Keeper leaned in closely, so closely Azalea could see her own frightened reflection in the brooch, and the ghostly thin hands that grasped at her and held her back. He touched Azalea’s neck with his lips. They were cold.
Azalea lashed out. The hands did not catch her in time, and she clawed at Keeper’s throat, the fingers snagging at the brooch and ripping it from the collar of Mother’s blue dress. The hands snatched Azalea back, clutching her wrists. Azalea yelped.
The brooch fell in an arc and clattered against the wooden floor. In an instant, like the snuffing of a candle, Mother had dissolved into the dark, handsome form of Keeper. He did not move but remained smiling at her with his dashing laziness.
“Ah,” he said. “And now you know why I keep things. The same reason your father keeps your mother’s things locked away from sight, and keeps you in mourning. Every object a person owns, no matter how poor, has a piece of them in it.”
“The King will never stand for it!” Azalea snarled. “You’ll never be able to take over the country! The regiments will—”
Keeper pressed his hand over her mouth, his fingers splayed, stifling her and gripping her cheeks.
“Hush,” he said gently. “Do you really think I care about your powerless, impoverished kingship? No, princess. There is only one thing I am after.”
He pressed his hand harder over her lips, smothering her voice.
“Ah,” he said. “I never finished my story. How do these things end? Ah, yes. And the palace was magicked again to its rightful owner, who in turn finally murdered the Captain General, and all was well. The end. Ever after happy.”
Keeper leaned in, so close now that his lips nearly touched his hand smothering her face.
“And now,” he whispered. “I have a blood oath to fulfill. Good-bye, my lady.”
He pushed her into the mass of hands.
Everything swam in whites and grays and silvers around her. Azalea was shoved into a dance formation. A ghostly silence muffled everything; no music, no footfalls, no ruffling of dresses as they danced her into a silent schottische.
Azalea thrashed through the formations, trying to writhe free. She kicked and elbowed her way from the grasping hands, and in a moment of luck, broke free and leaped up the rickety stairs.
Her heart fell as she discovered an empty landing. The brick passage had closed up. She clawed the mark. She had no silver to get out.
Bony hands gripped her ankles and yanked her down the stairs. Azalea half stumbled and was half carried through the formations. Dancers crossed, changed partners, and pushed her into the right positions. If she fainted, they would probably keep puppeting her form about.
Of course it had been a trick. The whole business with souls—fake. And now Keeper, unhampered by any silver magic, was free to magick the palace. And the girls—
Trapped in mirrors…
And the King!
Azalea fought for the stairs with all the energy she could muster. The eyeless, shimmering dancers surged after her. She made it to the third step before their bony hands dragged her back again. She tore against dresses and wigs, squirming and kicking against their grips. They shoved her back, hard, and she fell—
Fell—
Whu—
The rest of the sound never came; darkness cut it off.
When Azalea awoke, she wore her ballgown. She was also standing.
For a moment she just stared down at her dress. She rubbed her fingers on the gauzy folds of the skirt, feeling the weave against her skin. Her head didn’t throb. She looked around.
Mother’s room. Azalea stood in the middle of it, between Mother’s chair and the dresser. Warm, drenched in the scent of white cake, roses, baby ointment, overwhelmingly so. Mend-up cards lined across the top of the dresser, everything lit with the cheery hearth.
The dream! This time, though, every smell, action, heartbeat, focused into a sharp, vivid picture. She could even see the bits of dust that floated in the window light.
In the flowered armchair, a hand on her with-child stomach, sat Mother. She smiled at Azalea, her cheeks dimpling. Somehow, instead of comforting Azalea, it made things worse. It was just a stupid dream, and tears stung Azalea’s eyes.
“It’s not real,” she said. “None of this. You know, you always talked about that warm, flickery bit inside. But now I know it isn’t true. It never has been. I’ll wake up empty.”
“Azalea?” said Mother. “Goosey, what are you on about? Are you all right?”
Azalea leaned against the dresser, clutching the knob of the drawers behind her.
“No, Mother,” said Azalea. “No. I’m not all right. Nothing is all right. It never will be all right again.”
Mother beckoned to Azalea, the twinkle in her eyes shining. She took Azalea’s hand, having her kneel. Azalea’s green, gauzy skirts poofed out around her. Mother kept Azalea’s fingers clasped in her warm hand, and she turned Azalea’s hand over, inspecting her palm.
In addition to the tiny crescent scars where her nails had dug into her skin so often, new red marks had broken into her flesh when Azalea had lost her temper earlier. They stung, with the additional welt of the reins when she had fallen. Mother considered, touching the palm gently.
“You used to do this,” she said. “When you were younger. You would get so angry.” Mother smiled. “I had hoped you had outgrown it.”
Azalea pulled her hand back.
“Some things are worth getting upset over,” she said.
Mother tilted her head, reached out, and brushed an errant strand of hair from Azalea’s face, and wiped a tear streak away with her thumb. Azalea blinked and turned her head, a little surprised she hadn’t woken up yet. The dream never lasted this long.