The words from stories Azalea had heard so long ago echoed through her mind.
Their souls—
The High King could capture souls—
Azalea choked.
The dancers joined hands, circling around them both, and turned in a reel. The music sped to a booming, drunken waltz. Jacquards and brocades spun around in a blur. Azalea stood in a maelstrom of dancers, stunned, staring, emotions twisting within her even harder than the dancers around her.
She stepped forward, taking in Mother’s bright eyes and kind face, creased with the familiar look of pain. Her mouth seemed a blurred smile, and Azalea gaped at the scarlet lines about Mother’s lips, ringed with purple bruises. Azalea suddenly realized—
Her mouth had been sewn shut.
Azalea cried aloud. In a panic, she ran to Mother, fumbling for the scissors she usually kept in her apron pocket. Today, however, she had dressed too quickly and her pockets were empty. Her hands shook violently, and her knees could not carry her any longer.
Mother’s arms caught her before she collapsed to the floor. She pulled Azalea into a tight embrace. She felt so solid. Real! Nothing like the gossamer spirits of death in storybooks. Azalea couldn’t bear to look up as Mother pulled her even tighter, pressing Azalea’s cheek against her blouse. Azalea could smell the baby-ointment and white-cake smell as she took shuddering breaths. Mother stroked her hair.
Azalea tried to speak but choked on the words. Mother brought her to arm’s length, and with her thumb brushed away a tear on Azalea’s face, her own eyes wet. And even with her lips stitched and bruised, Mother still tried to smile. To comfort her.
“Mother—!”
The dancers swept between them, breaking Azalea from Mother’s cold embrace. The room spun. Azalea fought desperately through the dancers, pushing bunches of silks and chiffons out of the way. Through gaps in the garish colors that filled her vision, Azalea struggled for another glimpse of Mother, but saw nothing. She had vanished.
“Keeper!” Azalea screamed. “Keeper!”
Billowing skirts shoved her to the floor. A lady’s heel trod on her hand. Azalea scrambled to her feet, hysterical, pushing her way through the dancers. They pushed back tenfold harder.
The music crescendoed as Azalea was shoved against to the ground, this time hitting her head. Colors burst through her vision. The hems of gaudy skirts brushed over her, quiet as snowfall, slow, unfocused. Slower, and slower, and slower.
The music faded.
Azalea was only vaguely aware the dancers were gone. A glow of silver-white cast over her, and the pavilion eased back to its magic self. Azalea lay curled, her cheek against the marble, chest heaving. The marble was wet. Azalea did not know if it was tears or blood.
A black boot appeared in her vision, followed by a knee as Keeper knelt down in front of her. He was panting, his face drawn. Still, his eyes were lit with triumph.
“How dare you,” Azalea choked. “How dare you! I’ll kill you!”
Keeper reached out his long fingers and caught her arm, drawing his thumb across her cut. Azalea tried to summon all her strength to lash out, but she could not; as though her limbs had no blood she lay helpless on the marble. She hadn’t even the energy to flinch as he drew his fingers to her neck.
“Hush,” he murmured. “There now. Hush.” He traced his finger along her jaw. “That is a sweet thought,” he whispered. “Except, my lady, I cannot die.”
“You’re him,” said Azalea. And it wasn’t so much a whisper as a choke.
“Quite.”
He touched his fingers to her lips.
“I expect,” he whispered, “you are wondering what you could possibly do to keep me from hurting your mother further. Is that not so?”
Azalea cringed.
“I will tell you what I want, my lady,” he said. “My freedom. It is all I have ever wanted. Find the magic object, and destroy it. You have until Christmas.”
He pressed his finger hard against her lips, as though to hush her. They throbbed against his finger.
“This is between you and me,” he said. “No one else. It is upon you. If you do as I say, no more harm will come to your mother. Is that not a fair trade?”
Azalea trembled.
Keeper stood, his cape rippling straight. He pulled something from the air with a flash of silver, and tossed it. It skittered to the marble with a clinkety clink clink in front of Azalea. The sugar teeth shivered.
“And,” said Keeper, his eyes cold. “You are never to refuse me another dance again.”
CHAPTER 19
Azalea did not know how she got back to her bedroom. She only remembered stumbling through the glimmering wall of the fireplace and falling to her knees, scattering soot everywhere.
She lay curled on the floor for a long time, her head pounding.
Eventually she pulled off her dress and mended the cut sleeve, sewing perfect, tiny stitches automatically. After that, she poured water into the basin and washed her cut. In the vanity mirror, her face was drawn and ghastly white. The bruises weren’t showing yet; they would.
She touched her lips. The breath choked in her throat, and she had to turn away.
A dull glint of silver struggled through the folds of her rumpled dress on the floor. She had somehow remembered to put the sugar teeth in her pocket before leaving. Now, as she examined them, nicked and dinged with patches of dull, brassy color, she swallowed. Instead of the tiny prongs facing inward, the sugar teeth had been bent entirely backward, so the prongs faced out.