“He sends his regrets,” said Fairweller, “and admonishes you to tend to the guests. He wishes to remain with your mother. Your doctor did not seem concerned.”
Azalea pushed the image of white lips out of her mind. Instead, she glowered at Fairweller’s black-gloved hand on her arm, escorting her. Why did the King have to ask Fairweller to take his place? Fairweller wasn’t bad looking, and he was young—especially for a Prime Minister. But, heavens! Azalea remembered their former Prime Minister, a Lord Bradford. Though the same age as the King himself, he had died when she was little. He was an agreeable gentleman who smelled of soap and coffee and always had a hint of a smile and a light in his eyes.
Fairweller, by contrast, was a thundercloud. He never smiled. The only color he wore was black, even his waistcoat and cufflinks, giving the impression of a sleek, overlarge spider. With the added disadvantage that you couldn’t squash him.
“Is Mother having the baby?” said Azalea. “It’s a bit early for the baby, isn’t it?”
“I hardly know,” said Fairweller.
Azalea gave him a dangerously sweet smile.
“I hope you’re good at dancing,” she said through her teeth. “Or this ball will be completely ruined.”
Fairweller brought her into perfect dance position.
The musicians began, the chattering hushed, and Azalea stepped off in waltz time with Fairweller. To her surprise, he was a masterful dancer. He swept her along the dance floor, guiding her about the corners and between skirts, flowing perfectly with the music. In fact, the only thing wrong with dancing with Fairweller was…well, dancing with Fairweller.
The waltz ended, the Prime Minister escorted her to the edge of the ballroom, and Azalea was flocked with gentlemen all asking for a dance.
The lively music, the decorations, the snow whorling past the windows and reflected in the mirrors on the other side, and the dancing transformed the ballroom into something almost magical. Azalea nearly forgot, as she danced the jigs, promenades, and waltzes, that the ballroom was old and drafty and the windows leaked when it rained.
She grinned inside every time a gentleman took her into dance position and his eyebrows rose, and rose even farther as he would lead her about the ballroom. They swept past ladies in chiffon and lace, their hoopskirts swaying with her breeze. She danced lightly, followed at even the slightest of touches, had a firm frame and strong form, and never forgot a step. By the time the gentlemen escorted her to a velvet chair at the ballroom’s side, they beamed and complimented her on her grace. Azalea returned the compliment with a sleek, deep curtsy that made her green skirts swath the floor in a silky puddle, and giggled inside when their mouths dropped. One day, she was determined, she would be quite as graceful as Mother. Mother didn’t walk. She glided.
Peals rumbled the floor as the tower chimed ten, and the guests began a bouncy polka. Azalea, who did not like the hard, breathless dance, slipped past the blur of dancers to the corner where the glimmering Christmas trees stood, hoping to spend a few moments out of sight. The ball had gone perfectly so far. If only Mother and her sisters were here, it would complete everything.
Azalea considered nipping upstairs to check on them. She imagined the girls, caged up in their room, music drifting through the floor. They would be sitting at the round table, staring at the picture pieces with glazed eyes. Azalea sighed. She poked one of the ornaments on the ribbon-and-silver decked tree.
The ornaments clinked. A hand shot out from the boughs, a handkerchief between its fingers. Azalea leaped back.
“Dry your tears,” said the tree, “young peep.”
“Great scott!” said Azalea, taking the handkerchief from the disembodied hand, which slipped back into the tree with a rustle. The handkerchief had sloppily embroidered letters in the corner. B.E.W.
“Only, you looked a nudge away from bursting into tears,” said the tree.
“Bramble!”
Behind branches dripping with silver-and-glass ornaments, a pair of yellow-green eyes winked at Azalea. Azalea bit back a delighted cry.
“Hulloa, Az!”
The trees, arranged around the corner of the ballroom, had left an empty pie-bit sort of space, now filled with sisters. All ten of them crowded about together on the floor, hidden, pressed between the trees and the wall.
“Looks…comfortable,” said Azalea.
“It’s not so bad now that we can’t feel our legs.” Bramble grinned, her thin lips turning up into a wry smile. “It’s a bit squashy, but it’s worth it.”
Azalea peered through the branches. Clover cradled both Jessamine and Kale, who slept soundly. Eve pressed next to her, clutching a book. A pine branch was in her face.
“All right there, Eve?” said Azalea.
Eve turned a page of her book. “The light is bad,” she said.
Azalea cast a glance back at the blur of guests, still engrossed in their dance. “The King’s going to be dreadfully cross,” she said. “Didn’t he make you promise to stay inside?”