“I’m only good…because—because I’m shy,” she said, blushing.
They returned through the fireplace to their room with visions of fan tatting rippling through their minds. The next night, they learned new waltz steps, how to flow up and down on the beats. The next night, jigs. And the night after, a morris dance, with silver-and-white satin sticks that had bells attached with ribbons.
No words could describe those warm summer nights, dancing at the pavilion. Euphoric, delightful, brilliant, all would fit. It was what Azalea felt when she saw the girls, beaming from learning a new step, or how to balance on just their toes, or when Azalea tucked them into bed, their cheeks flushed and smiling.
“Sometimes I wake up,” Flora said one morning, “and I wonder if it’s even real.”
“It feels like a dream,” Goldenrod agreed, sleepily.
Mornings came much too early, and after the girls had groggily dressed, they stumbled to breakfast late. They mended slippers over their porridge, or in the afternoons in the cool cellar. The slippers became more tattered each day, and Azalea had to back them with extra fabric from old tablecloths, because the satin frayed so. They couldn’t last much longer, Azalea knew, but she would sew her fingers raw to make them do. She had to immerse herself in the silver forest, in the dancing, if only for one more night.
And though she wouldn’t dare admit it to anyone, she wanted to see Mr. Keeper again.
He hardly ever spoke to her or any of them, other than to welcome, bow them in, and wish them a good night when they left, but the essence of him lingered. When Azalea spun, spotting her head as her skirts billowed around her, she could swear she glimpsed his midnight eyes watching through the lattice, or at the entrance, but when she turned about again, she saw only rosebuds. His sleek movements mesmerized her, and she wondered how he danced. She wished desperately to see it.
“Poor Mr. Pudding,” said Eve, one night in early August, at the pavilion. They had danced until their slippers had been worn to pieces, and now sat in a circle on the floor, exhausted. When they had come to the pavilion that night, streamers lay on the floor, and they spent the next several hours dancing among ribbons.
“He nearly started crying this morning,” Eve continued, “when we came late and wouldn’t eat breakfast, because it was cold.”
“Poo on Mr. Pudding!” said Delphinium, who was often cranky when she was tired. Azalea, on the other hand, helped the girls to their feet, nudging the younger ones awake and scooping a sleeping Lily into her arms.
“We have been staying out too late,” she said. “We’ll have to be more attentive.” She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket for Lord Bradford’s watch, to see the hour. Azalea kept the watch in her pocket every night, checking it from time to time, always taking the girls back before it grew too late. It was easy, however, to forget about the time when the pavilion spun around them. Azalea dug into her skirt pocket a littler harder, and found nothing but a thimble.
“Bramble, have you seen the watch?”
“Me? No.” Bramble yawned.
“Has anyone seen the watch?”
The girls only answered with blinky, sleepy eyes. Anxiety seizing her throat, Azalea paced the dance floor, searching the marble, wondering if it had fallen from her pocket during the ribboned mazurka. She couldn’t just lose the watch like that—it wasn’t hers!
Azalea turned again, and this time the weighty, dark form of Mr. Keeper stood in the entrance, a silhouette of roguish ease. His hands cupped around an object, holding it close to his nose. Eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, as though breathing it in. Azalea caught a glimpse of gold between his long black fingers.
“Mr. Keeper!” said Azalea, relief washing over her. She strode to the entrance. “You found it!”
Mr. Keeper’s eyes snapped open, sharply black. Sighting Azalea, the sharpness diminished, and a flicker of a smile appeared. He lowered his hands. The watch, fob, and chain nestled in his gloved palms.
“Yes,” he said smoothly. “It had clattered to the edge here. Forgive me.”
Azalea made to pluck it from his hands, but his fingers closed on the watch, and he pulled back.
“Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea.
“Such a fine clock,” he said softly. “It belongs to your gentleman?”
Azalea’s breath caught from her throat to her chest, and her heart thumped in her corset. At the lattice beside them, the leaves rustled in the unfeelable breeze.
“Not…mine,” Azalea stammered. “Please, Mr. Keeper, if I could have it back—”
Mr. Keeper reached out and brought her hand to his. Azalea gasped; the press of his fingers seemed to touch her core. He felt so solid. It both thrilled and frightened her. Turning her palm upward, he placed the watch and chain in her shaking hand and curled her fingers over it. His hands lingered upon hers.
Then, in a silky movement, he released her hand and bowed them out, so quickly Azalea couldn’t recall even going over the bridge. She clasped the watch in her hand so hard the gold ornament curls imprinted her hand through her glove.
Several hours later, when her heartbeat had slowed to its normal pace, and Azalea didn’t blush every time she thought of Mr. Keeper’s hands on hers, she turned up the lamp on the round table in their room, retrieved a bit of newspaper from under her bed, and sat on a pouf, studying both the watch and the paper.
The Delchastrian war had had two battles in the past month, which worried them all. Between lessons and meals, and now slipper mending and sleep, Azalea read the Herald aloud to the girls. Worry etched in their faces. Afterward Azalea would have them tear and roll old tablecloth fabric for bandages.