“This is magic,” he said, pointing up to the main gear that turned the rod and hands. “I was wondering how the counterweights could propel themselves without any steam or force. Look.”
Azalea peered at the gear. Near the center, marked like a smithy’s brand, was a DE, identical to the tea set’s. The D’Eathe mark.
“It must be,” she said. “There are still pockets of magic about, from when the High King lived here.”
It should have frightened her, thinking of the palace as once evil and magicked, with the candelabras and ceiling murals alive, but it didn’t. It was hard to be frightened of a building that smelled of old toast. Once, Azalea guessed, it had been intimidating and grand, with magic walls you could walk through and flues that didn’t have birds nesting in them. When the High King was killed—first poisoned, several times, then shot with pistols, then his head cut off, then burned in the great palace fire…no one really liked to talk about it—Harold the First had somehow unmagicked the palace, rebuilt it, and made it a decent home to live in.
Only bits of magic remained. Like the tea set, and the tower.
“My father used to speak of the magic in the palace,” said Lord Bradford, walking to the tiny fireplace on the side of the platform. Azalea could feel the floorboards beneath her feet move with each of his steps. “He said when they were boys, he and your father used to play together in the magic passages.”
Azalea’s eyebrows rose.
How odd to think of the King playing. Or even as a boy. But as Lord Bradford took a small shovel from the hearth stand and walked back to her, the floorboards creaking again, Azalea said, “Magic passages? Here? In our palace?”
Lord Bradford smiled a small, crooked smile, and leaned to her conspiratorially, underneath the slow-turning rod. Azalea drew closer, and caught the scent of linen and a touch of pine.
“That mark, the D’Eathe mark, when it’s on brick, marks a hidden passage. Did you know that? You can open it by rubbing silver on it.”
“Really!” said Azalea.
“If I recall, though, he said they were only used as storage rooms now.” Lord Bradford shrugged apologetically. “Unexciting, I’m afraid.”
Azalea nodded but shelved this piece of information in the back of her mind.
With the task at hand and still holding the shovel, Lord Bradford slipped up a small set of ladder stairs to the bells-and-gears platform, just above her. The mass of machinery and creaking gears hid him, and Azalea bit her lip and curled her toes in her boots. Far too soon, a gritty, rusty squeaking seized the air. And then silence fell. The ticking halted. Azalea reached up and touched the clock-hand rod, feeling her stomach turn as the rod did not.
Lord Bradford emerged from the gears without the shovel, his face sober again. Azalea, eager to leave, led him down the stairs.
He seemed to sense she was not in the mood for conversation and kept a solemn silence between them.
Azalea stopped when a thump sounded and Lord Bradford gave a soft “Oo.”
“Are you all right?” said Azalea.
“Um, yes,” he said after a pause.
“Attack!”
The battle cry echoed throughout the tower, making the bells reverberate. Bramble’s voice! At once potatoes flew through the air. Thump! Thump! Thump-thump! In the dim light at the bottom of the stairs were all the girls, their skirts pulled up like baskets as they threw. Potatoes rained, hitting brick walls, the spindly railing, thumping against the wood floor, and hitting Lord Bradford. He blocked them dexterously with his arm.
“Have you all run mad?” cried Azalea. “Stop at once—ow!”
A potato boffed her on the side of her head. Delphinium lobbed another one, which Lord Bradford caught in his tall hat before it hit her.
“What are you doing?” said Azalea, running down the remaining steps. “Eve! Flora and Goldenrod! And Clover—not you!”
Clover, who had not thrown anything at all, stepped back, blushing to tears.
“And you,” said Azalea, turning on Bramble. “What are you, three?”
Bramble at least had the decency to look ashamed. For about two seconds. Then she raised her chin, coloring angrily.
“We can’t just do nothing,” she said. “If he doesn’t start the tower again, we’ll never be on time for anything, and if we’re never on time—”
“The King will be even crosser than he was before!” said Delphinium.
“He’s leaving for war soon and we may never even see him again.” Goldenrod’s voice broke.
Once again, Azalea stood in the midst of girls, the familiar chin wobbles and wet cheeks overcoming them. Jessamine curled up on the floor, her lacy pantelettes poking up in black ruffles, and began to wail in a tiny crystalline voice.
“I have a watch.”
Azalea started, remembering Lord Bradford. He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and offered his hand to Azalea. On it lay a gold watch, chain, and fob.
“Please take it,” he said. “You can keep it in your pocket, hidden away for mourning, and you can still keep time.”
Azalea could tell it was an heirloom. The gold between the ornamental swirls had been worn down to black.
“We can’t take that,” said Azalea.
Bramble snatched the pocket watch from his hand and drew back, holding it against her chest.
“You—!” Azalea made to fetch it back, but Bramble pulled far out of her grasp.