Mr. Bradford lit up.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Some of those clockwork designs are terribly antiquated. You have to wind them two times a day, at least. Surely there is a better way to harbor energy in such a tiny mass.” Still smiling, Mr. Bradford turned to the coats, which were old-fashioned and far out of style. It looked more like a storage closet than anything. A very old, shabby rag cloak hung from one of the pegs. Mr. Bradford glanced at Azalea’s feet. “Perhaps another coat, about your feet?”
Azalea smoothed back her skirts to look. She closed her eyes with embarrassment. She couldn’t find her boots in the dark that morning and, frustrated, had grabbed what she thought were her green dancing slippers from the basket. One was. The other was Bramble’s red slipper, knotted around her left foot. It looked terrible…and festive, in a way.
“I—ah, can be a touch impulsive, I’m afraid,” Azalea admitted, cringing. She tucked her mismatched feet back under her skirts.
“It’s true, then,” he said. “You really do dance at night.”
Azalea had opened her mouth when movement outside the shop window caught her eye. A great white horse pawed at the cobblestones. A dark figure came up the stairs.
In a rush of billowing skirts, Azalea ran for the nearest hiding place—the closet.
Which Mr. Bradford was already in. He was shoved against the wall as she leaped into it, pressing her skirts flat and yanking the door shut behind her.
Pitch blackness enveloped them. A broom handle clunked against someone’s head, and it wasn’t Azalea’s. A bell jangled outside the closet, signaling a customer’s arrival.
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“Eerck,” came Mr. Bradford’s voice.
“Sorry,” Azalea whispered, realizing she pressed right up against him. He smelled like fresh linen, soap, and pine. She resisted the impulse to bury her nose into his cravat and inhale.
“It is, ah, togetherness,” he stammered. “I think—”
“Please,” Azalea whispered fervently. “Please. Fairweller is out there. Don’t let him see me. Please.”
A walking stick rapped against the counter. Mr. Bradford’s hand took Azalea’s.
“Forbear,” he said. Then, with quite a lot of racket and rustling of coats, skirts, and the maligned broom, he was out, carefully closing the door to a crack behind him. Azalea peeked through the sliver of light.
“Minister,” said Mr. Bradford. “Good morning. The shop isn’t open yet. Mr. Grunnings will be in, but in two hours, I should think.”
“I saw a light,” came Fairweller’s voice, completely emotionless and flat as always. “I thought to come in. I ordered a lady’s watch from Delchastire that was to be sent here, and it is already a day late. Do you have it?”
A lady’s watch! Azalea leaned forward for a better look, catching a bit of Fairweller’s face and the counter.
“A shipment came yesterday afternoon, I believe. What does it look like?”
“It is silver. A ribbon clock. And—” Something flickered over Fairweller’s face. Azalea wished she were closer. “And delicate. So delicate and fine that…a person would not touch it, for fear of breaking.”
Azalea gaped. Fairweller! Fairweller was in love! She resisted the impulse to laugh an evil laugh. Oh, the poor lady. She waited while Mr. Bradford arrived from the back room, carrying a small box. The watch must have been expensive, as Fairweller wrote a bank note for it. When he took the box from Mr. Bradford’s hands, he handled it with the utmost care, cradling it. Azalea was astounded beyond words.
When the door jangled closed, Azalea burst from the closet.
“Good heavens,” said Mr. Bradford. “There’s a lady in my coat closet.”
“Did you see that?” said Azalea. “Fairweller! In love! I’ll bet that was an engagement gift. I wonder who it is. Lady Caversham? She must be mad.”
Mr. Bradford smiled. Azalea chattered on as she helped him prepare the tea from the boiling kettle, taking over the strainer when he fumbled with it. Soon enough they sat on the stepping stools in front of the black stove, Azalea wrapped in two coats and slowly unthawing while they drank tea from the shop’s old mugs.
“I hope he loves the lady because she is her,” said Azalea, thoughtful as she stirred her steaming tea. “And I don’t like Fairweller, but I hope she loves him, too. I hope she’s not marrying him for his money. That would be so…sad. She should marry him for his mind and soul.”
“You’re a romantic?” said Mr. Bradford.
“No,” said Azalea. “Not. I think that’s what everyone wants. I mean, I would want someone like—”
She cut off abruptly, horrified that her mouth had run off before her mind had caught up with it. She had almost said “like you.”
And then she realized she had meant it.
She was in love!
The tea in her mug shook as she blinked at it. In love! Azalea had always smothered the thought—what was the point? Parliament would choose her husband. And yet here he was in front of her, the perfect king—even the King would admit that—and the perfect gentleman, with his soft, cinnamon bread eyes and his gentle touch, his quiet wit, rumpled hair, crooked, bashful smile. He was so lovable.
Blood flushed to Azalea’s cheeks as she suddenly became shy.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bradford. Even his voice was lovable. “I should think you are right.”