“I don’t feel like eating,” she said as everyone pushed her to a seat. She was too tired to make a fuss. “What is all this?”
“Ha!” Lord Teddie beamed. A bit of flour smudged his nose. “That’s what your father said. I was just explaining to them, I just was explaining, I saw Miss Bramble yesterday at breakfast and I saw how she hates porridge and who can blame her, really? So I thought, I say! I’ll make a corking present! So Cookie and I went to market yesterday and we were up early this morning and we made a Delchastire breakfast and it’s smashing! Isn’t it, Cookie?”
It was hard to tell what Mrs. Graybe thought of Lord Teddie. She set a jug of cream on the table, said, “Yes, m’lord,” and left for the kitchen.
“We eat it with our fingerth!” cried Ivy, whose hands dripped with jam.
“Use a knife and fork,” said the King. “We are not animals! Silverware, at once.”
“Oh, but that would ruin it!” said Lord Teddie. “Breakfast is meant to be splattered everywhere! It wakes a person up!”
The King sucked in his cheeks.
“Young man,” he said, a term that did not bode well for Lord Teddie. “Does your ship not leave today?”
Lord Teddie’s face fell.
“Oh…yes,” he said. “It does.” He gave a wan smile, and stumbled on. “I—I wish I didn’t have to go. These past several days have been ripping. Rippingly ripping. I—I’m awfully chuffed about you all. I…sort of feel at home here.”
Lord Teddie smiled hopefully at the King over the dripping jam jars and jugs of milk.
“I wish I could stay longer,” he said. “If I were to be invited, I would.”
The King folded his arms, complete iciness. A pang of sympathy ran through Azalea.
“Perhaps you can visit next year, Lord Haftenravenscher,” she said.
Lord Teddie brightened. A little.
“Oh…all right,” he said. “Or you could all come to my manor! Mother will host a corking ball; we have a horrifically gigantic ballroom, you’ll love it!”
And then Lord Teddie turned to Bramble, who Azalea realized had been silent the entire time. She hadn’t greeted Azalea, or even looked up. Instead she stared at her lap, fingering the threadbare black lace on her cuff that was coming unstitched. She kept pressing the frayed ends back into the cuff, over and over, almost feverishly. Her lips pursed together so tightly they were white.
“Do you like it, Bramble?” said Lord Teddie. “Better than porridge, I should think!” He hopefully nudged a jam jar toward her. “Er…princess?”
Bramble tore her eyes from her lap and fixed a celery green glare on Lord Teddie. It froze the smile on his face.
“Mrs. Graybe,” she said. “Mrs. Graybe! Do we have any porridge?”
“What?” said Lord Teddie. “You don’t want—”
“I love porridge!” Bramble snarled.
“But—”
“I don’t want your stupid charity!” Bramble cried. “Go back to your stupid manor! Leave us alone!” She threw her cake at him. It missed and landed jam down, on the floor.
“Miss Bramble!” said the King. “Apologize, at once!”
Bramble shoved her chair aside and fled from the nook, her face buried in her hands. Bramble never exactly cried, but she had a sob-whimper that squeaked when she inhaled, and it echoed sob squeak sob squeak-squeak-squeak down the hall.
Lord Teddie stared at the glass nook doors, then at the flat cake breakfast, then back at the doors. His mouth tightened. He leaned and shoved his plate away.
“The devil,” he said, in a tone that was not jovial or cheerful at all. “My ship leaves soon, doesn’t it. I suppose I ought to go catch it, then! Good day!”
Azalea found Bramble, several minutes later, huddled behind the curtains on the window seat. The window light made her deep red hair fiery. Bent over with squeaky sobs, she fumbled with a needle and thread and tried, one-handed, to mend the shabby bit of lace on her cuff.
“I hate him,” she sobbed. “And I hate me.”
Azalea took Bramble’s arm and mended the cuff herself, then unpinned Bramble’s hair and combed it until Bramble dipped into a fitful sleep. She could understand, a little, how she felt.
Their sulky moods trickled down to the younger ones, who argued and whined, Christmas spirits low. Perhaps the King had noticed it, for just before tea, a great commotion of stamping boots and calling orders echoed from the entrance hall, and the girls ran to see the hullabaloo. The King, dusted with snow and pine needles, arrived at the palace main doors tugging a great pine tree. The girls squealed with delight.
“Clover’s Christmas tree!”
“Huzzah!”
The girls joined hands in a reel and started to sing a nonsense Christmas song.
“It is not a Christmas tree!” said the King, so firmly that all the girls stopped jumping about. “This is a house of mourning. It is nothing more than a tree. I thought it would look nice. Inside. That is all.”
Puddles formed on the wood as the King began to set it up in the corner beneath the mezzanine, the girls hopping from foot to foot.
“Are we allowed to decorate this tree-that-is-not-a-Christmas-tree-that-is-just-meant-to-be-inside?” said Bramble.