“Yes, all right, naturally,” Azalea squeaked. She cowered under Clover’s tirade, gripping the edge of the bench. A dozen tiny slivers embedded themselves into her palms. She suddenly knew how the tea set felt in its last moments. “What did Fairweller say? When you delivered the note?”
“Oh,” said Clover, calming a little. “Well…nothing, actually. I sort of…accidentally…tore it to pieces.”
“Accidentally,” Azalea echoed.
“And threw it into the fire,” said Clover.
“Oh.”
Clover tugged the ends of her shawl around her shoulders, and smiled bashfully. “Well,” she said. “He was mine, after all. And now he’s finally noticed me. I thought I would have to smack him across the head with a book or something.” She sat down next to Azalea, still beaming. “But he came around.”
In Azalea’s shock, something surfaced.
“Clover,” she said. “You’re not—not—”
“Stuttering?” Clover beamed. “I…still do. A little. But Minister has been so easy to talk to, and—well. He says I have a pretty voice,” she added shyly.
Azalea had nothing to say to that.
“He wants me to elope.”
“I heard.”
“Oh—but I can’t! He’s certain the King would never allow our union. If Mother were here, she could talk to the King. But—” Clover fingered the swirls of the watch at her waist, then brightened at Azalea. “Perhaps you could!”
“Definitely not me,” said Azalea.
“Oh, Lea!” said Clover. “Who else can do it? You’re the closest thing to Mother we have!”
Azalea pinched the slivers in her palm with her fingernails, biting her lip. The King would be up in arms over this. Fairweller, courting Clover, not only in mourning, but without the King’s approval or knowledge. There would be a duel. Azalea did not like Fairweller, but she did not want him hurt. At least, not a lot. All this pulled her down like heavy crinolines, adding to the burden of Keeper’s threat. Azalea closed her eyes.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
Clover leaped up and threw her arms around Azalea, beaming to tears.
That afternoon, as the girls busied in the kitchen baking gingerbread ornaments for the tree, Azalea nervously slipped into the library. The door was already open.
The King stood when he saw her. Sitting across from his desk was a gentleman, who stood as well. Azalea did not recognize him, staring at his hairy eyebrows and dark under-eye circles. He reminded her of a rainstorm. She made to retreat back into the entrance hall.
“Oh, Azalea. No, it’s all right, don’t go,” said the King. “We were finished. Good day, Mr. Gasperson.”
“Good day,” said the gentleman, drawing out the word day. Azalea gave him a wide berth as he clumped out of the library.
“Who was that?” said Azalea when the door had slid shut. “I thought we wouldn’t have guests for Christmas.”
“What? Oh, certainly not. He’s—official R.B., of sorts. Come in, have a seat. I need to speak with you.”
“Good,” said Azalea. She sat on the sofa across from the desk. “I need to speak with you.”
“Excellent. We’ll speak together.” The King opened the cabinet behind his desk and pulled out two glasses with a small decanter of brandy. He poured a little into each and handed one to Azalea. “We don’t talk much, do we?”
Azalea eyed her glass, wary. What did the King want to talk about? Surely good things were not preambled with “We need to speak.”
“Tell me, Azalea,” said the King. “What did you all think about Lord Haftenravenscher?”
The King did not drink his brandy. He looked intently at Azalea.
“Lord Teddie?”
“Yes.”
Azalea smiled, considering Lord Teddie’s parlor tricks and boundless good humor.
“He’s a decent, happy sort,” she said. “The younger girls were mad after him. Even Delphinium liked him. But I think he only had eyes for Bramble.”
“Oh, you think so?” said the King.
Azalea’s smile faded. She rested her glass in her lap. “Is he hoping to give the riddle another go? Is that what this is about?”
“No, no,” said the King. “Nothing like that.”
Azalea thought of the jam cake hitting the floor that morning, and sighed. She couldn’t forget the spark in Lord Teddie’s hazel eyes when he looked at Bramble. Surely he was fond of her, but he had done everything all wrong. Azalea almost wondered if he really did only think them a jolly sport.
“That’s good, then,” she said. “I don’t think Bramble could stand to be humiliated again.”
“Humiliated?”
“It was just this morning?” said Azalea, exasperated.
“Oh,” said the King. “Yes, I remember.” He sat down on his stiff, high-backed chair.
Azalea sipped her brandy, a tiny sip, only enough to cover her tongue with the burning taste of wood and sour boots. She thought again of Lord Teddie’s hopeful smile when he looked at Bramble, and sympathy sprang inside her.
“Perhaps he could come to our Yuletide ball,” she said. “If he truly is fond of Bramble, he should prove he’s in earnest. Not this riddle nonsense. Something to show we’re not just sport to him.”