The King’s face grew more confused. Azalea mouthed it again. The King opened his mouth, then shut it, frowning.
“It’s her birthday,” said Delphinium, who couldn’t seem to take it any longer. “It’s been her coming-of birthday all day, and she’s been waiting for you to remember, and you haven’t!”
The King froze with his wineglass halfway to his mouth, his expression unreadable.
“Birthday?”
“It’s her coming-of,” Azalea explained.
“And you forgot,” peeped Hollyhock.
The King unfroze and set his glass down. “Oh, indeed,” he said. “I—I can hardly remember my own birthday.”
“It was my coming-of birthday last January,” said Bramble, gripping the handle of her glass, “and you forgot that, too. You weren’t even here.”
“I turnt eight last spring,” said Hollyhock, “’n I didn’ even get any present at all!”
All the girls joined in.
“I was thirteen last April and it rained on my birthday and I didn’t even get to wear anything special—”
“We turned ten—just two months ago—”
“I usually get a book for my birthday—but—this year—”
“You forgot my birthday, too.”
“And mine.”
The girls looked miserable. The King opened his mouth, then shut it.
“Sir!” whined Lord Teddie. “You forgot my birthday, too!”
Bramble gave a surprised laugh, then slapped her hand over her mouth, as though shocked at letting it out. The tension broke. The girls laughed sheepishly, and Lord Teddie beamed. He probably did not have many ladies think him funny. In fact, he probably got slapped by a lot of them.
“That will do,” said the King. He looked somewhat relieved.
Eve was sent for some wine, and a touch of ceremony ensued as the King uncorked the bottle. Clover, however, turned her glass upside down.
“I would like to be temperance,” she said firmly.
“What, not like Fairweller?” said Bramble.
“Yes,” said Clover. “Like Fairweller.”
This immediately ushered in a round of teasing, especially on Bramble’s part, but the King immediately corked the bottle and sent the wine out.
“It is Clover’s birthday,” he said. “She can do as she pleases. Is there anything you should like for your coming-of, Miss Clover? Surely there is something you want.”
By the King’s voice, Azalea supposed Clover could ask for a pony. Clover gave her room-brightening smile.
“May we have a Christmas tree?” she said.
The King’s face wiped of emotion. Azalea bit her lip. Mother used to be in charge of the Christmas tree festivities. Even when she was ill, she helped with the trimming, laughing and singing and helping to make berry chains and watercolor decorations.
“Please,” said Clover. “We could—all go to the library, and—and make ornaments and thread berries for it? As a family—like we used to.”
“What?” said Delphinium. “But what about danc—”
Azalea trod hard on her foot.
“I think it’s a marvelous idea,” she said. “Oh, sir! Please say yes!”
The King’s fingers tapped against the glass, his cheeks sucked in.
“Oh, please! Oh, please!” cried the younger ones.
“Only because it is Clover’s birthday,” he said, finally, to cheers of “Huzzah!” “We shall see about the tree. We are a house of mourning, you will remember that!”
“Oh, yes, sir!” the younger girls squeaked, hopping around the table in a pseudo-reel. Clover beamed, so angelic it made the room glow.
CHAPTER 21
In the library, among the warm golds and browns of the book-lined walls, Clover took charge of the decoration making. She set Delphinium, who was good with pencils and colors, to watercolor bits of stationery, and Hollyhock and the younger ones to winding and knotting yarn into balls. Even Lord Teddie set to work, sweating over knotting the ornament strings to perfection. Over mugs of steaming cider, and the King’s slightly bemused expression at them as he penned a speech, the library echoed with laughter and warmth, and everyone felt an aura of holiday cheer.
Everyone, except Azalea. The crafting would keep the girls from dancing, and it both pleased and worried her. Shaking, Azalea kept pricking herself on the needle she used to thread the dried berries. Finally, after drawing blood from her thumb, she excused herself and ran upstairs.
It was late now. Fear curled in her stomach as she rubbed her handkerchief against the passage.
Please, she thought to herself as she pushed through the passage. Please…please…let Mother be all right….
Azalea rushed through the silver forest and arrived at the bridge, shawl wrapped so tightly around her shoulders she felt them pulse. Equally tightly she grasped the handkerchief, her one comfort. It was magic. It, perhaps, kept Keeper from doing anything really terrible. She remembered, once, how he had flinched at it.
In the pavilion, Keeper paced, a flat silhouette against the silvers.