Under the threat of sending for Sir John, the older girls slowly removed their boots, unlacing them and tenderly tugging. Delphinium’s feet had blisters at the toes and ankles, and Eve’s right foot was swollen. Bramble’s foot had bled into her stocking, but Azalea was surprised to see her own feet were the worst. Her toes had started to bleed again, giving her stockings a brownish red stain. Her left ankle was swollen.
“Oh, indeed!” said the King, examining their feet. “Indeed! You have all been dancing! Dancing, after I expressly forbade it! Even so!”
The girls’ faces blushed crimson, but they said nothing. A stubbornly quiet nothing. The King sucked in his cheeks, then exhaled.
“You know what mourning is,” he said. “You know what mourning means. I will have no more of this dancing. How could you treat your mother’s memory in such an appalling way?”
Azalea pressed her palm against the slate lying on the table, and pulled her thumbnail across it, trying to distract the hot, boiling words from reaching her mouth. It was Clover, however, who spoke for all of them, uncharacteristically brave.
“We can’t stop…dancing,” she said, in a voice as sweet as honey. “It…reminds us of—of Mother.”
The girls nodded eagerly. The King cringed, as though Clover’s words had burned.
“It won’t help anything,” he said brusquely. “It won’t do anything. Nothing will come from dancing.”
“But it does help,” said Clover. She kept her eyes down, lashes brushing her cheeks, but she pulled the courage to step forward. “Mother would—would dance at night, too. In the ballroom—and—and you were there, and you danced the Entwine, and—you caught her, and she kissed you. On the nose.” Clover blushed deeply. “I think it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She said it with fewer pauses than usual, as though she had recited it a hundredfold. Azalea pulled her hand away from the slate, thinking of Mother and the Entwine, the tricky dance with the sash. If Mother had gotten caught, it was only because she had let the King catch her.
The King backed up, taut, against the rosebush ledge, the dry thorny branches pressing into his back. His face had become severe.
“It helps to remember,” said Clover.
“We will not speak of your mother,” said the King. His voice was even, but harder and colder than frozen steel. “You are finished with your lessons. Go to your room.”
The words lashed. Clover cowered, swallowed, then pushed her way out of the nook, clutching her boots and limping. They could hear her choked weeping echoing down the hall.
“Oh, Clover!” cried Flora. Hands linked, she and Goldenrod bounded after.
“Oh, look what you’ve done!” said Delphinium, crying angrily. She swept Lily into her arms and took off unevenly after them. Kale, Eve, Jessamine, Hollyhock, and Ivy ran out, followed by Bramble, who shot the King a flaring look as she left.
Tutor Rhamsden snorted, reciting Latin in a doze. “Tero, terere, trivi,” he wheezed.
“Azalea—” said the King.
Azalea stacked the slates, her nails digging so hard into them that her fingers hurt. She stopped at the folding doors before leaving.
“Perhaps they remembered,” she said quietly, “you couldn’t abide us.”
Sir John came that evening. The girls sat on the edges of their beds, and he knelt in front of each of them, asking questions in his quiet, doctorly way. Ointments, bandages, and candy sticks were given. The King stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and face lined.
The poking and prodding made Azalea nervous, and she hugged a pillow while Sir John bandaged her ankle, frowning at her feet. He spoke in low tones to the King as they left the room.
That night, when Mrs. Graybe and one of the maids came to deliver a dinner of potato soup, they left another basket on the table. The girls seized upon it, and when Azalea unfolded the cloth from the top, she gasped.
Nestled inside, in a bundle of colors and ribbons, lay twelve pairs of dancing slippers.
Azalea was so relieved she laughed aloud. The girls squealed with delight and overturned the basket, sending a waterfall of satin onto the rug. They found their slippers and tied them on. There was even a tiny blue pair for Lily.
“Lovely!” said Delphinium. “Real slippers! It’s like walking on air! Even with the bandages on!”
“Oh, joy, rapture, joy, all that,” said Bramble. Her yellow-green eyes sparkled at Azalea. “Sir John must have convinced the King.”
A card had been tucked inside the basket, and Azalea unfolded it to read:
I expect you to be on time to all your lessons.
I will not hear a word of your mother, or dancing.
It was the King’s hand. Azalea blinked at the note.
“Is—is something wrong?” said Clover.
“No,” said Azalea, feeling lost. “We win.”
CHAPTER 13
Dancing in slippers after two nights of boots was heaven; stepping on clouds. Although none of them could dance for very long, they laughed as merrily as though the Great Boot Bungling had never happened. They felt especially cheered in learning the next morning that the shoe arrangement would be the same as before, when Mother had taught them dancing. The shoemaker would mend their slippers every day, bringing the mended set to the palace and taking the basket of the torn ones away. When the twins realized this, they nearly cried with relief. They had pricked their fingers raw trying to stitch the soles.