“Magic?” she mouthed.
Azalea, hopeful, rubbed furiously against the glass. Perhaps she could somehow rub her sisters out of the mirrors—
But it did nothing. Bramble shuddered and shook her head.
“Not enough,” she mouthed.
Even so, Azalea ran to Jessamine’s mirror and pressed the handkerchief against it. After several moments, Jessamine stirred, and her eyes opened a touch. Behind her figure, in the mirror, the tiny spider candle skittered away, leaving a streak of gold. A dark, handsome figure crossed the floor behind them, and Azalea turned quickly, keeping the handkerchief pinned to the mirror behind her. Keeper!
He did not go to her, but instead went down a length to Clover’s mirror, and placed his fist hard against it. All three girls cowered under it.
“Release it, Miss Azalea.”
Azalea hesitated. Keeper smashed his fist against the mirror, a hard cranch, and it cracked. Kale gave a silent cry.
“Release it!”
Hating herself, Azalea threw the handkerchief to the floor. In an instant, her head thwacked against the marble and Keeper’s long, pointed fingers wrapped around her neck.
“Where is your father?” he snarled.
He hadn’t found the King yet! Azalea tried to blink the blotches from her vision.
“Well?” said Keeper, his fingers tightening.
“I don’t know,” said Azalea.
Keeper shoved her against the marble again, and colors burst before her eyes.
Graveyard.
The word came to her mind, fully formed.
“Graveyard,” Azalea said in a choked voice. “He’s in the graveyard.”
Keeper’s black eyes narrowed at her.
“Mother—” Azalea’s throat seemed to squeeze to her ears. “She died a year ago today.”
Keeper’s eyes remained thin slits, but he lightened his grip, a touch. Azalea inhaled fresh, sweet air.
“The graveyard,” he said. “Naturally.”
In a moment he stood before Jessamine’s mirror, giving the handkerchief a wide berth. Jessamine was curled up and shivering, her dark curls askew. When she saw Keeper looming above her, she began to cry in tiny, noiseless wails.
He stretched out his fingers and, with some effort, stroked the mirror like a beloved pet. He placed his palm flat against the glass and closed his eyes.
His face became gaunter, almost translucent, and the mirror changed as well. Like light against a dark window, Azalea saw her own heaving reflection, transparent on the glass. Slowly it grew stronger and more opaque until Azalea was fully reflected. Jessamine’s reflection let out a cry—
—and Azalea saw it was the real Jessamine, curled on the ballroom floor.
Head pulsing, Azalea rushed to her side, hoping to warm her quivering body. Keeper shoved her away and snatched Jessamine up, striding out of the ballroom. Azalea staggered after him, realization pouring hope into her chest. She’d been right about the handkerchief! Keeper couldn’t leave the palace!
“You know where the graveyard is, Miss Jessamine?” he said, carrying her under his arm like a sheep. He pulled the entrance hall door open. Tangled ropes of black branches twisted over it like snakes, masking the doorway.
Keeper closed his eyes and placed his hand on the tangled mess of branches, and his face grew ashen—just as when he had raised the water, those many months ago. His breathing labored. The tangled movements of the branches sped, and they parted in pieces, letting a stream of sunlight through.
“You can’t come back in until you find the King,” said Keeper, heaving for air. “The bushes won’t let you in unless you have him with you. Understand? Don’t be gone long, my dear.”
Azalea grabbed a shawl from the coatstand and wrapped it tightly around Jessamine.
“Don’t come back,” she whispered. “Find the King. But don’t let him in. Don’t come back!”
Jessamine blinked her bright blue eyes at Azalea. Keeper grasped Jessamine’s arm and threw her through the opening in the branches. She stumbled out and nearly tripped down the long, gray stone stairs.
“Yes, find the King,” he said. “Tell him I am killing the eldest princess—slowly.” He slammed the door.
Azalea dashed for the handkerchief, but Keeper caught her first, boxing her into the ballroom, and threw her into the curtains of one of the windows. The rope tassels twisted and wound of their own accord, wrapping themselves around her already-sore wrists. She bit back a cry as they tightened, sending shoots of pain up her arms.
“Let’s savor this,” he said.
With the utmost delicacy of his long fingers, Keeper tugged the pins from her hair and flicked them behind him; they clinked against the floor. Azalea struggled, squirming to keep her head away from Keeper’s fingers, but the cords kept her bound. Tendrils of auburn hair cascaded to her waist. The girls in the mirrors watched on with wide eyes. Azalea writhed with humiliation.
“There now,” Keeper whispered, when the last pin had clinked to the floor. “Don’t you look pretty.”
He leaned in to her. Azalea could smell the musty, empty-teapot metallic smell he carried with him. She couldn’t believe how she once had actually wanted to kiss him.
“Tell me,” he said in a low voice. “How did you get the handkerchief back? I should like very much to know—”
He stopped short at a tiny sniffling noise behind him. Turning, he stepped back to reveal Jessamine, standing at the ballroom doors, small and shivering beneath the shawl. Her black hair hung over her shoulders, stringy and dripping from the melted snow. She was alone. Keeper’s eyes narrowed.