“We promised we wouldn’t.” Goldenrod shrank against the rosebush ledge, looking very much like she wanted to disappear.
“With ’Zalea’s silver handkerchief,” said Hollyhock.
The King’s entire countenance changed, from maligned to staggered. He turned to Hollyhock, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes searching.
“You made an oath?” he said. “On silver?”
Hollyhock flushed so much it hid her freckles.
“We promised t’ not tell the King,” she mumbled.
The King stepped back, pressing his hands against the table ledge behind him. If it hurt his bandaged hand, he did not show it. Instead he fixed Azalea with an icy blue stare. Azalea could not read it.
“What you have done,” he said, “is called Swearing on Silver. It is a very serious oath. Where did you learn such a thing?”
Azalea clutched the handkerchief in her palm, so tightly it dug Mother’s initials into her hand.
Swearing on Silver.
So Mother had made her Swear on Silver. Azalea didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be bad, not if Mother had done it. Azalea bit her lip, closing her eyes against the frigid gaze. She could never tell the King about Mother, how cold her hands were and how she had made her promise.
“Very well,” said the King, when Azalea kept her eyes closed. “Very well.” He took the basket of slippers from the table.
“These will be flung into the stove—”
“Oh!” cried Delphinium, followed by a thump-thumphf.
“—and you are all to spend the rest of the day in your room, considering the implications of mourning,” said the King, stepping over Delphinium on the floor. “At once. You may not take the bread with you.”
CHAPTER 12
That night, the girls put a chair up against the door and slipped through the billowing silver passage, down the stairs, through the forest, and to the pavilion in their stiff, hard boots. Their heels made a clickety click click the entire way. Mr. Keeper met them at the entrance, bowing as usual. His eyebrow twitched at their shoes, and his dark eyes met Azalea’s. They took in her set jaw, her blazing eyes, her starkly straight posture, and he backed away, bowing again before leaving.
The dance began with an esperaldo, and Azalea, cheering up a mite, taught the girls the hard stomp-click-stomps of the rhythm, showing them how to scuff their soles with the beat, and how to make the sound of their shoes match the accents of the music.
After a while, with the continued chafing, and the rough twists and turns of the boots, the girls started to sit out dances. By the end of the night, they limped. They limped back through the silver forest, up the winding staircase, through the passage to their room. Azalea poured a steaming kettle of water into basins for the girls, and they soaked their red, chafed feet, yawning.
“We did it,” said Delphinium, raising her chin. “The King thought he could stop us from dancing, but he didn’t.”
“Oh, aye,” said Bramble. She looked at everyone’s red feet, and winced. “We showed him.”
The next morning, the younger girls complained as they put on their boots, and the older girls clenched their jaws and bit their tongues. Azalea, who had danced harder than anyone else out of sheer stubbornness, felt her right foot throb with each step. Fortunately they did not see the King all day, for he was out on R.B., dismissing the regiments, and therefore was not there to reprimand them on their self-inflicted injuries.
That night, after fish stew and biscuits in their room, the girls click-clicked down to the pavilion, slower this time. No one felt like dancing, but they did anyway. Their movements were ungainly and unbalanced. By the third dance, the younger girls whined and sat on the sofas, eating cream buns. Azalea tried to coax them into a simple reel, but they wouldn’t budge.
So she danced by herself. The hard soles gave her speed when she spun, and the girls cheered for her. It ended badly; she overbalanced and twisted her ankle. The girls flocked to her side in an instant, helping her up while Azalea insisted she was fine. Standing with careful balance, her cheeks warmed as she turned to the entrance and realized Mr. Keeper had seen her fall. His dark eyes drank her in, but he pulled back, as she was flanked with so many sisters. Azalea felt the strange thrill of fear and delight course through her.
“Perhaps my ladies ought to retire for the night,” he said in his chocolate-smooth voice, as the girls tagged after Azalea, who, with Bramble’s help, limped past the entrance.
“Thank you, Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea, sure her face was crimson. She could feel the sticky slickness of blood between her toes. “I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you for letting us dance here.”
The faintest of smiles traced Mr. Keeper’s lips.
“I’m sure I can think of something,” he said.
Everyone put up a fuss the next morning about wearing boots. Azalea coaxed and teased and eventually they all laced up, making faces. Hollyhock made the most noise, and Azalea realized why after removing a spool of thread, a spoon, a penny, and three green buttons from her shoes. Since their boots were passed from sister to sister, the younger ones were expected to stuff the toes if they didn’t fit.
“Oh, Holli.” Azalea sighed, stuffing Hollyhock’s boots with her own stockings. “These things won’t help your feet. What about the old samplers from last week?”
“I los’ them at the pavil’n,” Hollyhock mumbled. Her face was radish red, almost matching her hair. “I took off m’ boots and no one saw me but I forgot t’ put them back on.”