The glass showered Azalea in prickles, tinkling against the wood. The blizzard billowed onto the platform. Azalea pulled away as Keeper yanked the shovel from the broken clockface and slammed it where her form used to be. She ran, leaping up the spindly stairs of the bells platform at the side, retreating into carriage-wheel-sized gears. Keeper sprang after her in graceful bounds, shovel raised.
Grasping her skirts to keep them from getting tangled, Azalea picked her way among the gears and dangling counterweights, squeezing between the dusty, metallic-smelling bells. A click sounded, and Azalea sensed the impending strike of the clock’s quarter-to peal. She threw herself to the gritty floor, pressing her skirts down as the bells creaked and swung above her in a rain of dust. The dong was so loud it seemed to pierce through her mind.
Scrambling to her feet, streaked with dust, Azalea had a moment to twist out of the way of Keeper’s swing, stumbling backward into the grinding mass of gears.
The clock creaked to a halt. Azalea tried to get to her feet, but they slipped from under her. She craned her neck at the gears behind her, and saw her skirts wedged in the teeth, a mess of crinolines and hoops. Azalea clawed at the caught fabric, twisting for a better grip. Keeper appeared above her, smiling a sweet Azalea-smile. His teeth glinted in the dim light. He raised the shovel.
“Azalea—”
Both Azaleas whipped their attention to the lower platform, visible in pieces through the gears. The King!
Keeper’s emerald eyes flashed. He dropped the hearth shovel with a clang and squeezed through the tangle of machinery.
“Sir!” Azalea cried. “Look out!”
The King whipped about, holding the pistol. His eyes caught Keeper, rushing to him, skirts snapping behind.
“Sir!” he said, breathless and panting. “Shoot him! Shoot him! Hurry!”
He pointed a delicate, shaking hand at Azalea. The King peered through the mechanisms to see Azalea, caught on her knees. Their eyes met. The King’s face lined.
Azalea held up the handkerchief.
Whap.
The King threw Azalea-Keeper against the floor and held him down, pistol pointed at his pretty head. His auburn hair tendriled over the dusty wood. Snow swirled over them through the broken clockface.
“Up here!” the King yelled, not moving a muscle. “Up here!”
Keeper struggled weakly beneath the King’s grip and let out a strangled noise. He began to cry.
“Please,” he said. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The King wavered.
Keeper writhed, and for a moment even Azalea felt pity for him, a mewling kitten, tangled auburn hair and scratched face, pretty cheeks wet.
“Please,” he said in Azalea’s voice. A sob choked his throat. “Please, Papa—”
The King dropped the pistol. It clattered against the wood. He pulled back.
“No,” he said. “Azalea—”
“It’s not me!” Azalea cried.
Keeper’s eyes glinted.
“God save the King,” he said, and he raised the pistol to the King’s chest.
Crack.
As slow as a nightmare—so slow the snowflakes hung in the air—the King fell forward.
Keeper caught him in the chest by the flat of his boot, and kicked him back, hard. He hit the floor. The limp thumph echoed through the tower.
No—no—
“No!” Azalea screamed. She wrenched her skirts with her full weight. They ripped free with a stark tearing sound.
The clock groaned to life. Gears whirred and ticked. Azalea clawed her way through the pulleys, stinging all over, and hardly feeling it.
Keeper, gaunt, slipped back into his own form with the ease of a breath. He threw the pistol to the side with a clatter, tried to get to his feet, and fell on his hands and knees, coughing, hacking. Horrified, Azalea pulled back, watching as Keeper began to change.
His hair turned silver white, then tangled into stringy clumps, falling to pieces in the storm’s wind. His skin clung to his skeleton face. Azalea choked as she recognized the ancient Keeper—identical to the portrait hidden in the attic.
The blood oath. Azalea reeled, watching years of being kept alive pour over Keeper. He writhed, pockmarked, the skin melting from him like a candle. In the dim light, his black, sagging eyes flicked to the King’s limp figure, then to Azalea. They danced with triumph. His voice was like the pages of an old crinkled book.
“I win,” he said.
Azalea dove at him, but not before the wind eroded him, blowing him into streams of dust, his arms and head, blowing away into nothing. Azalea, stunned, pulled back. A final gust of wind snatched the handkerchief from her hand, out the clockface, and into the blizzard.
It flashed silver in the wind, and disappeared.
Dong. The tower chimed.
Azalea swallowed, backed away from the ledge, and scrambled to the King’s side.
“Sir,” said Azalea. “Sir!”
She touched his cheek. It was clammy. The King did not move.
Mr. Bradford arrived at the top of the stairs, out of breath.
“Fetch Sir John!” said Azalea. “Hurry!”
Mr. Bradford disappeared down the steps in an instant. Azalea tried to think. Hold a mirror to his face, it would fog—no, she didn’t have a mirror—staunch the blood—she hadn’t a handkerchief, and there was too much—far too much. She felt for the pulse on his wrist, but her hands shook too hard to feel anything.
Azalea’s sisters arrived at the tower platform, and their eyes widened when they saw the King.