Azalea grimaced. Mr. Bradford took it as a no.
“A gentleman, though?”
Azalea could only dry swallow. Mr. Bradford turned to her. Concern was etched in his face.
“Is it to do…with magic?”
Azalea choked. The carriage jolted to a stop just outside the palace gates, and she flung herself to the door without waiting for Mr. Bradford to help her out.
“I’m late,” she said. “Thank you for the tea. Good-bye.”
Mr. Bradford leaped from the carriage after her. “Wait—Miss Bramble—”
“Don’t call me that!” said Azalea.
Something, perhaps hurt, flickered through Mr. Bradford’s soft eyes.
“Princess Bramble,” he said.
“I’m Princess Azalea,” said Azalea. “Azalea, for heaven’s sake. It was Bramble’s handkerchief I gave you at the ball. I…meant to tell you. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Bradford’s dark eyebrows knit, then rose. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Azalea did not stay to see any more. She ran through the gate and through the gardens, skirts billowing and lungs burning. She slammed against the brick of the palace, sobbing, trying to erase the image of Mr. Bradford’s hurt expression from her mind.
A long while later, numb both inside and out, she went inside. The warm kitchen air burned her cheeks. She wanted dearly to collapse into bed. Passing the nook glass doors, however, she drew back. Instead of the usual morning sight—the girls yawning into their porridge as the King sorted through the post—all the girls laughed and chattered as Lord Teddie passed around a platter full of flat cakes. The King sat at the head of the table, bemused. Lord Teddie laughed and jabbered so loudly Azalea could hear him through the glass.
“You put berries, or cinnamon, or whatever you like on it and fold the sides around—oh, well done, Hollyhocky! It’s ripping! Oh, hulloa, Princess A!”
Azalea made to run, but in an instant Lord Teddie had thrown open the glass doors and pulled her in.
“I don’t feel like eating,” she said as everyone pushed her to a seat. She was too tired to make a fuss. “What is all this?”
“Ha!” Lord Teddie beamed. A bit of flour smudged his nose. “That’s what your father said. I was just explaining to them, I just was explaining, I saw Miss Bramble yesterday at breakfast and I saw how she hates porridge and who can blame her, really? So I thought, I say! I’ll make a corking present! So Cookie and I went to market yesterday and we were up early this morning and we made a Delchastire breakfast and it’s smashing! Isn’t it, Cookie?”
It was hard to tell what Mrs. Graybe thought of Lord Teddie. She set a jug of cream on the table, said, “Yes, m’lord,” and left for the kitchen.
“We eat it with our fingerth!” cried Ivy, whose hands dripped with jam.
“Use a knife and fork,” said the King. “We are not animals! Silverware, at once.”
“Oh, but that would ruin it!” said Lord Teddie. “Breakfast is meant to be splattered everywhere! It wakes a person up!”
The King sucked in his cheeks.
“Young man,” he said, a term that did not bode well for Lord Teddie. “Does your ship not leave today?”
Lord Teddie’s face fell.
“Oh…yes,” he said. “It does.” He gave a wan smile, and stumbled on. “I—I wish I didn’t have to go. These past several days have been ripping. Rippingly ripping. I—I’m awfully chuffed about you all. I…sort of feel at home here.”
Lord Teddie smiled hopefully at the King over the dripping jam jars and jugs of milk.
“I wish I could stay longer,” he said. “If I were to be invited, I would.”
The King folded his arms, complete iciness. A pang of sympathy ran through Azalea.
“Perhaps you can visit next year, Lord Haftenravenscher,” she said.
Lord Teddie brightened. A little.
“Oh…all right,” he said. “Or you could all come to my manor! Mother will host a corking ball; we have a horrifically gigantic ballroom, you’ll love it!”
And then Lord Teddie turned to Bramble, who Azalea realized had been silent the entire time. She hadn’t greeted Azalea, or even looked up. Instead she stared at her lap, fingering the threadbare black lace on her cuff that was coming unstitched. She kept pressing the frayed ends back into the cuff, over and over, almost feverishly. Her lips pursed together so tightly they were white.
“Do you like it, Bramble?” said Lord Teddie. “Better than porridge, I should think!” He hopefully nudged a jam jar toward her. “Er…princess?”
Bramble tore her eyes from her lap and fixed a celery green glare on Lord Teddie. It froze the smile on his face.
“Mrs. Graybe,” she said. “Mrs. Graybe! Do we have any porridge?”
“What?” said Lord Teddie. “You don’t want—”
“I love porridge!” Bramble snarled.
“But—”
“I don’t want your stupid charity!” Bramble cried. “Go back to your stupid manor! Leave us alone!” She threw her cake at him. It missed and landed jam down, on the floor.
“Miss Bramble!” said the King. “Apologize, at once!”
Bramble shoved her chair aside and fled from the nook, her face buried in her hands. Bramble never exactly cried, but she had a sob-whimper that squeaked when she inhaled, and it echoed sob squeak sob squeak-squeak-squeak down the hall.