She turned sharply, and stopped at Jessamine’s frightened bright blue eyes, and Ivy’s pudgy hand clasping Clover’s. The pavilion felt muffled, silent, but Azalea was suddenly aware of how her words rang. She swallowed, trying to calm herself down.
“Sorry,” said Azalea. “I just—”
Realizing her face was wet, she pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. It flashed and glimmered in the pavilion light. Always taken aback by the slight tingling sensation when she saw it, a new idea occurred to Azalea. She folded the handkerchief in her hands, considering.
Would it work?
“I once made a promise,” said Azalea. “I haven’t broken it yet.”
She told them, with difficulty, what had happened that holiday night, in Mother’s room. Not about how cold Mother’s hands were, or how white Mother’s lips had been—but she told them about the promise.
“There’s something to it,” said Azalea. “I’m always reminded of it, whenever I look at the handkerchief.”
The girls’ mouths were slightly open. Bramble raised her chin.
“All right,” she said. “If Mother did it, then—we’ll give it a go, too.”
The handkerchief was large enough that everyone could touch a piece of it—just. Azalea spoke the promise. She had them promise not to tell anyone, or show anyone, and never let anyone know about the passage or the pavilion or the Keeper. Especially not the King.
The moment the girls echoed the last word, Azalea felt the odd tingling sensation spread from her middle and shiver through her whole self, leaving remnants of goose prickles across her arms.
The girls let the handkerchief go, at once. Eve brushed off her hands, as though they had something on them, and Clover just looked from her fingers, to the handkerchief, and back to her fingers.
“What,” said Bramble, “was that?”
Azalea shivered as the tingling dissipated.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I think,” said Clover. “That…is a promise we had b-better keep.”
CHAPTER 11
Azalea had an odd dream, not many days later. Not the one with Mother. Instead, it was just the assortment of scenes Azalea often had when she realized she was dreaming, but too tired to wake up from it. She and her sisters danced in the snow, leaping, turning, while Bramble talked about pickled apricots.
The setting faded from the gardens to their room as a door creaked, followed by heavy footsteps. Bramble was suddenly wearing boots. They laughed as she stomped to Jessamine and Clover’s bed, next to the door, stopped, and walked to the next bed.
“Should we wake them then, sir?”
Mr. Pudding’s voice sounded at the doorway, and suddenly he was in the dream, too.
“Certainly not. Let them sleep.”
Immediately, it was the King who wore the boots, not Bramble. And her sisters were not dancing, but asleep in their beds. Azalea stirred.
In her dream, the King walked to each bed and pushed the bedcurtains aside, looking down at Azalea’s sisters. He reached Azalea’s bed, and Azalea felt the brightness of a lamp being held over her. The King made a noise in his throat.
“Sir?” said Mr. Pudding.
“It is nothing. They have…grown so, that is all.”
“Aye, they do that.”
More footfalls, this time stopping at Lily’s bassinet near the door.
“Lily,” said the King.
Everything was silent for such a long time that fairies started to hop around the room. They disappeared as the footfalls started again, and the door closed with a creak. For a moment, Azalea lost herself in dreams of dancing at the pavilion. Her upper consciousness tugged at her.
The King, the King, he was here, he was here…his voice…it had sounded so real. It occurred to Azalea, in a dreamlike way, that it had been real. This hadn’t been a dream…wait, this hadn’t been a dream!
“Gah!” she cried, leaping from her bedsheets.
It was morning. The girls were crowded about the window over the front court, kneeling on the pillowed windowseat and peeking through the edges of the drapery. Azalea rubbed her sore shoulder and joined them. They gazed through the crack of the window down below, and Azalea’s throat tightened, seeing the King.
The girls said nothing, and the silence was heavy. They stared down through the window. The King turned Dickens about, and Azalea saw his left hand had been bandaged.
“He’s been wounded!” she whispered. “That wasn’t in the papers!”
“Aye.” Bramble was pale. “Probably he didn’t want a fuss made over it. He can’t manage the reins with it. It must hurt.”
“He fwightens me,” whispered Jessamine. Although four, she hardly ever spoke. Hearing her glass-spun voice was a rare occasion.
“Me, too,” said Azalea. She pulled the drapes closed.
Brushed, washed, braided, and scrubbed, everyone except Flora and Goldenrod went down to breakfast. Goldenrod often had trouble waking after a late night, and Flora always stayed with her to coax her down to breakfast. Azalea promised they would save a bit of porridge for them.
When they arrived at the folding nook doors, however, everyone gave a cry of delight. On the table lay a spread of deep brown cinnamon bread and jugs of cream. There were even three bowls of jam and sugar.
They stifled the cry when they saw the King standing at the head of the table, looking at the bay windows as though there were no drapes. Azalea felt the girls instinctively draw near her skirts. Even Lily, in Azalea’s arms, clutched at her collar.