Azalea sighed again. Hollyhock was always losing things.
“I hate being poor,” said Delphinium, serving herself some porridge from a pot on the round table. “If we weren’t, we could afford shoes that actually fit and weren’t worn by a hundred older sisters.”
“You know, speaking of losing things, I can’t find my embroidery needle anywhere.” Flora pursed her lips as she finished dressing Lily in a frilly black outfit. “I was nearly finished with the sampler, too.”
“That’s rum,” said Bramble as she buttoned up her blouse, ignoring her bowl of porridge. “Last week I lost my pair of lace gloves.”
“Really, you all,” said Azalea. “Perhaps we should index everything like the King does, just so we know where things are.”
Lessons began late that morning; Tutor was already asleep at the table. Books and grammarians were passed around, slates and chalks, and Azalea began the lessons in a whisper. Hardly two minutes later, the King arrived at the folding doors, a bowl of stir-about in his bandaged hand and a stack of post in the other. He appeared preoccupied, but when he saw them all, he drew up.
His eyes took in Tutor Rhamsden, dozing over his cane, and Azalea, standing at the head of the table, SPONDEE, SPONDERE, SPONSUM written on her slate.
“Young ladies,” he said.
“Good…m-morning,” Clover managed to stammer. The rest of the girls sunk in their chairs, keeping their eyes on their chalk-smudged hands. The King frowned but did not comment. Instead he set his bowl on the table and handed Azalea the stack of letters he held.
“Miss Azalea,” he said. “These are addressed to you.”
The room burst with a ruffle of whispers, skirts, and the scraping of chair legs, as the girls flocked to Azalea, looking over her shoulder with oohs and aahs. These were nice letters, embossed with swirled words and sealed with ribbons.
“Invitations!” said Delphinium.
“For balls and things!”
“Oh, Lea, you’re so lucky you’re of age!”
“Just remember, they’re not inviting you because you’re you, they’re inviting you because whoever marries you gets—”
“Oh, shove it, Delphi!”
“Open them!”
“Why would they send invitations?” said Eve, always so logical. “We’re in mourning.”
“It’s impolite not to,” said Azalea. “When Mother was ill, we still received invitations, though they knew she couldn’t go. I’ll show you how to write a letter of declination this afternoon.”
One by one, Azalea broke the wax seals. She recognized names from the Yuletide guests and several of Mother’s friends, all inviting her to upcoming balls and promenades and drawing-room dances. Pleased, Azalea saw that several also instructed her to bring “Miss Bramble,” and one even included Clover in the invitation, though she wasn’t of age quite yet. Bramble grinned, almost shyly, and Clover lowered her pretty blue eyes to the tablecloth, beaming. Azalea passed the invitations around, giving the girls a chance to touch the embossing and smell the perfumed stationery.
“It’s so awful we’re in mourning!” said Hollyhock, rubbing her fingers over an invitation’s knobbly seal.
“It doesn’t matter anyway.” Delphinium passed around the flower-scented invitation. “Azalea’s going to marry Fairweller.”
Time halted.
“Eve and I figured it out,” said Delphinium, barreling on. “No one would want a foreigner for king. Fairweller is Eathesburian and he’s the Prime Minister and he’s rich.”
The blood drained from Azalea’s face. Her mind revolted, and she imagined colorless Fairweller, his spiderlike arms clasped around her waist and his breath in her ear. She gagged.
“Oh, indeed,” said the King, giving the girls a start. He rubbed his bandaged hand by the rosebush ledge, frowning. “None of you shall be met with someone you are not fond of. That is the rule.”
The sick heaving in her stomach faded enough for Azalea to stammer out a “thank you” to her slate.
The next statement the King made was more to himself than to the girls:
“The question is, how to become acquainted with gentlemen while in mourning. Hmm.”
Azalea gathered the letters into a neat stack. Ivy limped to Azalea with the last invitation, her steps ungainly. The King looked up.
“Ivy,” he said. “What is wrong? Have you a sore foot?”
Ivy paled. She cast a desperate look at Azalea.
“I—I—I don’t know,” she squeaked.
“Come here. Let me see.”
“It’s all right,” said Azalea. “Sit down, Ivy.”
The King’s frown became pronounced as his eyes caught Azalea’s feet, nearly hidden by the chair legs. Azalea realized she was lifting her sore foot. She set it down, and winced.
“Hmm,” said the King. He strode to Ivy, took her under the arms, and lifted her onto the table. Ivy, who was only five, after all, began to whimper as he unlaced her boots and gently tugged them off.
The stockings came next, and the King frowned at her feet, blisters on her toes and ankles chafed red.
“It’s just, you know, boots,” said Delphinium.
“Off with your shoes,” said the King. “All of you. At once.”
Cries of protest followed; the King did not relent. While Tutor snored, the King lifted Jessamine to the table and pulled off her shoes, revealing tiny red feet. An examination of Kale produced the same.