The sword was mended and sworn on in parliament. In spite of the King’s limps and bandages, he set to work on the palace with the help of Mr. Pudding and the regiments. What couldn’t be unmagicked with the sword’s weakened force was burned or replaced. Regiments with axes cleared away the thorny bushes that choked the palace and gardens. Spider lamps were destroyed, and the mirrors and windows replaced. The ceiling was repainted white, too, the cupids cowering at the corners until they were painted over. It was surprising, the King said, how much Keeper had magicked within the short time he had been able.
Every day the King would return long after the sun had set, arriving at Fairweller’s manor, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The girls, waiting for him, flocked to his side and brought him to the dining room for hot pheasant and other Fairweller-esque food, and they would eat as a family.
“All this work and replacements,” said Azalea as they ate dinner one evening, roast quail and artichokes. “How can we afford it?”
“Parliament has granted us a sum,” said the King. “And we will accept it graciously. The palace has needed renovation for quite some time.”
“May we come with you tomorrow?” piped Flora. “Oh, please?”
“No,” said the King.
“Oh, but we miss it so much!” said Goldenrod.
“Please, let us go!”
“Pwease, oh, pwease!”
The girls leaped from their chairs and swarmed to the King, tugging on his suitcoat.
“Please, Papa! Papa!” they cried. “Oh, Papa, please!”
They went.
The palace felt different. It wasn’t the hustle and come-and-go of cranes and workers and glass smithies who mended the facades and tower and windows, bowing when the girls peeked at them working. Nor was it the eager Herald reporter who perched about the gate of the palace, inkwell at the ready, begging to be invited in, and only getting a slammed gate in reply from the King. And it wasn’t the way the sunlight shone through the palace in patches, like it used to.
For the past year, there had been a tension about it, weighing like the darkness. But like the drapery, it had gone. The palace hadn’t felt this bright since before Mother had taken ill.
“Most of the palace has been unmagicked,” said the King, leading them into the east wing, to the gallery. “But you all have keen eyes. If you see anything I missed, raise the cry. Don’t step on the rug. It’s a bit…peckish.”
Azalea searched the familiar gallery, taking care to stay away from the rug, wanting to hug the spindly, stain-prone furniture and kiss the portraits. None of them had red eyes now. They looked lifelessly ahead, to Azalea’s relief. A second glance revealed a somewhat changed portrait of Great-Aunt Chrysanthemum. Her eyes were crossed.
“Ah,” said the King, following Azalea’s gaze. “I unmagicked that one at the wrong time, unfortunately.”
“Papa?” said Flora as the younger girls gathered around a new portrait leaning against the wainscot. It was a fine portrait, one thick with strong brushstrokes and rich colors. Azalea gaped at the figure; tousled auburn hair, sweet smile, and a light in her eyes that sparkled nearly off the canvas.
“Great scott,” said Azalea, wanting to embrace the painting. “It looks just like her!”
“I know,” said the King. He looked pained.
“How could we possibly afford it?” said Bramble, her fingertips twitching as though to touch it. “This was done in a Delchastrian conservatory, for certain.”
“Miss Bramble!”
The words rang through the gallery. Everyone turned quickly. Bramble blanched.
There, in the doorway at the end of the hall, stood Lord Teddie. He loped across the gallery floor, over the magicked rug, and halted several paces from Bramble. She clutched the sides of her skirts so tightly her hands shook.
“Lord Haftenravenscher,” she said, unsmiling.
Lord Teddie shrank. He shoved his hands in his pockets, took them out, shoved them in again. He nodded at the portrait.
“I—just brought it,” he said. “I—hoped you would be here. Do you like it? I remembered your mum from ages ago, and when I found out she…you know…she—anyway, I thought, wouldn’t it be chuffing if I collected all the pictures I could find of her and had Carrivegh—that’s our family painter, Carrivegh—paint her. And it could be a surprise for you all. Because, well. You hadn’t a mum now.”
Bramble’s lips were tight. Her fists still shook.
“Take it back,” she said. She gazed at the floor, but the words whipped. “We don’t want the picture. We don’t want your charity. Take it back!”
Teddie drew himself up to his full, towering taffy height.
“N—dash it—O!” he said. “It’s not charity and I won’t take it back! It’s a gift! A gift, dash it all! Because I liked your mum! And I like your sisters! And you, Bramble! I love you!”