Chapter 27 Philpot Lane
PHILPOT LANE
A fortnight later
Sybil smashed a glowing bit of metal with a heavy hammer and thought of the next time she saw Apollo. She was going to give him a lecture. Well, first she would kiss him senseless, and then she would sit him down and explain in terribly clear terms exactly what courtship meant.
It meant daily visits, walks in Hyde Park, family evenings, where he attempted to charm her brother and parents. It meant intimate conversations about what they wanted their future to look like. It meant stolen kisses in quiet corners.
It did not mean disappearing.
It did not mean showering her with gorgeous bouquets every day but never appearing on her doorstep himself.
She hammered some more, until the metal was nice and thin, and then she shoved it into a bucket of water and brought it sizzling to the worktable in the middle of Temple’s forge. With her hands, she shaped the metal. Temple had said to focus all her mind on the shaping, but how could she?
Fourteen days and he’d not appeared once! He was busy. She knew that. She felt that through the ring she wore, self-forged of his gold. She could feel his exhaustion and his fear and his hope.
She was, perhaps, being selfish, wanting his attention.
But he could have at least sent her a letter, a note to tell her where he’d gone.
The ring loved to tell her how he was feeling but failed to provide geographical coordinates.
He wasn’t at his lodgings anymore. She’d gone there, been told by a landlady that he was living somewhere else.
“Pay attention, Sybil.”
She looked up. Temple strode into the forge and studied her work over her shoulder. “Passable work. Good thinness. The shape is off, though.”
“Not by much.”
“By enough.”
He was right. She called her heat and reshaped it, focusing on its purpose. It would fit to a carriage wheel and repel any rocks or debris, making for a smoother ride. She’d known these wheel plates existed. She’d never thought to make them.
“Better,” Temple said, clapping her on the shoulder.
She beamed. “Thank you.”
He rested a hip on the table. “You’ve a visitor.”
“Apollo!”
He winced. “No, I’m sorry. But clean up and go see. I think you’re done for the day.” He patted her hand. “He may not… I mean… Apollo Chester is not known for his loyalty. I don’t want you hurt.”
“He’ll come round. All those damn flowers he’s sending.” She pulled her hand out from under his and left.
“Sybil,” her brother called out.
She wavered in the doorway. “Yes?”
“I hope he is loyal to you. And I… I’m proud of you.”
She turned around, found her brother bashful.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m proud of me, too.”
It didn’t take her long to change out of her forge clothes and into a green-and-white striped silk gown. When she entered the sitting room, she had to bat the branch of a miniature orange tree out of the way to see more of her waiting guest than the skirts sweeping the floor.
“Lady Guinevere!” Sybil hugged her. “How are you? How is the shop? I’ve heard nothing about any of it, but for the article about the fire in the paper.”
“Well…” Lady Guinevere pulled out of Sybil’s embrace. “You’ve been rather busy yourself.” Looking around with wide eyes, she settled into one of a pair of elegant chairs at the center of the room, after batting away several large palm fronds. “Has a new master alchemist been chosen yet?”
“Here for gossip, then?” Sybil sat in the other chair.
“Perhaps a little.” Lady Guinevere looked across the foliage-packed room.
“I admit to having a multitude of questions. But I will sate your curiosity first. The shop is not salvageable. Or rather, it is, at a large cost. I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet.
” Her face was thinner than usual, paler, too, and the shadows beneath her eyes were dark and deep.
“And… Mr. Bran? Have you found him?”
“No.” Lady Guinevere’s eyes were dark and hollowed.
Sybil settled a hand over the other woman’s wrist. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was a friend.” She managed a smile. “I’m in the market for a new guard. I’m considering an alchemist fellow. Powers of metal could be terribly useful in certain instances. Now, you must answer my questions.”
“You’ve only asked one, and it’s easy enough to answer. A master has not been chosen. You’ll never believe it, but they asked Temple.”
“I thought he was reviled.”
“Yes, but he’s also the most accomplished, and they’re rather scared of choosing another madman.
There were two in a row before Father. And Stone was right after Father, and I think they’ve decided the Grants are the only sane alchemists alive currently.
I also gather the apprentices at the master’s forge requested Temple by name. ”
“Your brother has accepted?”
“No. He’s rather pleased with his current position. My father is stepping back into the role temporarily, only until another man is chosen.”
Lady Guinevere snorted. “Of course it must be a man. Hm. And how is Stone’s successor chosen? A sanity test?”
Sybil laughed.
So did Lady Guinevere, but it sounded rusty, and it possessed shadowed edges. “You won’t tell me more, will you? Alchemist secrecy and all that.”
Sybil shrugged, running her finger down the leaf of a nearby peony.
Lady Guinevere tracked the movement. “Answer another question.”
“If I can.”
“Where did all these plants come from?”
From wall to wall, from door to window, some creeping across the floor and others brushing the ceiling, the room was bursting with blooms.
“Apollo Chester sent them.”
“Fascinating.” Lady Guinevere stood and roamed from plant to plant. “And infuriating. He’d better not be planning to steal my clients. I cannot reopen soon, but your beau is not to step into the gap during my absence.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve got enough troubles as it is! Paxton is breathing down my neck. Three letters just this week.”
“Lady Guinevere, I’m afraid I don’t understand a word. Should I? Who is Paxton?”
“No one. Absolutely no one. But your Mr. Chester is a problem. Definitely a problem if he thinks to—”
“Please do explain in more elucidating terms.”
“Love potion.” Lady Guinevere plucked a red camelia and rolled the stem between her fingers. “All the ingredients are here.”
“Are they?” Sybil breathed, looking about. Everywhere red and pink and white blooms like fireworks. Everywhere green and growing.
“They’re in excellent shape, I must say. You’re taking wonderful care of them. Though they’re not getting the best light here. You should move them.”
Sybil joined Lady Guinevere and stroked her finger down a red petal of a camelia. “They come like this—healthy and thriving. I’ve had some for weeks. I assume the servants are watering them, but I’m not doing a thing.”
“What? No.” Lady Guinevere straightened then made for the door.
Sybil followed. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you know where that scoundrel of yours is?” She stepped out onto the street in front of the terrace, Sybil close behind.
“No.” She tried to sound patient, understanding.
He was trying to figure out his life. She couldn’t be entirely irritated he’d abandoned her.
She could be a little irritated, though.
A little worried. “My father says he’s not been to the guild, and the flowers are delivered from an address on Philpot Lane. ”
“Philpot… Philpot…” Mumbling to herself, Lady Guinevere hailed a hack. “Are you coming?”
Why not? Sybil and the potion mistress climbed aboard when a hack stopped before them.
“Philpot Lane,” Lady Guinevere told the driver.
As they settled next to one another inside the conveyance, Sybil said, “What is going on?”
“Potentially, competition. Which I will not abide. And certainly, something of great interest. I’m quite good with plants, did you know that?”
“I assumed something of the sort.”
“Yes, well, it’s more than a green thumb. I have this ability to… God, don’t laugh.”
Sybil made her face as solemn as possible.
“I can speak with them. Not real words, but I… I know what they need, and I can give it to them.”
Like the fire and heat and metal for Sybil. “I understand. Though I’ve never heard of such a talent.” She’d seen it, though. In Apollo.
“Yes, well,” Lady Guinevere grumbled, “it’s not particularly respected. In fact… you alchemists have your secrets and we transcendents have ours.”
She’d heard Lady Guinevere might be a real lady, but she’d thought it a rumor put about by the woman herself to gild her reputation.
The lady (real lady!) looked out the window, her hands tangled together on her lap. “In my family, the women were always good with plants. I’d watched my mother give a rosebush sunlight in the middle of a month-long rain. She seemed to be able to… give off her own light. Odd, I kn—”
“No. Not odd.”
“My father hated it. He thought it an illness, a mental instability, a defect that needed hiding.” She shook her head and offered Sybil a bright smile. “I refuse to get even more maudlin than I already am. Look. We’re here.” She tapped the window glass as the hack rolled to a stop.
They stepped down together in front of a little shop at the end of a building where it narrowed to a rounded point.
Glass windows wrapped all the way around that point from east to west on all three stories.
Those windows were crowded with plants of all kinds, and the little door on the first floor at the very end of the point was painted a fresh coat of green.
It looked like the windows and sign hanging over the door may have once held lettering, but it had been wiped out. They were blank now.
“Old Harley’s never had plants as good as the ones in your brother’s parlor,” Lady Guinevere said.
“And he charges too much. Your Chester could never afford to buy that many subpar plants from him, especially not if he’s given up on his apprenticeship.
Perhaps he’s selling himself at a bawdy house.
He’d likely go for a not-insulting number of coins. ”
Sybil scowled. He’d better not be.