“Can I not trust you for five minutes with a gentleman without scaring him away?” said the King, displeased when he found them later, playing spillikins in the entrance hall and decidedly Fairweller-less.
The girls smiled sheepishly and did not tell him about Viscount Duquette. That would render him murderous, and he had been in such an agreeable humor of late. He still lectured, naturally, when he caught the twins sliding down the banister, or when Kale spilled an inkwell on the dining room rug, or Hollyhock embroidered the curtains together. But he paid attention to them at dinner, too, and asked them how their day had passed. None of them supposed they had grown fond of this (they always felt so nervous around him), until one night the King was gone on R.B., and the girls had to have dinner without him.
It felt…empty.
“He saw us shivering, in the kitchen,” said Flora as they tied up slippers one early December night. “And he had Mr. Pudding build up the fire in the kitchen stove and the fire in the nook and put two extra scuttles by each!”
“And he always wants them to be well built!” said Goldenrod.
“And he says, when it is Christmas, we shan’t have any gentlemen come!”
“It will be a holiday! A real holiday!”
The girls beamed. A glimmer of excitement had sprung to life within them when the gardens had frosted, curling the leaves and coating the flower bushes, statues, and pathways white. They waited anxiously for snow and, with hopeful eyes, for something else: the end of mourning.
“It’s less than a month now,” said Eve as Azalea braided Hollyhock’s bright red hair. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement. She was becoming prettier every day, even with spectacles. “It’s hardly even three weeks,” she said.
“I can hardly, hardly wait!” said Hollyhock.
“We won’t need a gentleman to go out into the gardens!”
“We can just…go!”
“And we can wear color again!”
“And we can dance!”
“We already dance,” said Azalea, but she smiled as they hopped from one foot to another, bumping into their poufs and the round table and their beds, throwing pillows with excitement. That night, in keeping with the season, she taught them a Christmas jig. In this step, the lady put her hand to the gentleman’s, raised it to eye level, and they turned about each other. Clover played Azalea’s obliging partner, catching the gentleman’s steps perfectly.
“Break apart, turn around,” said Azalea, her skirts twisting with her. She winked at the girls, crowded in a black mass on the marble floor, turned to face Clover again—
—and found herself facing Keeper.
“Oh!” said Azalea.
“He…sort of…cut in,” said Clover, to the side of her. Her skirts still swished from Keeper spinning her out. She blinked, her pretty face alight with surprise.
Keeper took Azalea’s hands in his, sending a shiver up Azalea’s spine, before she could pull away. He lifted them just above their lips, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time.
“Ah, the holiday window,” he said, turning her about with ease. His cloak hem brushed the marble. “It didn’t seem right for you to dance it without a gentleman.”
Azalea’s eyes narrowed. A hot flick of temper sprung in her chest, coursing to her hands. She didn’t like being pushed. Instinctively, she tugged her hands away.
“Clover was doing fine—” she said.
Lightning fast, Keeper snatched her hands back. He gripped them so tightly, Azalea inhaled sharply. Her fingers throbbed in his grasp.
“You haven’t been looking for it,” he said. His voice was soft and low. His eyes bore into her, and she avoided them by looking at his neck, eye level for her. A muscle clenched in his neck, just above his cravat. “You haven’t even been trying.”
“We have,” whispered Azalea, hot blood searing her cheeks. Her fingers throbbed in Keeper’s squeezing grip. “Let me go.”
Keeper smiled, gently. “Perhaps you could try just a touch harder?”
Azalea writhed her hands from his grip. They slipped from their gloves, which remained hanging in his long fingers.
“We have until Christmas,” she said.
Keeper, his eyes never leaving her, tucked the empty gloves into his waistcoat. For the first time, Azalea realized how dead and cold his eyes were. Unlike Mr. Bradford’s, they had no light in them.
“So you do,” he said.
The next day, Azalea’s fingers were bruised and swollen. It hurt to hold a pen and button her blouse, and she was annoyed and angry.
“Honestly, if no one is going to help me find the sugar teeth,” said Azalea as they bundled up for the gardens, “then we shouldn’t even be dancing there.”
An uproar of protestations and foot stomps met this, as well as a thundercloud over the girls’ temper. Azalea clenched her fists, which only hurt her fingers more.