Azalea frowned at it, taking in the worn gold swirls. Realization dawned.
Giving a cry, Azalea reeled backward, and the pocket watch clattered to the marble.
“Your watch!” she said.
Mr. Bradford took her trembling hands in his large ones. His fingers brushed her sore wrists, and Azalea gave a shuddering gasp. In a moment, his suitcoat was about her shoulders, and he had lit a fire in the grate.
“Yes,” he said, still trying to calm her. “Yes, I followed you, followed you. Through the passage. And the silver forest. Everything.”
Azalea felt as though she was bumbling through an unfamiliar dance step, her feet late on the rhythm and catching underneath the gentleman’s.
“H-how?” she managed to stammer.
Mr. Bradford fumbled with the threadbare, moth-eaten cloak over his arm.
“It is a family secret, of sorts. See here.”
He stood, strode several paces from her, and with an awkward flourish, brought it over his shoulders.
He faded into the darkness.
Azalea leaped to her feet, searching over the red velvet curtains, turning hard to see where he had faded to. Disappeared to. It frightened her—it was too much like Keeper!
In an instant, Mr. Bradford reappeared, solid and visible again, the cloak now off his shoulders and rippling in his hands.
“A wraith cloak!” said Azalea as he pulled her to the fireplace. Azalea’s legs shook, and relieved, she dipped to the floor, dress pooling around her.
“The same.” Mr. Bradford clumsily folded it, and knelt in front of her again. “It has been passed down in our family. Your ancestor, Harold the First, gave it to us, but, ah, as uneventful as Eathesbury is, we’ve never used it. When I saw you at the graveyard, looking so white, I knew something was wrong. I knew it.”
Azalea stared at him, the fire flickering highlights in his eyes.
“So…I thought I should do something,” he finished lamely.
“You saw everything?”
Mr. Bradford gave half of a crooked smile. “I did knock.”
“You didn’t see Mr…. Mr.—”
“Mr. Keeper?” Mr. Bradford spat the name. “Oh, yes, I saw Mr. Keeper. Rather hard not to. I saw him try to kiss you. Or what he said was a kiss. I want to snap his head off!”
Azalea had her hand over her mouth, shocked that someone as solemn and dignified as Mr. Bradford could have such venom. He took her hands, gently, and pushed up her sleeves, revealing her swollen wrists. His fingers traced the bruises.
“You stopped him,” said Azalea. She bowed her head, shy. “You kept him from—from—”
“Ah, yes, my lady!” Mr. Bradford smiled his crooked smile in full. “His ponytail was simply begging to be yanked.”
Azalea gave a surprised laugh. Mr. Bradford grinned.
“Tell me everything,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Everything you can.”
The story fell from Azalea in gushes, as though it had been dammed up. She told him of the discovery, of Mr. Keeper, the slippers, dancing every night, the oath, and the watch. With difficulty, she told him about the haunted ball, and Mother, and realizing who Keeper was.
She tingled as she told him everything, but it wasn’t breath-stealing or overwhelming. The oath magic could somehow see that Mr. Bradford knew the secret.
When she had finished, the fire had dimmed. She sat next to him, studying his knobbly gentlemanish knuckles, wishing to rub her cheek against his shoulder. Mr. Bradford brought his knees to his chest, deep in thought.
“My father told me about the High King,” he said to his steepled fingers. “I never believed that he could actually capture souls. I always thought it just rumor. Souls. That’s the deep sort of magic. It really was your mother?”
Azalea could still feel Mother’s lips pressing against her fingers. The thread’s weave. She turned her head.
“It was…ghastly,” she said.
In the warm hearthlight, Mr. Bradford took her hands and gave her a weak, crooked smile. “Princess,” he said, “I haven’t taken the oath. We’ve got to tell someone.”
“The King!” said Azalea.
“Just so!” Mr. Bradford squeezed her hands. “This devil Keeper has got to be freed sometime. I doubt very much your father will care to have the High King D’Eathe living underfoot! We can organize the cavalry and bring him to a court of law. If he must be freed, then we do it on our terms. Not his.”
The blood rushed to Azalea’s cheeks in a warm wave, but quelled at a new thought.
“I’m not sure Keeper can be killed,” she said. “The blood oath—”
“Flummery,” said Mr. Bradford, bringing a smile to Azalea’s lips. “The King surely would know what to do. He knows magic better than any of us.”
Us. That word, and Mr. Bradford’s firm, steady hand about hers, sent courage to Azalea’s heart. It wasn’t just her anymore. Azalea wanted to cry and dance and sing all at once. She leaped to her feet, the weak dizzy-headedness of missed meals tripping up her steps.
“Oh, Mr. Bradford!” she said. “You’re wonderful—oh—I could kiss you!”
Azalea immediately pulled back, the hot flush prickling to the very roots of her hair.
“Oh,” said Mr. Bradford, who was pink, even in the dim light. “Well.”
“I—I suppose I should go…wake the King, then,” Azalea stammered.