian royal family had sold that old thing. I saw it advertised.”
“We didn’t,” said Azalea. She didn’t go into details. The year before, when Mother had gotten terribly ill, the King had sent for a Delchastrian doctor. Silent and brooding, he prescribed medicines so expensive they had to dismiss one of their maids. The King even threatened to dispose of their dance slippers, but did not, at Mother’s insistence. Instead, Azalea and the girls spent hours baking muffins and breads to sell. The King had advertised the old magic tea set, but for some reason, no one wanted sugar teeth that could gouge their eyes out.
Still, it had turned out all right. Mother had gotten better—a little.
“You know, you wouldn’t need to sell your things if the King raised the taxes on your imports and exports,” said Lord Howley as they picked their way over the uneven brick, bringing Azalea back to the present. “Tax and two-point-five variable percentage rate—”
“The King hasn’t raised the taxes in over two hundred years,” Azalea retorted. She pushed a branch out of her face, and it snapped back, hitting Lord Howley’s. Lord Howley sputtered but pressed on.
“If I were king,” he said, “I could change that.” He pushed a sly smile. It made his mustache bristle.
Azalea turned about on the corner of a brick, balancing with impeccable grace. She smiled broadly at him, the sort of smile where she knew her dimples showed deeply.
“Lord Howley,” she said. “Why don’t you tell the King about that marvelous three-party system you were explaining earlier? He’d love to hear it.”
Lord Howley pushed a branch out of his face. “I don’t think he likes me very much,” he said.
“He’s that way to everyone. Besides—” Azalea clasped her hands together, still beaming. “It would impress him!”
“Do you think so?” Lord Howley brightened.