The last dance, the Entwine, was Azalea’s favorite. She had hoped to be asked it by Lord Bradford, but he had left, and instead she stood in dance position with a young, rather moist gentleman named Mr. Penbrook, who looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck. The rest of the guests moved in a ring to watch as she and Mr. Penbrook took the ends of a long sash.
The musicians began, and—
Slam.
The ballroom doors ricocheted open, startling the guests and silencing the music.
Fairweller.
“The ball is over!” he said, striding to the first window.
Polite protestations came from the guests.
“Minister?” said Azalea, stepping out of dance position. “What are you doing?”
Fairweller did not answer. He took a poker from the fireplace stand and used it to unlatch the high cords that held the drapery up in arches. The fabric rippled to the floor, masking the frosted windows.
“Oh, ho,” said an older parliament gentleman. “It’s the little princesses again, is it? Ho, ho! Have you looked in the chandeliers?”
Some of the guests chuckled at this. Azalea flushed.
“Do you need us to find them?” said one of the ladies. “They nearly froze to death last year.”
“I need you all to go home.” Fairweller strode to the next window and unlatched the cords there as well. “If you please.”
The guests turned to Azalea, whose cheeks burned.
“Minister,” she said.
Across the ballroom, Fairweller’s iron gray eyes met Azalea’s. Something hardened in them—something Azalea could not read—and it staggered her. She dropped the end of the sash.
“Oh,” she said. Then, to the guests, “Th-thank you all for coming. Next year we’ll…be certain to have a ball that ends normally.”
This brought chuckles and a smattering of applause. While Fairweller continued to drape the windows along the wall, Azalea saw each guest to the door, helped the musicians pack up their instruments, and wished everyone a good holiday as they left.
When they were all gone, the ballroom felt hollow.
“You didn’t have to end it like that,” said Azalea. “It was almost over.”
Fairweller finished draping the last window.
“Your sisters, Miss Azalea.”
Azalea sighed. Another debacle. The King would be cross again this year, which meant meals in their bedroom and no dance lessons for at least a week. Worn out, Azalea led Fairweller to the trees. He pushed a tree aside, the stand scraping the marble, and revealed the girls.
They slept, snuggled together like a nest of swans, empty pudding bowls and spoons strewn about them. They used tree skirts as blankets, and looked angelic. Nothing like they normally did.
Fairweller stared down at them, unmoving. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He turned sharply around—and strode across the dance floor. He cast aside the fire poker. It clanged across the marble. He left, slamming the ballroom doors behind him.
The chandelier lamps flickered.
“That,” said Azalea, blinking at the ballroom doors, “was odd.”
She turned to the mass of sleeping girls, a jumble of brightly colored cottons and shawls among the silk tree skirts, and smiled, suddenly feeling very, very drowsy.
“Wake up! Wake up! Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup!”
Azalea groaned as ten pairs of hands poked her awake. She had been so tired last night, she hadn’t even bothered going to bed. Instead she fell asleep right there with her sisters, using a tree skirt as a pillow.
“Stop, stop, stop,” she moaned. “The buttons of this dress dig into the spine, you have no idea.”
“Poor ickle Azalea,” said Bramble, deep red hair tangled to her knees. “Poor wee ickle wee tiny baby.”
“It’s Christmas, Lea,” said Flora. “Christmas!”
“We’re to have oranges!”
“And sausages!”
“And, and, and a book from the King, even!”
“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!”
“I know!” said Azalea as the girls pulled her to her feet. She clawed at an ornament snagged in her hair. Her ballgown made her drag. “Slow down!” she said, stumbling over her crinolines. “I can hardly walk!”
Screaming with unholy delight, the girls ran with neck-breaking speed to the nook, where all their oranges and presents would be set up in piles on the table. Azalea stumbled after them, down the hall and through the folding glass doors, only to see them crowded around the table, gawking at it with wide eyes.
There was nothing on it.
Fairweller stood at the end of the nook, his back to them, staring at the drapes covering the glass walls.
“Our oranges,” said Ivy, gaping at the table.
“Our books,” said Eve.
“Oh, hang,” said Bramble. “Our scandal.”
The girls began to cry. Azalea, now fully awake, crossed her arms.
“Where is the King?” she said, her voice a hard Princess Royale tone. “Minister?”
“He’s out,” said Fairweller. “Riding.”
“On Christmas morning?”
Fairweller said nothing.
Azalea smiled and turned to the girls. “I’ll bet Mother has them up with her. You know how much she loves Christmas.”
The girls sniffed and rubbed their eyes. Fairweller muttered something.
“I’m sorry, Minister?” said Azalea.