“Aye,” said Bramble. “Your children would be disappearing all over the place.”
As they left, Keeper appeared at the arched entrance, bowing them out. When Azalea thanked him, his long fingers twitched. Azalea wondered if he had heard the whole thing. In a fleeting moment, she almost wished the King did know about Keeper. He had eyes that seemed to see everything.
Still, it wasn’t just Keeper the King would certainly dislike. The King surveyed all the gentlemen who came to the palace with that freezing-ice look he was known for. When December dawned, crisp and cold, curling the garden leaves with frost, the King used a look just as frigid on Viscount Duquette. Viscount Duquette had only been invited because he was a university fellow, which the King seemed to prefer. But Viscount Duquette, handsome, well educated, graying at the sides, had come for one reason only: Clover.
“Your beauty has reached somewhat legendary status, where I am from,” he said over a dinner of hot soup and rolls. He raised his wine glass to Clover, who blushed to shame. “I am pleased to see the rumors were no exaggeration. To fine beauty, my lady, to romance, and to stories of golden hair.”
The King threw Viscount Duquette out.
Doomed to be stuck inside for the next two days, the girls bickered and snapped at one another, and Clover looked close to tears. She cast longing glances through the curtains to the gardens, then would turn away quickly.
Lately she had been helping Old Tom clip and bundle the plants before the snow came, but Azalea hadn’t thought she enjoyed it that much.
“It’s all my fault,” she said, when they prepared tea in the scrubbed kitchen. “If I hadn’t—”
“What, been born pretty?” said Bramble. She swished the water in the kettle. “This is why we need to watch out for each other. Az knows.”
“We can use the extra time inside to look for the sugar teeth,” said Azalea.
The girls groaned.
Bread and cheese had been sliced and the servants’ table had been set when the King arrived. The girls stood not just from protocol, but from surprise. Next to him, dressed in a fine black suit, with a gold-tipped walking stick, stood Fairweller.
“Ladies,” said the King. “This is our guest for the next two days.”
Spoons clattered.
“You’re joking,” said Bramble.
“That will do.” The King’s voice was crisp. “Minister Fairweller has been very generous to volunteer so you could all be allowed out.”
“But you said Azalea wouldn’t—” said Flora.
“For heaven’s sake!” said the King. “Just tolerate him for the next two days, will you?”
They made Fairweller carry the basket. And the blanket. And the steaming kettle. He did so without a word. Half an hour later, they huddled under the tea tree, a great cozy pine in the wall-and-stairs part of the garden that blocked out the wind. Blanket spread, food unbundled, tea poured in steaming puffs, all without a word from Fairweller. There’d been no room on the blanket, so he knelt on the sappy needles that coated the ground.
Azalea busied herself with blowing on the younger girls’ tea, cooling it, trying to avoid eye contact. Eve gave a cough.
“You know, Minister,” said Delphinium, looking him up and down with her blue eyes. “You really aren’t bad looking. A red-colored waistcoat would do wonders for you. You should wear one to your next speech. All the ladies would tease their husbands into voting for you.”
Fairweller’s lips grew thin.
“I would rather not talk about politics at this moment,” he said.
The girls exchanged glances.
“Can you talk about other things?” said Bramble.
“I can be agreeable,” said Fairweller. “If the other party is.”
“Oh, well,” said Bramble. “There goes that, then.”
“Minister, why are you doing this?” said Azalea, setting her teacup on its saucer. “I mean, it’s nice of you to offer so we can be in the gardens, but surely you would rather be in your own manor? We know you don’t like us very much.”
Something flickered in Fairweller’s face as his colorless gray eyes took in all of them.
“I am doing it,” he said, “because it is clear to me you have found one of the palace’s magic passages in your room.”
Teacups rattled. Flora grasped Azalea’s hand.
“And if you expect me to stand idly by,” said Fairweller, “and let you become trapped or worse with magic—”
“Trapped?” said Clover.
“It’s not dangerous!” said Flora.
“Magic, shmagic,” said Bramble, setting her teacup down with a clink. “We can see right through you! You’re only here because you wanted to become acquainted with us. Admit it.”
Fairweller’s lips narrowed to razor-thin.
“It is not…the only reason,” he said.
Azalea nearly spit her mouthful of tea. Bramble gaped, horrified. Clover’s face was so pink even her ears blushed. Flora broke the silence first.
“But you’re a Whig,” she said.
“This has nothing to do with politics,” said Fairweller.
“We’re very picky about our husbands,” said Bramble, picking apart her bread. “And our brothers-in-law.”