“And two, feet together, and dip. Very good! Sweep a curtsy to your gentleman.”
The girls dipped a curtsy. Their teacups fell off their heads and clattered to the ground. Azalea, laughing, picked them back up, and the candles inside flitted back to life.
“Curtsies next time,” she said.
“Azalea,” said Flora as they set the teacups on the dessert table. “Could you show us the Soul’s Curtsy?”
The chattering hushed. Azalea hesitated.
“Go on,” said Bramble, grinning. “They’re old enough now.”
Azalea smiled, inhaled, and touched her right foot in front of her. She traced it in a circle behind her, then slowly sank to the left knee. With strained balance, she folded herself up as she disappeared into the poof of her skirts. Her legs twisted like pretzels beneath her. She bowed her head, nearly kissing the floor, and extended her right arm above her, her left tucked behind her back. The girls applauded.
“How beautiful,” said Flora.
“Now that’s a curtsy,” said Bramble, helping Azalea up.
“But it’s not just for anyone,” said Azalea. “It has to be for your husband, or royalty. Like a king.”
Flora giggled. “For you that will be the same thing!”
Azalea smiled again, but this time it was strained, and as Bramble teased the girls into learning the dip, Azalea escaped to the edge of the pavilion. She leaned on the railing and looked miserably over the misty lake.
She hated feeling helpless. It writhed in her stomach, choking her with thoughts of dancing the rest of her life in the arms of a gentleman who pushed her about and laughed when she stumbled or, worse, didn’t even look at her at all. She wondered if she would be able to give the Soul’s Curtsy, with all her heart and soul, to anyone, and the thought made her ill.
Around her, the leaves of the rosebush ivies rustled, then curled and entwined through the lattice. Their buds bloomed into fat, silver blossoms, revealing pearls for middles.
“They’re…lovely,” said Azalea, after the initial surprise. “Mr. Keeper.”
She turned and there he was, behind her, soundless as midnight. Azalea’s heart beat a pace faster.
“You’re upset,” he said, in a low, gentle voice. Azalea felt the warmth of a blush creep up her neck.
“No,” said Azalea. “Not.”
“Ah,” he said quietly. “But I can guess what you’re thinking. You are thinking, if you were born after one of your sisters, perhaps things would be different for you. Are you not?”
The warmth of the blush dropped, replaced with cold shock.
“Not—quite—I—” Azalea stammered.
Keeper held up his gloved hand.
“I should think,” he said, taking a step closer to her, so close Azalea should have felt his warmth, but did not. “If you were born after your sisters, it would be one of them faced with such a duty. And, from what I have seen of you, Princess Azalea, you would do anything to keep them from unhappiness. Look.”
Azalea looked over at the dance floor, where Bramble had made the younger girls sit on the floor, while she, Delphinium, and Eve leaped over them. The younger girls squealed uproariously whenever the skirt hems brushed their faces. Bramble was saying, “Don’t jump up, Ivy, you great idiot, do you want your head to get knocked off?” Azalea stifled a laugh, and the terrible, helpless feeling eased. A little.
“One day, my lady,” said Mr. Keeper, stepping aside and allowing her to join them, “I should hope I would be fortunate enough to see such a graceful, unearthly curtsy from you again.”
The girls were late to breakfast the next morning, and to lessons. When they arrived at the nook, their now-cold porridge sat on the table, and their teacher, Tutor Rhamsden, was there as well. He sat in his usual seat and was, in fact, asleep, leaning on his cane, upright but snoring.
He slept quite a lot. No one ever had the heart to wake him.
“Why is breakfast so early?” Bramble moaned, laying her head on the tablecloth. “Why are lessons so early?”
No one answered, for they all nodded in a doze. Four-year-old Jessamine curled up on her chair and buried her head in Azalea’s lap.
That night, however, after a long afternoon of mending the slippers, the girls were wide awake with excitement, passing through the silver forest. Mr. Keeper greeted them at the entrance, bowing them in and disappearing with a faint smile. Azalea was glad—she suddenly felt shy and nervous around him.
The girls discovered twelve delicate lace-and-satin fans waiting for them, and they gasped with how fine they were. Clover, who was good with fans, taught them how to snap it open with a flick of the wrist, how to throw it in the air and catch it, and how to flutter it just above the nose, shyly, demurely. The girls cheered for her.