Azalea pressed her hand against the cut and glanced up to see Keeper at the far end of the dance floor, black figure cut against the garish reds and golds. He was smiling at her.
Dancers turned about and crossed arms. In the exchange, Keeper disappeared. Azalea swallowed, her mouth dry, and stepped into position with them, keeping with the ebb and flow. She mouthed the steps, reminding her feet to stay attentive, keeping in time with the quadrille-waltz hybrid, and tried to work her way to the entrance. The heavy metallic taste of fear coated her throat and weighed her down. Her limbs shook, but her fear pushed her onward into the steps.
Azalea turned into the next dance set, and stopped.
A figure wearing a plain dress stood still among the gaudy, glinting sworls of dancers. Azalea caught the pale face, the dimples, the slightly mussed auburn hair, and her knees nearly gave way.
Dashing back around, pushing skirts away from her, Azalea craned to see the figure. A closed fan smacked her across the face, but she didn’t even feel it. Through the gaps of moving dancers, Azalea saw the woman again, and her heart leaped into her throat.
Her dress was light blue, worn and mended, but clean. A jet brooch was pinned to her collar. Azalea had to blink, hard.
The dancers turned with their partners, hands pressed against hands, then, all at once, stepped back into two rows. A hesitation step; the longest Azalea had ever witnessed. Feathers bobbed as though underwater, and skirts settled even slower. Azalea was again at the end of the aisle they made, and, at the other end—
Mother.
The words from stories Azalea had heard so long ago echoed through her mind.
Their souls—
The High King could capture souls—
Azalea choked.
The dancers joined hands, circling around them both, and turned in a reel. The music sped to a booming, drunken waltz. Jacquards and brocades spun around in a blur. Azalea stood in a maelstrom of dancers, stunned, staring, emotions twisting within her even harder than the dancers around her.
She stepped forward, taking in Mother’s bright eyes and kind face, creased with the familiar look of pain. Her mouth seemed a blurred smile, and Azalea gaped at the scarlet lines about Mother’s lips, ringed with purple bruises. Azalea suddenly realized—
Her mouth had been sewn shut.
Azalea cried aloud. In a panic, she ran to Mother, fumbling for the scissors she usually kept in her apron pocket. Today, however, she had dressed too quickly and her pockets were empty. Her hands shook violently, and her knees could not carry her any longer.
Mother’s arms caught her before she collapsed to the floor. She pulled Azalea into a tight embrace. She felt so solid. Real! Nothing like the gossamer spirits of death in storybooks. Azalea couldn’t bear to look up as Mother pulled her even tighter, pressing Azalea’s cheek against her blouse. Azalea could smell the baby-ointment and white-cake smell as she took shuddering breaths. Mother stroked her hair.
Azalea tried to speak but choked on the words. Mother brought her to arm’s length, and with her thumb brushed away a tear on Azalea’s face, her own eyes wet. And even with her lips stitched and bruised, Mother still tried to smile. To comfort her.
“Mother—!”
The dancers swept between them, breaking Azalea from Mother’s cold embrace. The room spun. Azalea fought desperately through the dancers, pushing bunches of silks and chiffons out of the way. Through gaps in the garish colors that filled her vision, Azalea struggled for another glimpse of Mother, but saw nothing. She had vanished.
“Keeper!” Azalea screamed. “Keeper!”
Billowing skirts shoved her to the floor. A lady’s heel trod on her hand. Azalea scrambled to her feet, hysterical, pushing her way through the dancers. They pushed back tenfold harder.
The music crescendoed as Azalea was shoved against to the ground, this time hitting her head. Colors burst through her vision. The hems of gaudy skirts brushed over her, quiet as snowfall, slow, unfocused. Slower, and slower, and slower.
The music faded.
Azalea was only vaguely aware the dancers were gone. A glow of silver-white cast over her, and the pavilion eased back to its magic self. Azalea lay curled, her cheek against the marble, chest heaving. The marble was wet. Azalea did not know if it was tears or blood.
A black boot appeared in her vision, followed by a knee as Keeper knelt down in front of her. He was panting, his face drawn. Still, his eyes were lit with triumph.
“How dare you,” Azalea choked. “How dare you! I’ll kill you!”
Keeper reached out his long fingers and caught her arm, drawing his thumb across her cut. Azalea tried to summon all her strength to lash out, but she could not; as though her limbs had no blood she lay helpless on the marble. She hadn’t even the energy to flinch as he drew his fingers to her neck.
“Hush,” he murmured. “There now. Hush.” He traced his finger along her jaw. “That is a sweet thought,” he whispered. “Except, my lady, I cannot die.”
“You’re him,” said Azalea. And it wasn’t so much a whisper as a choke.
“Quite.”