Chapter Ten
Calabar bean, also called “E-ser-e,” is a poisonous legume used by the people of Old Calabar as an ordeal poison for those accused of witchcraft. A form of poison duel was also practiced: Adversaries would split the bean, and whoever survived was considered victorious.
Mrs. Rose had meant it when she said that Elswyth would spend every waking moment preparing for Miss Forscythe’s party.
As such, she had been forced to meet with Kehinde at hours not traditionally considered waking.
Over the last two days, she’d had three practice dinners, twenty rounds of parlor games, and an incalculable number of mock conversations.
Mrs. Rose herself acted the part of prying lords and ladies—complete with costumes and accents.
She’d taken Uncle Percival away from Parliament to practice dancing, and they waltzed until Elswyth’s feet ached and Percival escaped out the back door.
Elswyth only wished she could do the same, but Mrs. Rose was always over her shoulder, questioning her.
How must she respond to receiving a compliment on her gloves?
How deep must one curtsy for the second son of a baronet?
Which fork must she use for oysters and which for asparagus?
The woman hadn’t left until eleven o’clock, and only then could Elswyth make her rendezvous with Kehinde.
Elswyth had needed to make a show of readying for bed in order to coax Mrs. Rose into retiring for the evening.
As a result, she wore only a simple white nightgown and a thin robe.
The train of the robe followed her, ghostlike, trailing on the grass.
The night was cold, although spring woke more with each passing day.
The snow was gone, and small green sprouts teased at the surface of the flower beds.
Kehinde spent hours each day in the garden, coaxing plants from the soil with a touch, waking vines with a whisper.
Now he sat in a fine suit of black wool and matching woven cap, his scars shining in the moonlight, over two steaming cups of tea.
Elswyth stepped into the pavilion and slid into the wrought-iron chair across from Kehinde.
“It’s frigid. Must we really meet outside? ”
“If we are to keep this a secret from your uncle, then yes,” Kehinde said. “Tea?”
Elswyth gratefully accepted the cup, which warmed her frozen hands. She sipped, savoring the earthy flavor of oolong. Percival had been right; Kehinde really did make a better cup than anyone she knew.
“How are you not freezing?” Elswyth said. “You’ll catch your death.”
Kehinde smiled. “As I said, I am a man of many talents.”
Elswyth put her tea down. “How am I supposed to learn anything from you when you won’t speak plainly?”
Kehinde looked amused. He sipped his tea again. “My teacher used to do the same thing to me, you know. She said that learning comes from the pupil, not the master. If I didn’t make you work for it, you wouldn’t remember anything I say.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that when I am about to be murdered by a madman. Certainly he will respect your balanced approach to pedagogy.”
Kehinde laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He set down his tea, cleared his throat, and then raised his hand. Tree branches sprung from his fingers, sprouting green needles.
“The Siberian spruce,” he said, “Picea obovata. It can survive being entirely encased in ice without succumbing to the cold. Your uncle and I once traveled with a Sámi floromancer who taught me the technique needed to sustain oneself in freezing temperatures, thank goodness. No amount of hot tea could make these London winters bearable for me. Here, take some,” Kehinde said.
He plucked pine needles from his fingertips and placed them on the table before Elswyth.
“There are a few other herbs that are required to achieve the full effect, but this will be a good start.”
Elswyth took the pine needles and examined them with her floromantic sense, sending lines of vitae through the waxy surface, through the pathways that spread throughout the needle like rivers.
Slowly, she placed the needle on her tongue, tasting it, feeling the essences within illuminate—shapes appeared in her mind’s eye: constellations of vitae, each with its unique pattern and purpose.
She began to chew the needle, then swallow it, and more shapes and structures appeared to her until she could feel the essence of the tree. She raised her hand, summoned the constellations of vitae she’d felt before, and pine branches sprouted from her fingertips.
Kehinde looked at her curiously. “You know, that is a rare talent. Being a natural, as they say. The ability to fabricate foreign plants from a single taste is not common, even among the most capable of our kind.”
Elswyth shrugged. “But certainly not unheard of. I’ve read of many—Artemisia the Elder, Mòrag Màiri. Even my own ancestor Queen Rowyn Elderwood was said to have the ability.”
“Yes, but there is a reason those are historical examples. Can you name anyone you know personally that can do the same?”
Elswyth frowned. “What about you? What you did in the alley—it seems you’ve mastered hundreds of species.”
“I have. And all of them have been hard won through study and practice.”
Elswyth thought for a moment, fidgeting with her cup of tea. “My mother had the ability. Not that she would ever boast of it. But she could master any species she came into contact with, as I can.”
Kehinde took a sip of tea. “Curious as ever you Elderwoods. Always another mystery.”
“I do not mean to pry. But you are one to talk, Kehinde.”
He smiled, setting down his cup. “You speak, of course, of my armor.”
“I have performed every possible calculation. There is no way you could hold enough vitae to summon it. Even if you could, there is no wood in the world hard enough to deflect bullets.”
“Ah. No wood that you know of,” Kehinde said, smiling.
“Is it the African ebony, Diospyros crassiflora? Even that still shatters when met with modern rifles. Perhaps in some concentrated form? Or hybridized with another tree, something like Lignum vitae?”
Kehinde smiled as she spoke, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He set down his cup of tea and began pouring two more. “I suppose I should have known you would not let this go. Your curiosity might one day be the death of you, Elswyth Elderwood. But tell me, what calculations are these?”
Elswyth pressed her pointed finger on the table.
“In terms of pure vitae expenditure, your armor is impossible. If I wanted to grow bark over my skin, that is one thing. But to make that wood dense enough to stop a bullet—and to summon and dismiss it multiple times, as you did—it cannot be done. The amount of food one would need to eat or sunlight one would have to absorb is astronomical. Even if one were to drink heavy cream in a greenhouse all day.”
“And how do you know I have not been drinking heavy cream from dawn till dusk? I do spend much of my time in the greenhouse. And I do love my sweets.” Kehinde reached for the plate of biscuits and popped one in his mouth. He grinned.
“It is impossible.”
“So certain you are that it’s impossible. If that is so, then how do I do it? How do you reconcile what you saw with what you believe?”
Elswyth paused. She folded her hands in her lap and then looked away. “Magic.”
“Magic,” Kehinde repeated slowly.
“I have no other ideas. Perhaps… perhaps there is some mystical power that people in Africa have that we in England do not.”
Kehinde sighed. He wrapped his hands around the steaming cup of tea.
“I suppose that you are young. You have not seen very much of the world, so I will not hold it against you. Although it is disappointing, for one of your intellect. But you are not the first person to insinuate it. When Europeans build impossible machines, of course it is technology. But when another civilization creates something that Europeans cannot conceive of, it is magic. I assure you, Elswyth, there is no magic here, or anywhere. The Ebony follows the same laws of nature as everything else in our world. The Order of the Iron Grove has just discovered a technique—a technology—that the English have not. But Europeans are so convinced of their own superiority that they must write the knowledge and accomplishments of other civilizations away as magic.” He waved a hand dismissively.
The Ebony, she thought, the name of his armor, like the tree. But what is the Iron Grove?
“Still,” Elswyth said, trying to sound casual, “if my goal is to learn defense, as you’ve insisted, it would seem that this Ebony would be the best thing to learn. What is a better defense than skin that can turn any blade, deflect any bullet?”
“You would not be able to create my armor.”
“But you’ve just said that I am an unusually powerful—”
Kehinde spoke over her, in a tone of voice that let her know the conversation was finished.
“I said you will not learn it. I trained for years to master the secrets of the Ebony. It is sacred, and it is not for you.” The harshness in his voice shocked her.
He looked at her with hard eyes, his usual levity vanishing.
“Apologies, Kehinde,” Elswyth said. “I didn’t mean any offense. I promise, truly. I will not ask again.”
Kehinde looked at her, at her hair, her skin, her gown. Then he nodded. Elswyth, uncertain how to proceed after the sudden awkwardness, said: “But… if you are not going to teach me to defend myself with armor, what will you teach me instead?”
“Patience, Miss Elderwood.”
“I see no reason to postpone. If I am to learn to defend myself, then we should begin as soon as possible.”
“I agree,” Kehinde said.
“Then let us begin.” Elswyth stood, flattening the folds of her nightgown.
“And where are you going?” Kehinde asked, amused.
“I don’t suppose I am to learn self-defense sitting down. Aren’t you going to teach me to fire thorns from my fingers? Summon vines to ensnare my enemies?”