“Ah! But you are invited to this ball. As princesses, it is your right. And I, your host.”
Keeper clapped his hands together, unfolded them, and blew. Like when they had first seen him, months ago, glittering brilliant snow whorled from his hands and swirled around them. They sparkled in pieces, bright flashes against the mist. For a moment Azalea was almost taken by it, feeling it brush past her face in a magical swirling breeze. She could see it, dancing in the pavilion with this magic snow as their partner, whirling about them in a flurried, glittering spin, the dessert table piled with caramels and chocolates, the ceiling dripping with arcs of white holly boughs and gleaming ornaments.
Flora gave a cry of delight and pulled a card from her black apron pocket. In simultaneous excitement, the rest of the girls produced cards, magically created in their pockets. They bounced with eagerness as they shared the stationery, silver embossed with their names, an invitation for the next evening. Azalea flicked her own into the lake. It floated for a moment and disappeared beneath the misty surface.
“So as you can see,” Keeper said, his voice lulling as the glimmering snow flurried into the lake around them, “you really should go back. I have quite a bit to do.”
“Naturally,” said Bramble in a half smile of awe. “That is—take all the time you need. Az hasn’t felt well anyway. We’ll nurse her up for tomorrow.” Bramble gave Azalea a wry smile of encouragement and prodded the girls to the willow branches.
“A moment,” said Keeper. “Miss Azalea.”
Azalea’s heart dropped. She turned against her will, and glared at Keeper’s dead eyes with all the strength she could muster.
“I ask a dance of you,” said Keeper. “I should very much like to dance the Entwine. We never finished the last.”
The girls nudged Azalea, smiling, their eyes alight. The Entwine was their favorite dance, too. Even Bramble perked up a touch. Clover, on the contrary, took Azalea’s hand.
“No…Mr. Keeper,” said Clover. “She’s ill, can’t you see?”
Keeper snapped out the crimson sash, burning color against the whites. Azalea cringed, thinking of the thread.
“No—no, it’s all right,” said Azalea, touching Clover on the shoulder and slipping her hand away. “I’ll dance.”
The girls watched from the bridge, biting their lips in anticipation, and Azalea found herself on Keeper’s hard arm as he half escorted, half dragged her to the middle of the gleaming dance floor. Azalea took the end of the long red sash with only one thought in mind: to get the dance over with and get out of there.
“Good luck, Mr. Keeper,” said Bramble as the girls sought for better views between each other. “Azalea’s never been caught. You can try, though.”
His dead eyes on her, Keeper produced Mr. Bradford’s watch from his silk waistcoat, clicked it open, and tossed it to the floor. Azalea cringed at the clatter.
“Three minutes,” he said. He snapped his long gloved fingers, and the music began.
The tempo was breakneck—faster than Azalea had ever gone before, and she was caught off her guard from the very first step. She whirled in and out and underneath the sash, dodging its tight snaps before it wrapped around her wrists with blinding speed. Keeper did not say a word. His mouth pressed tight, razor thin, and his eyes narrowed.
Azalea kept up with the furious pace of the music, but each breath burned, and sweat trickled down the front of her corset. Three minutes had to be up by now. Angry, Azalea ducked out of capture again, and kicked Keeper in the knee.
Keeper yanked on the sash, so hard it brought her in sharply. She stumbled out of the rhythm. Using one hand, Keeper spun her hard, pulled her arms up with the sash, and wound it around her wrists, like a spider wrapping up a moth.
Smooth. Tight. So quick, Azalea didn’t realize she had been caught until her wrists throbbed with the tightness, and she was pressed, hard, against Keeper’s chest. Her fingers pulsed red.
Keeper wound one arm around her waist, the other gripping the twisted sash at her wrists.
“She’s been caught!” The girls’ cry of disappointment echoed from the bridge.
Azalea tried to writhe free. Keeper held her firmly. The sash burned.
“Now, now,” he said, breathless. He turned his hands a touch, and the crimson sash dug into Azalea’s skin. “Excellent dance, my lady. You are the best I have ever danced with. You should take pride in that.”
“Let me go.”
“You have very pretty lips,” he said, keeping his hand at the pinching sash. “I’ve often wondered if you kiss as well as you dance….”
His fingers tightened about the sash, sending shoots of pain up her arms and making her knees weak. He brought his hand from her waist and entwined his long fingers into her hair, cradling and twisting at the same time.