They didn’t make a sound. Not a gasp, not a scream, not a cry. Snow streamed and whirled around them as they stood, frozen. Flora held her hands over her mouth. Kale and Lily clung to Clover’s skirts. Clover shook. Bramble was so white, the snow looked gray.
From a memory deep inside her, so faint it only held sounds and slips of color, a tiny, three-year-old Azalea wailed, “Papa.”
“Papa,” said Azalea to the lifeless form of the King. The word was so foreign, it choked her throat. “Papa…you can’t leave us, Papa…It would be very…out of order—”
Bramble knelt opposite her, grasping the King’s bandaged hand.
“She’s—she’s right, Papa,” Bramble stuttered. “We have…rules….”
Clover fell to her knees and pressed her handkerchief to his chest. Blood soaked through.
“Papa,” she whispered.
The girls knelt around the King, their skirts spread out like forlorn blossoms, swallowing, and whispering one word.
“Papa.”
“Papa.”
“Papa.”
It whispered among the gusts of wind stronger than the whistling gales of snow or the creaking, ticking of the clock, which felt strange and distant. Azalea gripped the King’s lifeless hand.
“Papa,” she said.
Through the broken clockface, the wind gusted stronger, and became—
Warm.
The snow, which had been sticking to Azalea’s skin, cold and icy, burned. The storm burst, bright, and Azalea realized it wasn’t the storm—it was her.
Inside her chest, a warm, billowing something swept through her, to the tips of her fingers, the bottoms of her feet, shining like a brilliant beam of light. It wasn’t the hot, boiling feeling of her temper, nor was it the cold wash of tingles that Swearing on Silver brought. It was deeper. It didn’t just pour through her body, but penetrated her soul.
Azalea gasped.
The feeling faded until it was just a flicker of warmth inside her chest, lighting her heart like a candle. The wind howled, cold again now, and snow flurried around her, landing cold on her cheek—but the warmth was still there.
Breathless, Azalea looked at her sisters.
Clover had one hand pressed over her heart, breathing tiny gasping breaths. Bramble’s thin eyebrows arched so high they reached her hair. The twins grasped each other’s hands, and Hollyhock rubbed her face with her skirts. Even the little ones, Kale, Jessamine, and Lily, didn’t cry anymore, but blinked wide-eyed at one another. Delphinium was so pale that if she fainted, no one would believe it fake. They all looked as stunned as Azalea felt.
“Great waistcoats,” Bramble managed to choke. “What was that?”
Between Azalea’s hands, which grasped the King’s hand so tightly she wrung his fingers, something twitched.
Azalea clasped a hand to her mouth.
His hand was warm. So warm, in fact, that it matched the flicker within her chest.
The King’s weak voice matched his limp attempt to push himself up. “Ow—”
“Sir!” cried Azalea. She threw her arms around him. “Oh—Sir! Papa!”
“Ow—”
“Papa!” cried all the girls.
They tumbled and threw their arms around the King. Azalea tried to keep them back but was too overcome. Their shouting voices and cries of happiness echoed up the tower, and the snow fell around them, white and clean and fresh.
CHAPTER 29
Azalea awoke to a strange thing: sunlight.
She also awoke among masses of fat, fluffy pillows. She would have thought it a dream, if she were not aching everywhere. She was not in her room, or even in the palace, but in a fashionable manor room with striped wallpaper and Delchastrian casement windows.
Azalea could recall euphoric happiness, the gentlemen arriving at the top of the stairs, the snow, and then—black. Ah, she had fainted. Again.
Flora and Goldenrod, who had been at the foot of the bed, leaped in delight when Azalea stirred, each grabbing her hands, tugging over her like a beloved rag doll, and chattering like mad.
“You’re awake!”
“You’ve slept for nearly two days!”
“Sir John says you’ll be all right, just that you needed rest.”
“Oh!” Flora slapped a hand to her mouth. “They made us promise to get them when you awoke!”
The twins ran out of the room. Several minutes later, it was filled to bursting with Azalea’s sisters. Still dressed in black, a bit shabby and pale, they were in high spirits. Even Delphinium, whose pretty face had jagged lines across it, smiled. They were all pleased as pink punch to see her awake. Azalea was thrilled to see them, too.
“Welcome to Fairweller’s manor,” said Bramble, grinning and pushing a cup of minty tea to Azalea’s mouth. “Very fancy, very neat. We’ve already stained the dining room rug, to the delight of the servants.”
“Mr. Fairweller is staying at his town house, at present.” Clover handed her a dainty biscuit with a flower imprinted at the top.
“It’s just until the King finds the sword and can unmagic the palace,” said Bramble. “Or until the King murders Fairweller.”
“Until Papa murders Fairweller,” squeaked Hollyhock.
“Yes. Papa. Him.” Bramble grinned. “Papa, Papa. We’ve got to get used to that.”
Azalea smiled around a mouthful of biscuit. The King was all right, then.
The girls had the servants draw a bath for her, chattering as they helped Azalea out of her clothes. Azalea had never seen a bath like this one—there was an actual room meant for bathing, and the bathwater steamed. Up to her neck in bubbles, she slowly removed the bandages from her arms and hands, washing away the dried blood. The younger girls played with the bubbles while the older ones told her what had happened.