Chapter Eighteen
Hellebore, also called the winter rose, is a poisonous flower known to cause anaphylaxis, vomiting, and cardiac arrest. In floriography, hellebore signifies scandal and calumny.
It took an hour in the garden for Elswyth to calm herself.
She found a spot in the hedge maze just outside the palace, where an old floral arch stood in the center, and took a seat on the stone bench there.
She forced herself to breathe but could not stop the tremor in her hands.
Traitorous tears streaked down her face, and she wiped at them, cursing herself for being so foolish.
Queen Viscaria’s word was law among London’s elite.
An unequivocal condemnation by Her Majesty surely meant that Elswyth was ruined.
There could be no debate about that. She would not marry this season, probably not ever—even the likes of Ficus would not want a bride condemned by the queen.
It was already July, and the end of the summer loomed closer each day, a herald of destitution.
Her father and grandmother were soon to die, her house would pass to Ficus and whatever fairer bride he chose, and she would inherit nothing.
Perhaps Percival would allow her to stay while she sought her own means of survival, although she knew that feeding and housing her was a financial burden that she could not ask him to bear indefinitely.
Perhaps Gall would find the funds to pay her for her work—perhaps he would vouch for her to attend Oxford in the fall—but surely even the masters there heeded the queen’s words.
Would they take her now that she was reviled among the realm’s most powerful?
She could work. She had talents. Perhaps she could sell some of her effects before Cousin Ficus claimed them and save enough money to start an apothecary, to sell medicines and tonics.
Her mother’s necklace alone was solid gold, but she would mourn if she had to part with it.
But perhaps it would fetch her enough to feed herself and keep a small flat in an unfashionable part of the city.
An image of the Rows crept up in her mind’s eye, with its cramped buildings and filthy streets.
With no husband, would that be her fate?
To age into some ancient hedge witch, selling fake love potions to unwitting girls?
Fresh hatred arose for Venus Forscythe. Her trickery had caused this.
If it were not for the outbreak at Syon House, Elswyth might have stayed free of the queen’s wrath.
She might have passed unnoticed under those old, hateful eyes.
But no. Venus Forscythe had made Elswyth into a spectacle.
People were already prone to suspect her of some moral deformity because of her scar, but Venus had given them a reason to confirm their suspicions.
Now she was some fairy-tale sorceress to them, ensnaring unsuspecting gentlemen with eldren magic.
Why? she thought. Why would Venus determine to ruin me if not to stop my search for Persephone?
If not to hide the fact that she had a hand in her demise?
Had she—and her powerful father—even managed to turn the queen against her?
If Venus truly was to be the prince’s bride, she must have some access to Queen Viscaria.
Opportunities to bend her ear, disparage Elswyth, and precipitate her destruction.
Elswyth buried her head in her hands and wiped the wetness from her cheeks. Perhaps her hope of finding a husband had been misgiven. But she had time remaining in London. Time to learn, finally, the fate of her sister.
She looked up at the palace, rising high above the hedge maze, windows like luminous jewels in the fading light.
Sounds of music and merriment poured out into the city and through the rustling leaves of the hedge.
Inside those high palace walls, someone knew what had become of Persephone.
And Elswyth would know, too. No one would stop her.
Not Venus Forscythe. Not even the queen.
By the time Elswyth had returned from the garden, the debutante ball was well underway.
The crowd had dispersed from the promenade and now mingled throughout the central atrium.
A dance floor had been cleared at Queen Viscaria’s feet, beneath the branches of the Whispering Throne.
Lords and ladies drank tall glasses of sherry, and debutantes stood waiting nervously for gentlemen to approach them.
Eligible bachelors wore white roses pinned to their lapel and tended to cluster together, no doubt discussing which young ladies had caught their eye.
When she entered the ball through the main doors, the herald announced her once more. She wished he hadn’t. It drew the attention of the whole room, and it seemed that all conversation stalled for a moment. Even the band missed a few notes before starting up again.
None of them, of course, approached Elswyth. It seemed as though she naturally repelled anyone standing close to her. Their eyes lingered, yes, but Mrs. Rose was wrong: Their morbid curiosity did not, in fact, translate to fascination.
She did her best to smile and dipped her head to the few acquaintances she passed, even as they did their best to ignore her.
She moved toward a servant carrying a tray of champagne, and as she took a glass, noticed that the largest group of bachelors was staring at her.
One whispered something to his friend, and they both laughed uproariously. Her scar burned.
They do not need to like you, Elswyth thought. Their opinion of you does not matter. All that matters is learning what they know about Persephone.
She repeated this over and over again like a prayer, but no matter how much she wanted to be immune to their stares, she still felt like that scared, scarred little girl she’d once been.
She wished Persephone were there—Persephone, who always dazzled so that she didn’t have to. Her shield against the world.
With nothing else to do, Elswyth observed.
She stood by one of the large murals and watched the party play out before her.
She noted the flowers that each debutante wore, testing herself on their meanings.
Those wearing acacias, Mrs. Rose had said, already had a gentleman in mind for marriage.
Those gentlemen who wished to court her might be so bold to assume that he himself was her secret love, or was at least daring enough to try and steal her away.
These were all well-known signs, things any gentleman likely knew. But there were less obvious signals that filled the room in flashes of color. A woman wearing tiger lilies expected to be offered a hefty bride gift, while one wearing dahlias could offer a substantial dowry.
And there were endless more, flowers Elswyth couldn’t even name, each varietal and cultivar with its own distinct meaning. She watched the ladies watching each other, subtly changing the flowers in their hair. Insects flashing their poisonous colors, speaking a language that men could not perceive.
At the front of the room, by the Whispering Throne, Elswyth spotted Venus.
She stood after a perfect curtsy before the queen, conversing with her.
The queen did not smile, but she tolerated her presence.
That alone was a sure sign of favor. When the queen was finished with Venus she dismissed her with a flick of her wrist. Miss Forscythe allowed herself a small, satisfied smile and then went to rejoin her mother.
The moment she was alone, gentlemen swarmed her. They each presented her with a flower, sprouted from the veins in their wrists, the meaning of which corresponded with their intentions. Passion, love, status, wealth—whatever they might have to offer.
From those she wanted to dance with, she accepted the flower with her right hand.
From those she would dance with only out of obligation, she accepted with her left.
And for those she wouldn’t dance with at all, she graciously declined them outright.
By the time the men were finished, she stood with a looming bouquet of roses and tansies and viscaria, lilies and oleander.
She put them all aside when Prince Oliver approached her, handing them to her mother as though they were an afterthought.
He bowed and summoned a white rose from the veins of his wrist, which curled and bloomed into his hand.
She took it and grafted it to the skin above her temple, signaling to the other gentlemen that she was spoken for.
Above them, in the Whispering Throne, Queen Viscaria looked on as if pleased.
Prince Oliver offered Venus his arm, and they moved to the dance floor, looking as perfect as a pair could be.
And yet Elswyth could not help but think the prince looked uninterested in his partner.
His eyes were glazed over, his expression blank.
A hush had fallen over the room the moment that Prince Oliver approached Venus. It was as though everyone there was watching a fairy tale unfold before their eyes. Elswyth turned away, downing the rest of her champagne.
Elswyth considered taking another glass but then thought better of it. She would need her wits about her, if she was to inquire about Persephone. That, and she generally found it best not to drink away one’s self-pity.
She doubted anyone would talk to her long enough to answer questions about her sister.
But if she secured just one dance, perhaps she could leave with her head held high.
Not as a complete pariah, which would hopefully hold the door open for future conversations with peers.
She needed to find someone who was willing to be seen with her.
Someone unafraid of the queen, or at least so afraid of Elswyth that she could corner him into conversation.