Chapter Five #2
Elswyth lifted the chain and ducked under it, entering the maze.
The hedges closed around her. She took a left at a crossroads, following the footprints as though it were a kind of game.
As though she were a girl again, playing hide and seek with her sister.
She took another left, then a right, and soon she’d taken so many turns that she forgot where she’d come from.
And then she heard the struggle.
It sounded like a woman, her breath ragged, her voice muffled.
And then there was a commotion, the scraping of fabrics, the sound of a slap.
There was a man’s voice, too, low and angry.
The woman let out the beginning of a scream, but her voice was quickly muffled.
Elswyth’s mind instantly went to Hazel Fairburn, to the image of the body cut open in the street.
And yet she advanced toward the sound. She tiptoed along the hedgerow, keeping her footsteps silent in the dewy grass, until she turned a corner and spotted two shapes intertwined and struggling against one another.
The man and woman lay in a clearing within the hedge maze, near the heart of it, where a small folly stood in the style of ancient ruins.
She could see the man and woman between the fallen pillars, but she kept well hidden behind the corner of the hedge, her finger curled around the branches.
The woman was beautiful and wore a sparkling gown of sapphire silk and ivory lace. Her hair was the color of hammered gold, secured by a blue bonnet that matched her dress. Her face was delicate and well proportioned, as perfect as a painting.
The man was handsome: tall, broad-shouldered, exceedingly well built.
His skin was light brown, his features belying some foreign ancestry.
Clean black curls fell about his broad shoulders, reaching the wool of his finely cut suit.
His shirt was open in the front, revealing glimpses of a muscular chest riddled with scars.
A curious amulet hung around his neck: a huge amber, set in an ancient bronze bezel.
It shone in the meager light, dangling above the woman’s face.
At first, she thought he was attacking the woman.
He pressed her against a fallen pillar, her legs in the air, her white stockings exposed.
The man forced himself between her legs, pulling at the back of her hair with one hand, while the other fondled her breast. She watched his hips thrust inward and outward, bouncing the woman against the pillar.
The woman covered her own mouth, trying to stop the sounds of pleasure from escaping, and Elswyth knew that she had been mistaken.
The woman was not in trouble at all. She pulled the man down by his amulet, locking him in a kiss.
Her other hand dug into his hair, and green tendrils grew from her fingertips, snaking along his skin.
Elswyth’s cheeks flushed with heat. She knew what they were doing—she’d read enough books on biology to understand the basics—but she’d never seen it done before.
Her muscles tensed, telling her to run, but her fascination won out.
She stood, frozen, transfixed by the sight of them.
Her beautiful face, rapt with pleasure, her ripe lips gasping for air, her breast peeking from her gown, red nipple like a winter berry against snow-white skin.
And him, the tendons building in his neck, his fine jaw grinding, his powerful legs working between her skirts.
She longed to see more, to see the intricacies of their anatomy.
The stamen and the ovule, the seed and the pollen.
Something stirred in her, a tickle below her belly. She became aware of herself, of the way her skin felt against her gown, of her own rapid breathing, her quickened heart. Something was bound to happen, was coming any moment, but she didn’t know what.
The woman shuddered and a gasp escaped her lips. The man groaned and his head fell back, his face rising to greet the sun. For the first time Elswyth saw just how beautiful he really was.
The woman’s legs released the man’s lower back, falling open: a flower blooming, then wilting completely. Her head lolled to the side. For a moment she looked directly at Elswyth, unseeing. Then her eyes widened.
“Silas,” she hissed. “Silas!”
She pushed away from him and covered herself. The man turned his head, following the woman’s gaze, but by then Elswyth was already gone.
She lifted her skirts and sprinted through the hedge maze, as fast as her legs would take her.
Behind her, she could hear the man shouting.
She turned quickly down a narrow corridor, and then again, and again.
Behind her, the man’s heavy feet hit the ground.
He shouted after her, his voice ragged. But he drew closer.
No matter how quickly Elswyth ran, the man was faster.
Soon, he would be upon her, and then what would she do?
Elswyth turned another corner only to come face-to-face with a wall of yew. The corridor was a dead end with no hope of escape. She turned to flee but heard the man coming down the path behind her, his footsteps determined.
There was an empty niche in the hedge to her right, where a statue might once have stood.
She ran toward it, grabbing the branches of the yew trees that formed the hedge.
Her floromantic sense flowed into them, into their many arching branches, their myriad leaves.
She could see the entirety of each tree in her mind’s eye, traced in amber light: see how their roots descended beneath the grass and mingled together in the earth.
If she could force an opening in the hedge wall, perhaps she could crawl through it to the outside.
She gathered the vitae in her blood and pushed into the trees with all her might and the branches wormed away from each other, trying to disentangle…
It didn’t work. The branches were too intertwined, and all the vitae in the world wouldn’t force them apart. Behind her, she could hear the sound of footsteps and heavy breath coming closer and closer, searching for her.
Elswyth’s mind raced, her eyes darting until they settled on the niche directly opposite her own. A topiary statue of a dryad stood in the opening, delicately cut from the arching branches of yew, her slender arms reaching for the sky. And an idea occurred to her.
The searching footsteps of the man grew closer, somewhere in the twisting halls of the maze. She had just moments to conceal herself, and even then, she had no idea if it would work…
She stripped out of her riding habit, shirking the jacket and pulling down her skirt until she stood in nothing but a tunic and leather breeches.
She stripped those off as well until she stood completely naked, the cold spring air prickling her skin.
Then she fell to her knees and shoved the discarded clothes beneath the hedge, concealed by the yew.
Then she stood, panting and shivering, and mimicked the pose of the dryad across from her.
Vitae bloomed inside of her, spilling from her pores.
Yew leaves sprouted from her hands, spreading up her arm in a wave, like the scales of an emerald serpent.
She poured vitae from every inch of skin: her breasts, her stomach, her face.
Only her hair and eyes would reveal her, so she shut her eyes tight and summoned long branches of yew from her scalp, twisting them down over her hair, her shoulders, her bare breasts.
Her hair bloomed with needlelike leaves and red berries—but would it be enough?
It took a tremendous amount of vitae. Her head swam, her vision fading, and her legs began to waver as though she were on a ship.
She began to wither, as all floromancers do that expend too much of their vitae.
Her skin sagged and wrinkled, taking on the faint green-black of a bruise.
She stopped the flow of vitae before she lost consciousness.
Sweat cooled on her brow, and her breathing became labored, wheezing.
Would it give her away? Would her pursuer see the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the trembling of her arms?
She clenched her eyes shut, then dared to open them a fraction, hoping they were concealed behind her mask of leaves.
The man thundered into the clearing where she’d stood just moments ago.
He was even taller up close. His hair and suit were all a mess, and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a muscular chest crisscrossed with small scars.
His breath steamed like a horse’s, and a sheen of sweat glittered on his brow, dripping into his dark eyes.
His strange amber amulet hung from his neck, catching the sunlight.
But that was not what troubled her—what troubled her was the sword in the man’s right hand.
Her breath caught. The saber curled slightly, its sharp edge trailing along the ground. Did he intend to kill her? Would he, for merely witnessing what she had?
The man stepped forward, staring in disbelief at the dead end. Then he looked down, directly at where her footsteps still showed in the dew.
Her stomach dropped. Her footsteps. How could she have forgotten? They would lead right to her hiding place.
His eyes followed her tracks. Then he turned and looked directly at her.
Elswyth clenched her eyes shut, knowing they would be visible through her disguise.
She dared not breathe, dared not think. She could hear his footsteps stepping slowly toward her, whispering in the grass, hear the sound of the rapier as it trailed on the ground.
Hot breath brushed against her face. A hand traced the leaves of her hair and she struggled not to flinch—did he know? Was he—
“Silas!” came a sharp voice. The woman’s voice—she must be in the corridor. The man’s hand vanished.
“What are you doing?” the woman’s voice hissed. “Where is she?”