“You haven’t been looking for it,” he said. His voice was soft and low. His eyes bore into her, and she avoided them by looking at his neck, eye level for her. A muscle clenched in his neck, just above his cravat. “You haven’t even been trying.”
“We have,” whispered Azalea, hot blood searing her cheeks. Her fingers throbbed in Keeper’s squeezing grip. “Let me go.”
Keeper smiled, gently. “Perhaps you could try just a touch harder?”
Azalea writhed her hands from his grip. They slipped from their gloves, which remained hanging in his long fingers.
“We have until Christmas,” she said.
Keeper, his eyes never leaving her, tucked the empty gloves into his waistcoat. For the first time, Azalea realized how dead and cold his eyes were. Unlike Mr. Bradford’s, they had no light in them.
“So you do,” he said.
The next day, Azalea’s fingers were bruised and swollen. It hurt to hold a pen and button her blouse, and she was annoyed and angry.
“Honestly, if no one is going to help me find the sugar teeth,” said Azalea as they bundled up for the gardens, “then we shouldn’t even be dancing there.”
An uproar of protestations and foot stomps met this, as well as a thundercloud over the girls’ temper. Azalea clenched her fists, which only hurt her fingers more.
“What about the stream?” said Bramble. “Have you looked there? The sugar teeth are probably nosing about for the rest of the tea set.”
Taking Bramble’s advice to heart, Azalea strode to the furthermost part of the gardens that morning. This part of the gardens hadn’t been tended to for years; tree roots broke up the pathway into stumbling bricks, and the dried fall leaves of the trees blocked out the sun, branches right at eye level. It smelled of rotting wood and wet weeds. Ivy, moss, and tree roots grew over everything, and it was coated in a blanket of crispy fall leaves.
Lord Howley, the newest gentleman of the game, followed after Azalea. He was a Delchastrian MP, had thick sideburns and a mustache, and was so arrogant he wouldn’t even speak to the younger girls. He had badgered and badgered Azalea, asking her where she was going, until she finally told him.
“Magic tea set?” he said, tripping over a tree root. “I thought the Eathesburian royal family had sold that old thing. I saw it advertised.”
“We didn’t,” said Azalea. She didn’t go into details. The year before, when Mother had gotten terribly ill, the King had sent for a Delchastrian doctor. Silent and brooding, he prescribed medicines so expensive they had to dismiss one of their maids. The King even threatened to dispose of their dance slippers, but did not, at Mother’s insistence. Instead, Azalea and the girls spent hours baking muffins and breads to sell. The King had advertised the old magic tea set, but for some reason, no one wanted sugar teeth that could gouge their eyes out.
Still, it had turned out all right. Mother had gotten better—a little.
“You know, you wouldn’t need to sell your things if the King raised the taxes on your imports and exports,” said Lord Howley as they picked their way over the uneven brick, bringing Azalea back to the present. “Tax and two-point-five variable percentage rate—”
“The King hasn’t raised the taxes in over two hundred years,” Azalea retorted. She pushed a branch out of her face, and it snapped back, hitting Lord Howley’s. Lord Howley sputtered but pressed on.
“If I were king,” he said, “I could change that.” He pushed a sly smile. It made his mustache bristle.
Azalea turned about on the corner of a brick, balancing with impeccable grace. She smiled broadly at him, the sort of smile where she knew her dimples showed deeply.
“Lord Howley,” she said. “Why don’t you tell the King about that marvelous three-party system you were explaining earlier? He’d love to hear it.”
Lord Howley pushed a branch out of his face. “I don’t think he likes me very much,” he said.
“He’s that way to everyone. Besides—” Azalea clasped her hands together, still beaming. “It would impress him!”
“Do you think so?” Lord Howley brightened.
“Oh, yes. He loves it when people tell him how to run the country.”
Lord Howley strode off to find the King, who tended to paperwork in a nearby section of the gardens, and Azalea exhaled in relief. Several minutes later, she stood at the edge of the garden stream, a picturesque thing with a stone bridge arched over it.
After looking into the rushing current, Azalea lost hope. The stream was too deep and choppy to see the bottom. She balanced on a rock, leaning over to spot any glints of silver, and when she couldn’t, daintily leaped to another rock in the middle.
Something out of the corner of her eyes caught her attention. A dark figure—not black, but dark brown, broad shoulders, holding a tall hat and a stack of books. Azalea had a moment to take in the rumpled hair—
—before she lost her balance and crashed into the stream.
Ice water enveloped her. The shock slapped air from her and she flailed, the current pulling her crinolines and skirts. The world muffled into freezing, garbling underwater sounds of heartbeats in her ears. Azalea panicked.
A warm arm grasped her about the waist and pulled her to the surface. Gasping for air, Azalea found herself looking into an even warmer pair of soft brown eyes. Mr. Bradford!
Azalea coughed and sputtered, flushing because the water was only waist deep. And then she flushed deeper, because Mr. Bradford had his arm around her waist, keeping the current from taking her.