“I hate that statue!” she said. “It doesn’t look like an angel at all!” Piff. “She looks like she’s choking on a spoon!” Piff.
“Eve,” said Azalea. Eve hiccupped, took off her spectacles, and rubbed her eyes with a red hand.
They all stood, miserable and still, their hair whipping about in the wind, now gusting. Azalea took a breath.
“Flora,” she said. “Goldenrod, can you do a mazurka step? Do it right here.”
Flora sniffed and shook her head.
“It’s not so hard,” said Azalea. “Just try it. It’s all right, you can do it here. No one will see you.”
Flora tried halfheartedly. She stepped back, quarter turned, but stepped on the wrong foot over and lost the step. Her chin wobbled.
“I can’t do anything in these boots,” she said. “They’re too stiff.”
“That was good!” Azalea lined the twins up next to her. “You had it halfway. Break it apart. Come along, Goldy. Left foot first, step back. Turn, good, hop right, slide-turn together. Good!”
“We did it!” cried Flora. She did the step again, her light brown braid bouncing with each hop. Goldrenrod echoed her steps.
“It’s easy!” said Goldenrod.
“You both learn so quickly,” said Azalea, smiling. “Let’s all try it, in a reel. Join hands. Holli, Ivy, you younger ones, just do the basic step. All right?”
None of the girls objected, not even Eve, who almost smiled and said, “We must be breaking at least fifty rules.” They joined hands, Clover stooping to link her free hand with Kale. In the snow, trying to ignore the tombstones about them, they began. Step, slide, together, forward. They touched hands together in the center, then broke apart, gave a clap.
The rhythm caught quickly. Azalea found herself forgetting about the wind and the cold, and dancing in a graveyard or even in mourning, about how wearing stiff boots hurt when she danced, and instead felt the familiar thrill flutter through her chest. The warm flickery bit. All the girls smiled now.
Just as Azalea began the next quarter turn, the girls broke apart. They crowded behind Azalea, ruining the dance, then folded their hands and looked to the ground.
“What’s wrong?” said Azalea. “You were lovely.” Frowning, she turned around—to see none other than the King over her.
The dance was knocked from her. Azalea stumbled back.
“Sir!” she said.
The King opened his mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Oh,” Azalea stammered. “Just…dancing, actually.”
“Yes, I can see that,” said the King.
The girls shuffled their feet in the snow.
“We were quiet about it,” chirped Hollyhock. “Quieter than crickets!”
The King scratched his head distractedly. Up close he looked so tired and worn, the little lines around his eyes deeper than Azalea remembered, as was the wrinkle between his eyebrows.
“Don’t be cross,” said Azalea. “It’s all right, truly—no one saw us.”
“Just because no one sees or hears, that does not mean it is all right,” said the King. He took Azalea by the shoulders, firmly enough that it made Azalea cringe.
“Mourning,” said the King, “is meant to show the grief inside us. Dancing dishonors your mother’s memory. It is badly done, Azalea! As the future queen, you should know better! Badly done!”
The reprimand stung. Azalea suddenly felt how cold the wind was, and how it bit her face. She turned her head.
“Go home,” said the King, releasing her and rubbing his hand across his face. “All of you. At once, before it storms.”
That evening, Azalea argued with her sisters. Very rarely did they argue, but tempers were high, and they had been made to eat dinner in their room, a cramped and stifling punishment. Rain pattered against the windows, and dripped into a bowl on the table from the leaky roof. The girls huddled around the massive fireplace, faces pinched as they sipped mushroom soup. At least the soup was hot.
“I just think we should all apologize,” said Azalea. She buttered another leftover-from-the-luncheon roll for Ivy, who grasped it eagerly. “Even if we don’t agree with him. We can’t leave it like this.”
“I just think it’s rum,” said Bramble, rubbing her hands against her steaming bowl. “The first time he speaks to us in days, and he yells at us.”
“He’ll speak to us before he leaves,” said Azalea. “He has to. It’s rule number twenty-one. You remember? Giving a formal good-bye. We always line up in the entrance hall before he leaves on extended R.B.”
Bramble smiled a thin, grim smile.
“Eating with a family was also a rule,” she said.
Delphinium’s lips, throughout the exchange, became tighter and more pursed. She kept casting glances at Eve, who had been drawn and silent all evening. Eve sat on the edge of her bed and let out the strangled noise of crying while trying not to cry.
“Eve?” said Azalea.
Eve toyed with her spectacles in her lap.
“All right,” said Azalea. “Delphinium?”
Delphinium raised her pointed chin, casting a stubborn, defiant look. Eve swallowed and spoke.
“He won’t say good-bye,” she said. Her dark blue eyes remained focused on her spectacles. “He’ll leave without even coming to see us.”