“No,” said Azalea, putting a halt to it. “It’s all right. You’ve got to see the gentleman’s part sometime.”
Keeper brought Azalea into dance position in the middle of the floor. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and his long fingers traced up and down the edge of her shoulder blade, just above her corset. Azalea held as still as she possibly could, trying not to breathe.
“You have such excellent form,” he whispered. “If only you would stop shaking.”
The music began; an Ungolian waltz. Keeper guided her smoothly in a traveling circle around the dance floor, into a hesitation step, an under-arm turn, and gently brought her back into dance position. Everything he did was exaggeratedly gentle. Somehow this made it worse. They brushed past the seated girls, Azalea’s skirts sweeping over their faces. They giggled.
“Ah, you follow like an angel.” Keeper’s voice was a murmur. “You are the best I have ever danced with, and I have danced with many. I knew you would be the best. From the first time I saw you, gliding across the marble—”
Azalea misstepped. Keeper tenderly brought her into the rhythm again.
“You glide,” he murmured. “Just as your mother.”
Azalea stumbled, and this time it took several beats to ease into the flow of the music again. Azalea’s hand shook in Keeper’s flawless grip.
“Please, Keeper,” said Azalea as the silvers whirled around her. “Please. I need more time.”
“You have had a disgustingly plentiful amount of time, my lady,” he said. He swept her about the girls again, and Azalea caught a flash of black—their dresses—as she spun.
“More time was not a part of the agreement. I suggest you look harder.”
“Please—Mr. Keeper. The King is extending mourning. If I had more time—”
“You are a flurry of clever words, my lady,” said Keeper. “Too many words, I think. Your mother sports that same malady. Or, she did.”
Azalea tried to kick Keeper, but her knees couldn’t support her. Keeper caught her with lightning rapidity. With a snap of his long-gloved fingers, the music stopped.
“Enough,” he said, once again obnoxiously gentle. “I am sure your sisters want you back now. Do get some rest. I should very much like the next dance I have with you to be flawless.”
CHAPTER 23
Azalea slept poorly that night, awaking from dozes with nightmarish jolts. Even so, she had the presence of mind that morning to dress well, mending a torn bit of her favorite dress, pinning her hair to perfection, and smoothing herself in front of the mirror. Mr. Bradford had seen her at her worst; she wouldn’t let that happen again.
She arrived at the nook late, the girls halfway through their porridge, and everyone looked up as she quietly folded the doors behind her.
“Well,” said Bramble. “Don’t you look nice!”
A chorus of giggles rippled down the table. Delphinium whispered something to Eve, who in turn whispered it to the twins. The twins whispered something back. They scrunched their noses, grinning at Azalea. Mr. Bradford, on the other hand, just stared at her in a stunned sort of way, his spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth.
“Good morning,” said Azalea.
Mr. Bradford started.
“Good morning,” he said, and he stood quickly, something he hadn’t done when she arrived. Now late, the gesture made Delphinium and Eve giggle even harder. Azalea flushed.
“Oh, do sit by me,” said Delphinium. The chair next to her was the empty seat by Mr. Bradford.
Azalea cast Delphinium a withering look and declined, sitting next to a porridge-covered Lily. Delphinium, Eve, the twins, and Hollyhock burst into another round of giggles.
“That will do.” The King, at the head of the table, looked up from a letter stamped with a green seal. His eyebrows knit when he saw her. “Azalea, you should be in bed.”
“I’m doing better,” said Azalea. “Really.”
The girls broke into another chorus of giggles.
“Much, much, much better,” said Bramble.
Azalea closed her eyes, wishing for death.
“Now, Lord Bradford,” said Flora, bringing her bowl to sit next to him. Goldenrod, on the other side, brought out a folded piece of paper. “We’ve made up a whole schedule for you—”
“There’s no lessons today, you know—”
“It’s Christmas Eve eve!”
“Holiday!”
“Let’s see—nine o’clock, we’ll show you the tree, and you can help us put the ornaments on the top branches. We need someone tall for that.”
“And then at ten, we’ll play a bit of spillikins—”
“And then we’ll show you the great pine in the gardens—”
“If it stops snowing, of course.”
Azalea stared at her porridge, nudging the mushy grains with her spoon before she decided she wasn’t hungry. She pushed her bowl to Ivy’s spot and slipped out the folding doors, the last scene meeting her eyes being all the girls, flanking Mr. Bradford, chattering and waving spoons, Kale tugging on his suitcoat and trying to get a spoonful of porridge in his mouth, Ivy sneaking a bit of porridge from his bowl, Lily climbing on him and grabbing his nose, and the King staring at the green-seal letter, deep in thought.
The gallery was breath-puffingly cold, but Azalea did not stir up a fire. She ignored the mourning rules and pulled open the drapes of one window, letting in bright snow light. Flakes fluttered past the glass in swirls. The shadows of the flakes danced over Azalea and the sword on the pedestal.