Chapter Thirteen #2
A slow smile crept over his lips. “Do I look vigorous to you, Miss Elderwood?”
Elswyth’s face flushed. She squirmed in her seat. “You look like you are covered in fruit juice.”
Silas smiled crookedly. “Well, you are welcome to keep watching me instead of doing your work, if it pleases you.” The vine-whip flicked out again, ensnaring the last melon.
He extended his sword and the fruit impaled on the blade, sliding all the way to the hilt.
Juice dripped from the melon down the handle, soaking Silas’s hand.
He licked at his fingers and made a sound of surprised pleasure.
“Or better yet, make yourself useful and grow some more melons.”
Elswyth scowled again and turned back to her book.
She tried to focus on the words, but she was too fixated on the sounds of Silas: his heavy breath, his boots hitting the tile floor, the sound of the sink as he washed his hands.
His words flustered her. She was not a lab mouse.
She had a spirit of adventure. She would see the world, when the time was right, not that Silas would ever acknowledge a woman as—
“What’s this?” Silas said. Elswyth nearly leapt out of her seat.
He stood over her shoulder, looking at the open book on the desk.
She’d been so lost in her own irritation that she hadn’t even heard him approach.
Now he was dangerously close, sweat-speckled shirt hanging near her ear, smelling like melons and…
something not at all unpleasant. Juniper. Saltwater. The sea.
“You frightened me,” Elswyth said. “I would appreciate a warning next time. If you must know, it’s a rather cumbersome text about the varieties of flammable gases created in bogs and—”
“Not the bogs, Elderwood,” Silas said. “This.”
He held up a slim envelope. “I found it on the table over there. It’s got your name on it.”
Elswyth took it hesitantly. It did have her name written across the front in stout handwriting that she did not recognize.
The full text said: For the eyes of Elswyth Elderwood.
She flipped it over. There was no return address, no other writing at all—only a single black rose attached to the envelope.
Elswyth frowned. What had her floriography book said about black roses?
“Well, go on. Open it,” Silas said. “Some admirer, I assume?”
Elswyth ignored the cruel jest. Then she took a scalpel from the desk and sliced through the envelope, taking out the letter inside. She frowned.
It was blank.
“What does it say?” Silas asked.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t be bashful.”
“No, I mean it’s only paper. There’s no writing.”
She turned it over. The other side was empty as well. The parchment was cream-colored, sturdy, but otherwise ordinary. There was no watermark, no monogram or imprint that might reveal the sender.
“Perhaps they sealed in the wrong note,” Elswyth said.
Silas snatched it out of her hand.
“Excuse me!” Elswyth said. “It might be blank, but it’s still mine. It’s rude to take someone else’s letters.”
Silas stepped away, running his hand over the page. Then he held it up to the light.
“It’s not blank,” he said, turning back to her. He grinned.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a hidden message.”
Elswyth stood, striding across the room and snatching back the letter. She felt the paper again, flipping it over once, twice. “I don’t see anything.”
“You don’t know how to look.”
“Then show me.”
Silas smirked. “And what do I get in return?”
Elswyth spoke through clenched teeth. “The gratitude of a lady.”
“I assure you, I have no shortage of grateful ladies already,” Silas said, smiling.
“You disgust me.”
“Do I? And when you watched Venus and me in the hedge maze, was that disgust on your face? I must have misread you.”
Heat rose in Elswyth’s cheeks. She turned away. Why was she suddenly so warm? The room felt as though it had changed from greenhouse to jungle.
She was desperate to change the subject.
She needed to learn what was in that letter.
Why would someone write her with such secrecy?
It could be a suitor, as Silas suggested, but Elswyth doubted that.
She looked at the black rose and thought of the bouquet in her sister’s room with its cryptic message. But surely…
“Help me read it, Blackthorn, and I’ll… I’ll…”
Silas arched an eyebrow, waiting expectantly. A thin sheen of sweat had returned to his forehead, distracting her.
“I’ll manage your experiments for Gall next week.”
“All week? And how will that fit in between promenades in the park, my lady?”
“I’ll find the time. Will you help me?”
Silas sighed and walked slowly to her. He plucked the letter from her hands. “There’s no need, Elderwood,” he said, smiling. “I just wanted to see what I could get you to do.”
Elswyth was about to protest when Silas stuck her letter into the flame of an open candle.
“What are you doing?” Elswyth shouted. She dove at his hand and pushed it away from the flame.
She tried to wrench the letter away from him, but he was too tall.
Instead, she clung to his wrist, trying to pull the letter toward her.
It was no use; trying to move his arm was like trying to pull down the branch of a tree.
Instead she practically hung from him, her face near his neck, staring into the curious depths of his amber amulet.
She dangled there for a moment, breathing heavily.
Her face was still flushed. Had the furnace come on in the greenhouse?
Would a greenhouse even have a furnace? Something pleasant prickled through her, a little thrill of pleasure, and her muscles began to relax.
She dropped his arm and moved three paces back.
Silas watched her, looking somewhat flushed himself.
He frowned, his usual smirk vanishing, and extended the letter toward her.
“I would have given it to you,” he said, clearing his throat. “No need to wrestle me for it.”
She grabbed it from him. “You were going to destroy it.”
He gestured to the blank page. “Lemon juice, Elderwood. That or oak gall. Concentrated floromantically to create a quite effective invisible ink. One activated by heat.”
Elswyth stopped staring at him and looked at the blank paper—or what had once been blank. Now, golden-brown letters looped across the page. The hidden message was only half-developed, barely visible against the white parchment.
“Really, I thought you were the botanist here. It was quite obvious.”
Elswyth ignored him. She moved to the candle and held the letter just close enough to feel the heat on her hand, careful not to lower it too far, lest the paper catch fire. Her fingers shook, and that strange pleasure still wormed in her stomach, making her breath labored.
Swirling letters bloomed across the page, illuminated from the back by the golden flame.
Miss Elderwood,
I do apologize for bothering you at your place of work. And for the secrecy necessary in my methods of contacting you. However, I needed to ensure that you explored this letter thoroughly, and in doing so I may have used your natural curiosity against you.
I did warn you that not all poisons are fatal.
And that the ladies of court are renowned for employing botany’s more subtle uses to manipulate the minds of friends and enemies alike.
I believe a comprehensive instruction in poisons includes learning to defend oneself against this sort of manipulation.
If one were to be exposed to, say, a high dosage of vascular stimulants, aphrodisiacs, and euphoria-inducing drugs—perhaps administered through skin contact with an everyday item like a letter—one risks losing their better judgment, becoming suggestible and easily manipulated by one’s enemies.
I chose to administer this lesson in an enclosed, safe environment like your laboratory to avoid any potential unwanted interactions.
That, and the hallucinogens I included can make the gardens quite beautiful.
I thought I should warn you, should the walls start moving.
If you are unable to identify the psychotoxins in your blood and synthesize the antidotes in time, do not fret—the effects should wear off by morning.
Best of luck,
Kehinde
Elswyth’s hands shook. The candle flickered beneath the letter, making the calligraphy twist and curl like serpents. Her face flushed with heat. A single bead of sweat dropped onto the page. At least now she knew why.
Of course, Kehinde had been wrong. She wasn’t alone in the laboratory.
Behind her, Silas spoke. His voice was low and haggard. “What—what does it say?”
Elswyth ignored him, her mind flickered through dozens of plant essences—which would Kehinde have used for the euphoric? Sassafras? Kanna? And the aphrodisiac—saffron? Ginseng? The mushroom would almost certainly be psilocybin, and—
Silas wrenched the letter from her hands, starting to read.
“No!” Elswyth shouted. She grabbed it back, but he refused to let go. He could not read that letter. He shouldn’t be touching that letter.
From the look on Silas’s face, it was clear that he had touched the letter quite thoroughly.
Sweat dripped from his brow, down his neck, and over his chest. His amber amulet shone like a crystal eye, catching the candlelight.
She realized just how close he was; she’d pulled him toward her when she had grabbed the letter.
Now she backed away, but Silas refused to let go, and she dragged him across the room.
His face flickered between amusement and concern and helpless pleasure.
Did he feel the same as she did, those waves of electricity beneath her skin?
That hungry warmth, curling in the pit of her stomach like a snake? Of primal, unbearable wanting?
“I showed you how to read it,” he said slowly, his eyes not leaving hers. “I think I should get to see.”
“You can’t,” Elswyth said. Her back hit the lab table behind her.
It should have hurt. It didn’t. In fact, it felt good.
Everything felt good. The pressure of the cold table on her lower back.
His chest pressing into her. The skin of his hands where their fingers touched around the letter.
Her heart hammering in her throat. Everything in the world was made of pleasure. How had she not known that before?
“Tell me what you’re hiding,” he said in a low voice. His brow knit together, but his mouth hung open, his pupils swallowing his irises until they shone like ripe fruit.
“You first,” Elswyth said. It didn’t even make sense.
What were they talking about? She ground her teeth, clenching and unclenching.
Something curled pleasantly in her belly, like she’d stepped into a scalding bath, and she took a shuddering breath.
This isn’t real, she thought to herself.
It’s the poison. The poison. The poison…
She slid backward onto the table, her hand on his, both grasping the letter.
He looked down at her, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead, his breath quick.
Something shifted between them. Now she was sitting on the table, and he stood between her legs, still fighting for the letter.
She could feel something pressing against her leg through the folds of her gown, which had crept curiously up her thighs.
His free hand gripped the table to her left as if to steady himself.
She looked down at her leg, where a stretch of bare skin lay exposed to the steaming air.
His eyes dropped to the bare skin as well.
There, against the snow-white of her thigh, were the branching red lines of her scar.
Like ivy, tracing delicately, breaking into rootlets and disappearing into her skirts.
She looked at it for a moment, and in the dreamlike haze of the mushrooms she watched the scar moving.
It writhed like a serpent, twisting and spreading until it covered every inch of bare skin.
“No,” she said. That seemed to break the spell.
Silas dropped the letter and took a step back, not hesitating for a moment.
Elswyth stood, breathing quickly, and pulled her skirts down.
Even through the blinding euphoria, her shame had won out.
She could not bear the thought of Silas seeing her scars.
Silas, backing away, clenched his eyes shut. When he opened them his expression was stony. “That was inappropriate. I must apologize. I—I do not feel like myself, Miss Elderwood. You may think me a rake, but I am not a man who loses control. Especially not in the company of ladies.”
“Silas…” she started. How could she say that it was not his fault?
She realized, then, that she had wanted him to touch her.
Despite how he infuriated her. She had wanted him to touch her even before the poison took hold.
And now she wanted to tell him everything, every truth, but her thoughts felt distant, unreachable, like butterflies that she could never quite catch.
“Perhaps it is best if we do not work in the laboratory at the same time,” he said coldly.
She stalled, her words caught in her throat.
What had happened? Was it because he’d seen her scar?
Of course. Of course it was. How could any man want her, deformed and monstrous as she was?
Shame washed over her, stronger, even, than the euphoric poison in her blood.
And then rage followed—at him, yes, and at herself, for actually wanting him.
She was furious that, even as she rejected the notion of love, some broken part of her was still ashamed that she would never be desirable.
Not even to a lascivious rake like Silas Blackthorn.
She turned away so that he would not see the tears in her eyes. “That is for the best. I have work to do, and I should like to pursue my scholarship in peace without… unwanted distractions.”
Silas’s eyes flashed for a moment, something dark cutting through the effects of the drug. Then he set his jaw. “Of course. I will ensure our paths do not cross again. Good night, Miss Elderwood.”
With that, Silas turned away and stormed from the room. Elswyth stood there, face still flushed, but the glow slowly fading. She watched him grab his sword and coat and flee through the double doors, not looking back.
She closed her eyes and stood in the laboratory for a moment, trying to slow her breathing, listening to the sound of liquids bubbling in glass vials and the slow drip-drip of percolation. The mechanisms of reason, breaking through the euphoric call of the flesh.
When she opened them again, the glass panes of the greenhouse shifted with impossible colors. Elswyth exhaled slowly and crawled under her desk. Then she laid her coat down as a pillow, pressed her eyes shut, and tried to sleep.