“Mr. P-P-Pudding,” she chattered. She had to blink several times to see him and a partly saddled Milton clearly.
“Where have you been, then, Miss? The household is in a right state of worry for you, and the King has been out and about for you, Miss! You’re soaked through—come along, we’ll get you warm then, I’ll send for Sir John. You’re burning up and up!”
“The K-k-king—”
Mr. Pudding spoke in his gruff, soothing way, but it filtered into Azalea’s mind as vague wuh-wuhs, and the words needled through her ears. She was only vaguely aware of being carried to her room, Mrs. Graybe and the girls fussing over her, changing her dress, and putting her to bed with masses of blankets. They brought hot bricks from the hearth, wrapped in cloth, and tucked them between Azalea’s sheets. Sir John came, and Azalea was too weak to even acknowledge his poking and prodding.
“Look at this” came Eve’s voice, and Azalea felt the red scars, the burn of the reins, the cut skin of her palms being inspected, before blackness faded in on her.
Pain awoke Azalea. Her head pounded with her heartbeat, and one of her ears stabbed into her throat. Her fingers burned. So did her eyes. She felt the aura of a fever burning from her skin. She heaved the blankets from her, dots filling her vision, and stumbled to the round table, where the lamp and a cold pot of tea sat. A note lay next to the stack of teacups. Azalea blinked away the blotches, and read.
Az
Well, YOU have caused quite the scandal. Where the devil were you? The King’s been out all day, and because he wasn’t here Mrs. Graybe made us eat soup for dinner instead of the Christmas Eve pudding. Thank you very much for that.
At any rate, we’re going without you. Don’t be cross, it’s our last night, and we’ve never officially been invited to a ball before. Sir John said you oughtn’t be gotten up for the next few days, but if you wake up, come down. (Did you know Clover had a silver watch? Where did she get that kind of lolly?!)
If not, we miss you, but not enough to stay up here.
Toodle pip.
B
Azalea fled to the fireplace.
She sprang through the passage in such a hurry she scattered hot coals through the billowing curtain, trailing soot as she raced down the staircase. She slammed into the floor at a run, the abruptness making her fall to her knees.
The staircase ended sooner than it had before. Azalea’s head pounded as she grasped her bearings, her eyes adjusting.
The room she stood in was large, the same size and layout of their own bedroom, with brick for the walls instead of wood paneling. It felt sharp, real, and smelled of must. Next to her along the walls, organized in trunks and boxes, lay ribbons and tin and glass ornaments. The Yuletide ornaments! Azalea stumbled to her feet and took one from a hatbox, a tiny gazebo with a ballerina figurine that spun in the middle. It glimmered on its string. The musical movement inside pinged.
“Our storage room,” said Azalea, the ornament trembling in her fingers.
The magic was gone.
A rustle of fabric sounded behind her. Azalea turned.
Soft blue light filtered down from a tiny window near the ceiling, falling over a limp figure. Unpinned hair lay in curls over the wood floor, and a mended dress. Azalea dropped the ornament.
“Mother?” she whispered.
The figure lay unmoving.
Hardly daring to believe herself, Azalea ran to her side and turned her over, feeling Mother’s form, solid and real, beneath her hands. The blue light fell in a ghostly way on Mother’s face; edges blurred as though she were made of mist, or something from a rough pencil sketch. Azalea swallowed a cry. Mother’s lips were still sewn.
“Mother,” she whispered. “Mother, is it really you? Wake up.” Azalea fumbled for the scissors in her pocket, only to realize they were in her other dress. Even so, when Mother’s eyelids flickered, hope surged through Azalea.
“It’s all right, we’ll get them,” said Azalea, touching Mother’s lips, as gently as she could. They were icy. All her skin seemed translucent, swirling beneath Azalea’s touch. “It’s all right. Don’t try to smile or anything. We’ll get you somewhere warm.”
Mother felt lighter than Azalea expected, far lighter than a normal person, but still so substantial. Azalea ascended the creaking staircase, her arm around Mother’s waist, helping her glide up the stairs, her feet moving as though not sensing each step. It frightened Azalea, and she gripped Mother’s cold hand harder, afraid she would simply fade away.
Throbbing, she pulled Mother to the top step, laid her gently as she could against the wood and brick. Mother settled, and her skirts settled after her slowly, floating to the ground. Azalea rubbed her own handkerchief against the D’Eathe mark until it burned. The silver glowed and burst, leaving the glimmering curtain of sheen.
Azalea turned to Mother, and though Mother’s eyes hadn’t opened, she saw tear streaks down her cheeks and into the stitches.