“I need to go,” said Azalea.
Mr. Bradford’s entire countenance fell. He was far too bright a gentleman, Azalea knew, to misconstrue that for anything else.
“Naturally,” he said.
“They’ll miss me at breakfast,” said Azalea.
“Nat-naturally,” Mr. Bradford stuttered. He somehow regained his solemn composure and helped Azalea with her things. “If you want. I’ll call a cab and escort you back. Take this coat—it’s freezing out.”
“I don’t want a cab,” said Azalea, near tears. “I’ll walk back.”
“You will not,” said Mr. Bradford, with an edge Azalea had never heard before. “You’ll freeze. You will take a cab.”
Azalea whipped around to face him—
And Mr. Bradford said, “Please.”
She relented. She had to. He was only being kind, and she couldn’t blame him for that. Azalea was wrapped in an old-fashioned lady’s coat. Mr. Bradford hailed a cab, and moments later they trundled in awkward silence to the palace. Mr. Bradford, sitting across from her, focused on the riding whip in his lap. He twisted the end loop of it around his fingers, around and around, until surely it cut through his glove. Azalea miserably stared at it.
Oh, how could she be so stupid? She always knew it would be like this, she had just stupidly hoped that—
Azalea cried. Not the noisy sort, but the sort you could blink away if you were careful and didn’t think about how awful you felt. She turned her face to the window.
“You’re cross with me,” Mr. Bradford finally said. He leaned his head back against the leather seat, untangled his fingers from the riding whip, and fumbled in his suitcoat for a handkerchief, which he handed to her. “I’m—I should have done it properly. I should have asked your father first, or had my aunt invite you to tea—”
“It’s not that,” said Azalea. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s just—circumstances.”
Mr. Bradford blinked several times.
“Circumstances,” he said. The edge to his voice was still there. “Naturally. Of course it is circumstances. I suppose you could have any fellow you wanted, couldn’t you.” He twisted the riding-whip loop around his fingers again, hard. “Well, I couldn’t let you freeze to death. Tell me, these circumstances, Miss Bramble. Do they have to do with a Mr. Keeper?”
A stab of fear shot through Azalea. She looked up sharply, blood draining from her face. Now Mr. Bradford turned to the window, avoiding her eyes.
“I heard you outside the graveyard,” he said. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have listened. Is he one of the gentlemen from your Royal Business?” Mr. Bradford kept his eyes on the passing town houses and brick shops.
Azalea grimaced. Mr. Bradford took it as a no.
“A gentleman, though?”
Azalea could only dry swallow. Mr. Bradford turned to her. Concern was etched in his face.
“Is it to do…with magic?”
Azalea choked. The carriage jolted to a stop just outside the palace gates, and she flung herself to the door without waiting for Mr. Bradford to help her out.
“I’m late,” she said. “Thank you for the tea. Good-bye.”
Mr. Bradford leaped from the carriage after her. “Wait—Miss Bramble—”
“Don’t call me that!” said Azalea.
Something, perhaps hurt, flickered through Mr. Bradford’s soft eyes.
“Princess Bramble,” he said.
“I’m Princess Azalea,” said Azalea. “Azalea, for heaven’s sake. It was Bramble’s handkerchief I gave you at the ball. I…meant to tell you. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Bradford’s dark eyebrows knit, then rose. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Azalea did not stay to see any more. She ran through the gate and through the gardens, skirts billowing and lungs burning. She slammed against the brick of the palace, sobbing, trying to erase the image of Mr. Bradford’s hurt expression from her mind.
A long while later, numb both inside and out, she went inside. The warm kitchen air burned her cheeks. She wanted dearly to collapse into bed. Passing the nook glass doors, however, she drew back. Instead of the usual morning sight—the girls yawning into their porridge as the King sorted through the post—all the girls laughed and chattered as Lord Teddie passed around a platter full of flat cakes. The King sat at the head of the table, bemused. Lord Teddie laughed and jabbered so loudly Azalea could hear him through the glass.
“You put berries, or cinnamon, or whatever you like on it and fold the sides around—oh, well done, Hollyhocky! It’s ripping! Oh, hulloa, Princess A!”
Azalea made to run, but in an instant Lord Teddie had thrown open the glass doors and pulled her in.