Azalea traced a brocade flower on the arm of the chair. She should have expected this. Everything else was going wrong; it was too much to hope that this wouldn’t. Only three more nights until Christmas. The world felt in a blur. She had to think of some way to ruin Keeper before then. The brandy in her glass shook. What was stronger than a blood oath?
The warm flickery bit. Oh yes, that was right. Ha. Mother had always spoken of it. Azalea wasn’t sure if she really ever had felt it. If it truly was stronger than the other sorts of magic, surely it could help somehow. Azalea raised her head to the King, who brusquely put the brandy back in the cabinet, and her heart fell. Even his movements were cold.
“I wish you were someone I could talk to,” she said quietly. “I could always talk to Mother.”
“I am not your mother.” The King’s tone was brusque as he locked the cabinet.
That was true enough. Azalea set her brandy on the King’s desk. She felt slumped, weary, and even her gait lagged. Her gracelessness must have shown, for when she reached the door, the King said, “Azalea.” His eyebrows were furrowed. “Is something wrong?”
In the soft lamplight the King looked so deeply concerned that, for a moment, Azalea almost felt that she could talk to him. She paused.
“Sir,” she said. “When we dance at ni—”
Fwoosh.
A mass of prickles swept over her, hit her so hard it pummeled the breath from her. Azalea gasped. Her blood rushed in waves. It bristled in frigid pinpricks all over and stole her voice.
Dizzy weakness flooded her head. Speckled dots filled her vision and turned to blotches.
“Azalea—” The King’s voice sounded distant.
Everything fell black.
When Azalea came to, her head throbbed and she had to blink for her vision to clear. She lay on the sofa by the piano, and stared up at the underside of the mezzanine. The King knelt next to her. His eyebrows were furrowed.
Another face, equally concerned, solemn, and gentle stood over her. It had cinnamon-bread eyes.
“Oh,” Azalea moaned, reliving her last memory. “I didn’t faint?”
“You did,” said the King.
Azalea groaned.
“Mr. Pudding is fetching a bit of bread. You’ve been skipping too many meals of late; it’s very out of order, young lady.” The King pulled a blanket close to her chin, and the smell of fresh linen and pine encased her. She realized the blanket was actually Mr. Bradford’s dark, thick-weaved coat.
Humiliation tangled in her stomach, and Azalea tried to sit up. The King pushed her back down with a firm hand.
“Don’t get up, young lady.”
“Mr. Bradford,” said Azalea. “What are you doing here?”
“Captain Bradford wished to try his hand at the riddle,” said the King. “I told him no, of course. It is the holiday, after all.”
“Some other time, naturally,” Mr. Bradford said.
Hearing his mellow voice sent ripples through Azalea’s chest. Mr. Bradford’s face was etched with worry.
“You fell just before I came in,” he said. “I’ll leave straightaway, as soon as you have a little more color.”
Azalea pressed her cheek into the brocade of the sofa arm and wanted to curl into a ball. Betrayal, delight, and despair all passed in turn at seeing Mr. Bradford’s warm, solemn eyes. She didn’t know why he even wanted to see her, but she did know he hadn’t close family to spend Christmas with. Sympathy took over.
“Why not?” she said to the King, as he adjusted the coat at her feet. “Why can’t he stay? He lent me his coat—and—his watch—and…please. He hasn’t any family to stay with for Christmas.”
Possibly the King thought she was rambling. He folded up the collar of the coat so it covered her chin.
“Well, Captain,” he said finally. “It seems Princess Azalea should have you as our Christmas guest. Are you still willing?”
Mr. Bradford bowed.
“Hmm,” said the King. “You are lucky we are both in a generous humor today.”
Azalea slept through dinner on the hard library sofa, and awoke to eleven eager sisters flocking about her, pushing and poking her awake. They pulled her up to the room while shoving pieces of dinner roll at her mouth. Azalea felt groggy, but better. Slippers were tied, hair brushed and pinned in preparation for dancing that night. In spite of Azalea staring listlessly at her slippers, the girls were a chatter of excitement.
“You’ll never guess who’s here, Az,” said Bramble as Clover brushed through Azalea’s auburn tresses.
“Mr. Bradford.”
Bramble dropped the pins she held.
“He’s come to try the riddle,” said Azalea, getting it over with. “I asked the King to let him; he hasn’t any family to go to for Christmas. I couldn’t turn him out.”
“You invited him to stay?” Bramble’s eyes narrowed, and her grin became terribly devious, like a fox among chickens. “For Christmas? Well, well, we-ee-elll!”
Azalea braced herself for the Merciless Teasing.
“Mmm,” said Delphinium as the girls took poufs around Azalea. “Sturdy and tall. Such a long nose. But those eyes—pow!”
“Aye, you’ll have childlets with brown eyes. The brown usually wins out, you know.”