Epilogue
The small carriage was poorly sprung, and Zephyra felt her backside must be bruised black and blue as they drove out of London. Even worse was the fact that she was forced to sit next to Jack, who handled the reins.
She had half expected him to prattle about all sorts of nonsense during the ride, but instead, he was silent in a way that set her teeth on edge. And then occasionally he would suddenly exclaim, “Look! A cow!” or “Look! A bird!”
When he had said the same thing about the fifth cow, she demanded irritably, “What is so unusual about those cows?”
“That is the first cow I have seen since we started,” Jack replied, his tone sounding injured.
“What are you talking about? We have seen dozens of cows.”
“We have?” She could almost think his surprise was genuine. Strangely, she found it more difficult to discern his emotions without his face paint than it had been when his skin had been garishly colored. “How strange. I have not noticed.”
“You have remarked upon it several times!”
“Have I? I do not recall.”
He was baiting her. He wished to see her fly into a rage, but she did not know what he would do if she did. Would he laugh at her? Would he pretend to be confused and offended?
Would he slit her throat and push her out of the carriage and continue on his merry way?
She did not know. Because this was Jack.
Zephyra gritted her teeth and sank further down into the uncomfortable seat, crossing her arms and shrouding herself in her seething silence.
They did not travel far out of town, and Jack turned down a narrow lane without hesitation, indicating he had made this trek quite often.
His two-person gig was just barely wide enough to fit down the path, with tall tree trunks flying by on either side, just inches away from the wheels.
Zephyra now understood why Jack had used such a small vehicle.
The wheel tracks were bare, packed dirt, and the weeds growing in the middle of the lane were short, allowing the carriage to pass. The gig jolted as one wheel struck a root, and a branch scraped sharply along the side before snapping back into the undergrowth.
At length the trees fell away without warning, and the lane opened upon a stretch of rough ground behind a cottage. The sudden space felt almost startling after the close press of the trees.
Before them lay a small field that had gone to seed, weeds waving in the warm sunlight alongside herbs that had become overgrown. The air held a mingled scent of earth and sharp greenery.
To one side stood a series of glasshouses, their panes catching the light and casting it back in pale, wavering gleams. A narrow path connected the greenhouses, trodden smooth by frequent use.
Between the greenhouses and the edge of the treeline lay a small pond into which a stream flowed from one end and then trickled out from the other, feeding into a larger river that ran further south toward the village they had just passed on the main thoroughfare.
Beyond rose the rear of a house that looked to have been damaged by fire many years ago. The brickwork was stained and weathered, the mortar in places crumbling away, and several windows stood broken or boarded with rough planks that had warped and split with age.
To one side, the roof had never been repaired. A great gap yawned where the tiles had fallen in, exposing the blackened rafters beneath. The jagged edge of the broken roofline gave the whole place a desolate, abandoned air.
“Is this your secret greenhouse?” Zephyra asked.
Jack did not answer, but he did not need to. Why else would he have bothered to keep the dilapidated cottage? There must be another road leading to the front of the house from the main roads, but instead, Jack entered from this narrow lane at the rear.
He grew more surly as he drove them past the greenhouses to circle to a stop amongst the weeds outside the cottage back door. He descended from the gig and strode away, not bothering to help her down, but she had not expected such courtesy from him.
She was not dressed like a lady—she had once again donned the black wig, and although she had not bothered to darken her skin with dirt as she had before, her gown was plain and drab-colored, as was her cloak.
She climbed down from the carriage and then reached back for a large hessian cloth bag she had brought with her, which was tied tightly with twine at the top.
The house was small, and while it mostly showed signs of the fire that had ruined it many years ago, now that she was closer, she saw evidence of lackluster repairs.
The brick was blackened in places, contrasting with the newer wood of the doors and shutters.
But even that wood was not brand-new—it had been many years since they were replaced.
While it was not apparent from the outside, the interior of the house must be in terrible disrepair.
Jack pointed imperiously at the house. “Wait there.”
“It is necessary that I inspect the plants to ensure that I can use them,” she said.
His face reddened. “I shall determine if they are appropriate for you to use!”
Although Maxham frightened her far more than Jack, he at least could be reasoned with. Jack was both childish and savage. Ward was also childish, and it was equally difficult for her to have a sensible discussion with him, but his anger did not usually result in thoughtless bloodshed.
And so, although she did not trust Jack to provide the quality of herbs she required, she went to the back door of the house.
It opened easily under her hand, but she could smell the mold from within even before she stepped over the threshold.
She walked directly into a large kitchen.
The mold smell was not apparently coming from that room, for it showed signs that it had been cleaned fairly recently.
It was not well-stocked, but there were some plates and cups in a battered wooden dresser against one wall, and a few pots and pans neatly laid out on shelves.
She exited into a short corridor that emptied into the entrance hall, small and cramped, and while it was dusty, it had been repaired of any fire damage, or perhaps there had been little damage to begin with.
A narrow stair led upstairs, although the steps were cracked and fragile, while a door to the left led to a small parlor that served as both sitting room and dining space.
Faded curtains were drawn across the windows, but she could make out the dim outline of two mismatched wooden chairs around a battered round table whose surface was slightly tilted.
A small sofa lay next to the blackened fireplace, and she wondered if it had never been repaired.
Surprisingly, she saw candlesticks and lamps on top of the mantel, with half-burned candles.
Although the room looked neglected, it had been used occasionally.
On the other side of the stair was another short corridor leading toward the other side of the house. The mold smell came from that direction, which led to a single room at the back of the house.
The room had been built as an extension in the rear corner. It had perhaps once been a library, for she found half-burned bookshelves along one wall, and half-burned tomes lying in heaps scattered across the floor, a mix of ash, curling paper, and molding leather.
The hole in the roof was directly above the far corner. Rains had caused the proliferation of the mold, which made Zephyra cough. She did not enter, but backed out of the room. She tried to shut the door, but it hung crookedly and would not close completely.
The prospect of sitting in the front parlor did not appeal to her. After standing in the entrance hall in indecision for a moment, she finally set her jaw and marched back outside.
In contrast to the house, the greenhouses were in excellent shape. Any broken glass had been replaced with newer panes, and there were even new planks of wood where the old might have rotted or warped.
There were four small greenhouses and one large one, and also a squat brick building that had no windows. She guessed that might be where Jack grew mushrooms.
Zephyra went to the nearest greenhouse, which looked to be a stovehouse, and opened the door.
The air was terribly hot and moist, clinging to her skin in an unpleasant, slimy sensation that reminded her of the docks on the Thames in the height of summer.
The air smelled slightly fouled, although she suspected it was some sort of exotic fertilizer used for the plants.
A tree stood in the corner in a large sunken pot, with a handful of small round fruits ranging from a slightly green-tinted yellow to bright orange.
The wooden tables in the center of the space had begun to warp from the humidity, but they were packed with pots of various sizes.
Some were suspended from hooks in the ceiling, with roots growing out of holes on the bottom of the pots to dangle and sway in the wet air.
She thought she recognized some of the plants as orchids, which she had only read about in botanical magazines. Their bright colors quite took her breath away—orange and yellow, pink and white, even some in a shade of pale purple.
But then she recalled who owned this stove-house. They were likely poisonous.
But then she noticed that some of the colorful flowers were misshapen while others were wilting and faded. The roots dangling from the hanging pots were either dry and stringy or dark with rot, and many of the plants bore leaves that were more yellow or brown than green.
She found Jack in the fourth greenhouse.
The plants in the second and third had been in similar states of distress, and the air had had less moisture than in the first greenhouse.
Most plants looked as though they had not been watered enough, although the spotted and yellowed color of some of the leaves and stems made her suspect they also hadn’t been given necessary fertilizer.