“Azalea,” he said finally, “as this charade progresses, you will tell me if you are…fond…of any of the gentlemen?”
Azalea stared at him, a hot blush rising to her cheeks.
“Nat—naturally,” she stammered.
The King’s internal thread visibly untwisted.
“Just so,” he said.
Azalea ran through the gardens, her black skirts billowing in the breeze of honeysuckle and lilac. She had forgotten how fresh and alive the gardens felt, with bright flowers bursting all over it like fireworks. Though a bit unkempt, with ivy growing over the path and moss clinging to the marble statues, it towered above her in a fine display of overgrown topiaries, thick trees, and flowered vines curling about the trellises. Shadows dappled her as she ran.
This riddle was an enigma, Azalea decided. And so was the King. She had thought, these past few days, that this R.B. was only a way to attract possible future kings. Like a ball, but allowed in mourning. Now, Azalea wondered, had the King contrived the game for her? Why would he be anxious if she was fond of a gentleman, before parliament decided?
And the gardens. Azalea hadn’t expected that to come from this riddle. Had he known how much they missed it? And eating dinner with him. That was decidedly odd. He never seemed to care about it before.
Azalea found the girls in the fountained section of the gardens, crowded with white statues and ponds rimmed with marble. Water burbled and gushed, and a small breeze blew a curtain of mist about, making bits of rainbows. The younger girls had taken off their boots and stockings—strictly not allowed, as the gardens were public—and dipped their toes in the mossy pools.
Sitting on the edge of a marble fountain, Azalea told them about what the King had said. A thoughtful silence followed, only the burbling water breaking it.
“You know,” said Eve, trying to pin a freshly picked flower into her dark hair, “I sometimes wonder if the King is, you know, clever. Not like us, of course. But clever in a quieter sort of way.”
Bramble dipped her fingers into a standing pool, sending ripples and bobbing the lilies. She looked more serious than Azalea had ever seen her.
“If it’s true,” she said slowly, “then we all have more of a hand in our future gentlemen than I thought.”
“It’s me that has the arranged marriage, remember?” Azalea folded her arms. “The rest of you get your choice.”
Bramble looked up from the pool and smiled, but it hadn’t any wryness to it.
“No, Az,” she said. “I don’t think we do.”
She stood, dried her hand on her skirts, and kept the unhappy smile still on her face. She dipped a deep, graceful Schleswig curtsy to Clover.
“Clover,” she said, “is so beautiful. She is the prettiest of all. You saw how Mr. Hyette was with her. He would have been delighted to marry her.”
Clover fumbled with the flower she pinned in Kale’s hair.
“Horrors,” she said, trying to smile.
“Once she comes of age in December,” said Bramble, “she’ll be snatched right up by the first gentleman who sees her. Like a golden nightingale. And she’s so blasted sweet. She’s far too sweet to object. She would just go along with it.”
Clover blushed furiously. “N-no,” she stammered. “It won’t—be like—like that.”
“And me,” said Bramble, and even her pushed smile faded. “Well…me. I’ve got too little dowry and too much mouth. And no gentleman likes that. The King will be grateful to have anyone take me.”
The fountains burbled, the trickling masking the girls’ silence. Azalea touched her stomach, thinking of the terrible sick feeling that overwhelmed her every time she thought of her future gentleman. Now, she realized, Clover and Bramble had it, too. They looked miserable.
Azalea stood.
“There’s a dance Mother once taught us,” she said, walking to the standing pool. Among the lily pads stood twelve octagonal stepping stones, in a circle. The water lapped just above them. “Here, on the stones. Let’s try it.”
Though not a soul was about, the older girls were slightly worried that someone might wander by and see their ankles. Still, with a little coaxing, everyone’s shoes and stockings lay in a jumbled pile, and Azalea walked about the rim of the pool, helping everyone to their granite stones. They nudged the lily pads off with their toes.
Azalea took her stone, slimy and skiffed with water, and the girls giggled as the water lapped at their toes. The point of this dance was balance: jumping from stone to stone without falling into the water.
“You always manage it,” said Bramble, curling her toes on the slick stone. “Turning things right.”
“That’s what sisters do,” said Azalea. “We watch out for each other. Don’t we? The King would never arrange your marriage—and I would never let him. I promise.”
Bramble’s thin lips curved in a smile to the water at her feet.
Azalea counted off; two emphasis beats in six, everyone made ready to step off—when the hydrangea bushes a length away rustled and bobbed. The girls nearly slipped off their stones.
“Someone’s there,” whispered Jessamine as they all caught themselves.
Azalea followed her bright blue eyes into the bushes.
“Ah-ha!”
The girls shrieked. Azalea fought for balance on her stone, her hem dipping into the pond. A splash sounded behind her, followed by another splash, and Azalea twisted around, finding Kale and Eve sitting in the water, coughing and sputtering and soaking wet. Eve’s spectacles were askew. Kale had a lily pad on her head.