“It’s all right,” said Azalea, trying to not cry herself. “Don’t cry—” She brought her handkerchief to Mother’s cheek to dry it.
With the touch of the fabric to Mother’s skin, the translucent swirls of her skin singed and burned and started to melt. Her skin dripped like a wax candle. Azalea yelped and pulled the handkerchief back sharply, her ears pounding as Mother’s skin faded back into place.
“It’s all right,” said Azalea. “I’m sorry…. This magic—it’s—”
Impulsively she turned to the hot coals she had scattered onto the landing not minutes before. One still glowed red. Quickly, she laid the handkerchief on it.
It lit, melted, and folded in on itself with an acrid burning smell. The empty feeling of an object unmagicked filled the air as it curled. The fire faded, leaving only ashes with a touch of glimmer to them. Azalea choked down air as she stared at the pile, then rushed to tend to Mother, her eyes still closed, and helped her to her feet. She was light as paper.
“We don’t need it anymore,” said Azalea. “I didn’t realize the magic would—here—” Azalea took Mother’s cold hand. “Let’s go, before it closes.”
Mother’s eyes snapped open. Azalea started, and gaped as the thread around Mother’s lips faded into nothing, leaving smooth, unscarred skin.
“Mind your step,” said Mother.
She shoved Azalea.
Azalea fell down the stairs, skirts and feet twisting over each other. The sound of ice creaked and cracked through the air. Azalea hit the wooden floor and caught her breath in time to see the ornaments rising from the boxes at the sides of the room. They clinked against one another and glinted as they flew into the air, rising above her like white petals in a windstorm.
They stopped abruptly and remained floating in the air, a frozen hailstorm of baubles. Azalea, shaking, peered up the rickety stairs at Mother.
She stood at the top landing. The blurred, unearthly translucence to her skin and form was gone, replaced with a sharp, dead pallor. Bloodred lips. She rested her elbow against her side, and an ornament dangled from the tip of her forefinger.
“Mother?” said Azalea.
Mother flicked the ornament into the air, snapped her fingers, and the ornament stopped at the peak of its arc. A tiny gesture of her hands, and the suspended ornaments swayed, then began to swirl around the room, with Azalea in the middle. A shimmering clinking filled the air.
Mother made a sharp movement, and the ornaments smashed to the ground—
And rose up again like spirits, their silver swirls blossoming into skirts, glass shards forming into fitted suitcoats, silver-toned ladies and gentlemen with powdered faces, white as frosted glass. They had gaping holes for eyes. Azalea shrank as they towered over her.
Mother descended the stairs daintily, her blue dress wafting behind her. She smiled at Azalea, and her eyes blazed black. The same dead black eyes flashed through Azalea’s memory, and she remembered how they glinted when Keeper had leaned in to kiss her—
“Keeper!” Azalea spat. She leaped forward, but the skull-like dancers flocked to her, caught her wrists and waist and shoulders, pulling her back, holding her tight.
Keeper laughed a cheery laugh that bubbled.
“Oh, there now,” he said in Mother’s voice. “You didn’t honestly think I was her? Were you so desperate to believe that a person had a soul, you were willing to believe in anything? Stupid, stupid. Many thanks with the handkerchief. It was the only bit of magic left holding me back. Well done.”
“Where are they?” said Azalea. “What did you do to the girls?”
Keeper pulled away. The dimples and twinkling eyes smothered Azalea. He touched the brooch at his mended blue collar.
“They’re not dead,” he said, his voice light. “Yet.”
Azalea struggled against the hands. They grasped her arms and waist tightly, fingers hard and thin like ornament hooks.
“You know, this would make an absolutely marvelous fairy tale,” said Keeper, dimpling. “Just like the ones your mother used to tell you. You can even pretend I am your mother, if you would like. Let us see…how do they begin? Ah, yes…‘In a certain country…’”
Mother’s voice was sweet as honey, with the added smooth sleekness of Keeper’s chocolate timbre. He touched Mother’s hand to Azalea’s face, tracing it with a cold finger.
“There were twelve dancing princesses,” he whispered. “And their little hearts were broken. But one day, they found a magical land of silver and music, where they could dance and forget all their troubles.
“But, alas! All things do not last forever. There was a debt to be paid; and when the accounts were balanced, the dear little princesses were found wanting. And so, when the young princesses arrived on Christmas Eve, they were magicked into the palace mirrors—”