The King stood when he saw her. Sitting across from his desk was a gentleman, who stood as well. Azalea did not recognize him, staring at his hairy eyebrows and dark under-eye circles. He reminded her of a rainstorm. She made to retreat back into the entrance hall.
“Oh, Azalea. No, it’s all right, don’t go,” said the King. “We were finished. Good day, Mr. Gasperson.”
“Good day,” said the gentleman, drawing out the word day. Azalea gave him a wide berth as he clumped out of the library.
“Who was that?” said Azalea when the door had slid shut. “I thought we wouldn’t have guests for Christmas.”
“What? Oh, certainly not. He’s—official R.B., of sorts. Come in, have a seat. I need to speak with you.”
“Good,” said Azalea. She sat on the sofa across from the desk. “I need to speak with you.”
“Excellent. We’ll speak together.” The King opened the cabinet behind his desk and pulled out two glasses with a small decanter of brandy. He poured a little into each and handed one to Azalea. “We don’t talk much, do we?”
Azalea eyed her glass, wary. What did the King want to talk about? Surely good things were not preambled with “We need to speak.”
“Tell me, Azalea,” said the King. “What did you all think about Lord Haftenravenscher?”
The King did not drink his brandy. He looked intently at Azalea.
“Lord Teddie?”
“Yes.”
Azalea smiled, considering Lord Teddie’s parlor tricks and boundless good humor.
“He’s a decent, happy sort,” she said. “The younger girls were mad after him. Even Delphinium liked him. But I think he only had eyes for Bramble.”
“Oh, you think so?” said the King.
Azalea’s smile faded. She rested her glass in her lap. “Is he hoping to give the riddle another go? Is that what this is about?”
“No, no,” said the King. “Nothing like that.”
Azalea thought of the jam cake hitting the floor that morning, and sighed. She couldn’t forget the spark in Lord Teddie’s hazel eyes when he looked at Bramble. Surely he was fond of her, but he had done everything all wrong. Azalea almost wondered if he really did only think them a jolly sport.
“That’s good, then,” she said. “I don’t think Bramble could stand to be humiliated again.”
“Humiliated?”
“It was just this morning?” said Azalea, exasperated.
“Oh,” said the King. “Yes, I remember.” He sat down on his stiff, high-backed chair.
Azalea sipped her brandy, a tiny sip, only enough to cover her tongue with the burning taste of wood and sour boots. She thought again of Lord Teddie’s hopeful smile when he looked at Bramble, and sympathy sprang inside her.
“Perhaps he could come to our Yuletide ball,” she said. “If he truly is fond of Bramble, he should prove he’s in earnest. Not this riddle nonsense. Something to show we’re not just sport to him.”
A frown started to line the King’s face.
“Yuletide ball?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” said Azalea, straightening in her chair. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think—now that mourning is over, we should have a Yuletide. Not for me, naturally. It’s never mattered for me. You know that. But for Bramble and Clover, they’re both over fifteen now, and they should meet gentlemen. Real gentlemen and not the riddle nonsense. If they don’t, they’ll just fall in love with—anyone. I thought perhaps Clover could host it?”
The King’s frown, above his neatly sorted paperwork and blotters, was now fully pronounced. Azalea hurried on.
“Everyone’s been so excited for mourning to end,” said Azalea. “It doesn’t have to be a large ball, just a small one. Please.”
Azalea waited. The King stood, and paced in front of his desk, distracted. When he finally spoke, he did not meet her eyes.
“Azalea,” he said. “About mourning.”
Azalea lowered her brandy glass.
“You and your sisters have managed all of mourning quite well,” said the King. “I’m pleased with you all. But mourning, it is a symbol. A way of being. It…I—I don’t believe we are ready to lift mourning.”
This took a moment to sink into Azalea’s mind.
“Oh,” she said slowly.
“It’s rather not even mourning for you all. You still have dancing, and the slippers,” said the King.
“Oh,” said Azalea.
“And the gardens, too.”
Azalea stared at the brandy glass, shifting it from hand to hand, watching the reddish yellow drink swirl.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell them,” she mumbled. “They’ve been so excited for the windows, and dresses and things.”
The King was quiet. “Azalea,” he said. “I know mourning means very little to you and your sisters, but it means a great deal to me. A very great deal.”