Azalea leaned against the dresser, clutching the knob of the drawers behind her.
“No, Mother,” said Azalea. “No. I’m not all right. Nothing is all right. It never will be all right again.”
Mother beckoned to Azalea, the twinkle in her eyes shining. She took Azalea’s hand, having her kneel. Azalea’s green, gauzy skirts poofed out around her. Mother kept Azalea’s fingers clasped in her warm hand, and she turned Azalea’s hand over, inspecting her palm.
In addition to the tiny crescent scars where her nails had dug into her skin so often, new red marks had broken into her flesh when Azalea had lost her temper earlier. They stung, with the additional welt of the reins when she had fallen. Mother considered, touching the palm gently.
“You used to do this,” she said. “When you were younger. You would get so angry.” Mother smiled. “I had hoped you had outgrown it.”
Azalea pulled her hand back.
“Some things are worth getting upset over,” she said.
Mother tilted her head, reached out, and brushed an errant strand of hair from Azalea’s face, and wiped a tear streak away with her thumb. Azalea blinked and turned her head, a little surprised she hadn’t woken up yet. The dream never lasted this long.
“You’ve done very well, Azalea,” said Mother. “You’ve always taken care of your sisters. I’m so pleased with you.”
“Right,” said Azalea. “I’ve done a bang-up job, haven’t I.” She thought of her sisters, curled up in mirrors, and she cringed.
“But,” said Mother. “Your father. You haven’t done very well with him.”
Azalea turned quickly. Her eyebrows knitted, searching Mother’s face. Mother had the twinkle in her eye, the touch of a smile on her face, as she always did, but she searched Azalea’s face with equal intensity.
“Sorry?” said Azalea.
Mother brought Azalea’s hands into her own and, with a flash of silver, folded them around her handkerchief. Her hands were soft and warm, so warm they calmed Azalea’s trembling fingers, the warmth spreading down her arms to her chest. Something twisted in Azalea’s heart. She bit her lip.
“We’re going to try this again,” said Mother. She smiled, and the room seemed to brighten. “You’ll take care of your sisters, and your father? Your whole family? Will you promise, Azalea?”
Azalea’s throat tightened, and her eyes stung. Her palms throbbed at points, pressed together against the fabric.
“He…doesn’t need anyone,” she mumbled. “He said—he said he couldn’t abide—”
“That was when he needed you more than ever,” said Mother. “And he needs you now. He needs all of you. Please, Azalea. Please promise me.”
Azalea looked into Mother’s eyes, which shone with tears. Something pricked in Azalea’s heart. She remembered all the times she had lashed out at the King with scathing words. How she had taken the oath with burning anger in her chest, and how she had danced out of sheer stubbornness. And now it was her fault that Keeper would—
Azalea pressed her hands tightly around the handkerchief and clenched her jaw. Her eyes blazed, but not with temper.
“Yes,” she said. “I will. My whole family. I’ll set things right. I promise.”
A wash of tingles flowed through her body, beginning with her very center and enveloping the rest of her, flooding to her fingertips. The feeling overwhelmed, much stronger than it had been a year ago. It overcame her, filling her with breath. Azalea blinked and felt the droplets of tears on her lashes.
Mother smiled, and it wasn’t tight with pain. Her eyes shone. She leaned down and kissed Azalea’s hands. Her lips were warm.
And this time, Azalea didn’t need to look at Mother to know her lips were the pretty rose red they hadn’t been a year ago. Instead she closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against the weave of the handkerchief, and inhaled the scent of white cake and ointment, and felt Mother’s warmth spreading through her. She let it fill her soul.
And then, she awoke.
—unk!
Her head smacked against the wood, bursting into throbbing pain.
Azalea lay sprawled on the floor. Her eyes and cheeks were wet. Everything—Keeper, sisters, the blood oath—flooded to her. She leaped to her feet.
No thin, hard fingers pushed her into a dance. About her, the dancers backed away from her in a ring, their eyeholes gaping.
And…
She clutched something in her fist that hadn’t been there before. Azalea opened her hand and squinted at it in the dim light.
It flashed silver.
Mother’s handkerchief.
The embroidered initials; the bit of silver lace along the sides. Azalea swore she smelled white cake on it. The King’s words, from several days ago, echoed in her mind:
This magic has caused many strange things to happen….
“No kidding!” said Azalea. She held it up.