Dancing in slippers after two nights of boots was heaven; stepping on clouds. Although none of them could dance for very long, they laughed as merrily as though the Great Boot Bungling had never happened. They felt especially cheered in learning the next morning that the shoe arrangement would be the same as before, when Mother had taught them dancing. The shoemaker would mend their slippers every day, bringing the mended set to the palace and taking the basket of the torn ones away. When the twins realized this, they nearly cried with relief. They had pricked their fingers raw trying to stitch the soles.
The next day was Sunday, the girls’ favorite day. Before mourning it had been the scourge of the week. Now, on their only day allowed out, they sat obediently through Mass, even more subdued than usual because the King stiffly sat with them. Then, when the bells rang, they slipped out to the graveyard behind the cathedral.
It wasn’t much of an outing, nothing like the flowered hedges and mossy fountains of the gardens, but the sun fell over everything in dappled yellows, and the air smelled like leaves, and the girls delighted in their time outside the palace.
After some time, the King arrived at the iron gate, tugging his glove over his bandaged hand, to see them draping posy strings over the weeping angel. He frowned.
“The carriage is waiting,” he said when Azalea came to him, Lily in her arms. “Azalea—”
“Don’t be cross,” she said, trying to stand up to his towering sturdiness. “Let them have a little more time. It’s our only chance outside. It counts as Royal Business, doesn’t it?”
The King remained frowning, taking in Lily’s pale face, then Azalea’s, framed with black bonnet and veil. He turned his attention to the girls timidly playing in the sunlight, faces white, and his frown became more lined.
“I expect it does,” he said. “Don’t be long.”
The King made to leave for the street. Azalea struggled inside herself.
“Wait,” she said.
The King turned, and Azalea tried to stammer out something.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the slippers.”
The King sucked in his cheeks, leaving indents on either side of his face. His fingers tapped the rim of the hat he held.
“I am not condoning this,” he said.
“No, sir,” said Azalea quickly.
“We are a house of mourning. You will be on time to all your lessons, and your meals, and there will be absolutely no talk of dancing. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I most certainly do not approve of you all keeping secrets. You know I know where you go, and I know you know I know of it.”
“Um,” said Azalea. She tried to untangle the sentence, and gave up. She wondered how much of the magic in the passage he knew about. Did he know about the forest? She doubted it. Without Mr. Keeper, it was probably just an old storage room.
“There will be no secrets in this household.” The King set his hat on his head. “I will walk home. Mr. Pudding will wait with the carriage. And, Miss Azalea, take care your sisters don’t muss themselves. We are having guests for dinner tonight.”
The girls’ room that evening was a chatter of disagreement, the younger girls alternately jumping on their beds and peeking through the windows, keeping the lookout for arriving horses. They hadn’t had guests to dinner in months.
“No,” said Delphinium, stubbornly sitting on her bed. “We can’t. We swore to have meals in our room forever. We can’t stand eating with the King, remember?”
“She has a point, Az.” Bramble brushed through her sleek red hair. “I’d rather just stay up here. He can’t really expect us. Besides, I get too…chokey around him.”
“It is the rules,” said Flora.
“Seventeen, section two.” Eve rubbed her spectacles on her pillowcase hem.
Clover, who could never think unkindly of anyone, said, “He did—let us have our slippers.”
The girls pursed their lips and looked from Azalea to Delphinium to Clover to Bramble to Eve. Azalea clicked Lord Bradford’s watch open, shut, open, shut. She imagined the dinner table, the King and the guests sitting in awkward silence, staring at their soup. And after, the coffee in the library. The King was terrible at conversation—it was always up to Mother to glide between topics and steer the discussion. Azalea looked at her palms, still marked from her nails, then looked at the basket of slippers, tied together and ready for the night. She clicked the pocket watch closed.
“Rule number seventeen,” she said. “Everyone wash up.”
Washed and combed, the girls arrived at the dining room arches only a few minutes late. The King stood quickly when they arrived, and stared at them for several moments. His expression was unreadable.
Fairweller, Azalea was chagrined to see, was a guest. He sat to the right of the King and looked mildly annoyed, as always. His neck looked better.
The third guest had a gentle, solemn air to him. Azalea hesitated at the entries, her hand automatically touching the watch tucked in her pocket.
It was Lord Bradford. He bowed his head at her.
Azalea had to remind herself to breathe. He was back! And all right, too. She knew he’d been all right, of course, the papers never reported him as wounded, but it was an entirely different matter seeing him here, those soft brown eyes twinkling at her….
“It’s that rotten shilling-punter nuffermonk who stopped the tower!” Bramble whispered. “I hope he chokes!”