Chapter Eighteen #2
She watched the dancers through the first quadrille and another waltz.
She tried to smile—to look available, affable even—but her mood soured by the moment.
She hoped that some desperate eccentric would ask her for a dance, but even those unfashionable gentlemen turned their shoulders when she walked by.
Venus danced twice with the prince. If Mrs. Rose was to be believed, that was as good as a proposal, although nothing had been announced as of yet.
Her mother radiated pride as she watched Venus dance, and Elswyth understood why: Venus was perfect.
She never tripped over herself, never buckled under the weight of all the eyes on her.
She didn’t wither in the light, not like Elswyth; she bloomed in it.
A flower in full sun. In that moment, watching her with the prince, Elswyth fought a weakness that she’d kept buried her whole life.
That despite her insistence, she wanted nothing more than to be like Venus Forscythe. To be adored. Unscarred.
She pushed the feeling down, remembering her uncle’s words. That had always been Persephone’s lot, not hers. She was not the more beautiful daughter, no, or the more graceful, but she was the one who persisted. And so she would continue to persist.
She left her perch and began to move through the ballroom, and finally, after two dances of walking and pretending to admire the artwork, she saw him.
Elwood Gardner, she thought, third son of Lord Haymitch Gardner and Lady Senesce Gardner.
She recognized him from the description in Mrs. Rose’s dossiers and recalled as many details about him as she could.
Elswyth might not be socially graceful, but if she was talented at anything, it was rote memorization. Thank botany for that.
Third son of a baron—beneath my station, but not so far as to be unfit for a dance, she thought, and that means I can approach him without a proper introduction.
Something of an academic, I believe. A bit awkward, but not physically repulsive.
Second season seeking a match and no bride to speak of, yet we are almost of an age.
He had also called upon Persephone once, although she never returned the call—perhaps not enough of a slight to warrant murder, but worth investigating nonetheless.
Elswyth moved across the ballroom to where Mr. Gardner stood, examining one of the topiary statues. He was tall with white-blond hair and thick, round spectacles. The glasses magnified his eyes, which gave him a constantly surprised expression.
She slid into position next to him as though she were looking at the topiary as well. It was in the shape of a beautiful woman, entirely made of flowers. “Blodeuwedd, I believe,” Elswyth said.
“Is it? I’m not familiar with the—”
He turned to face her and nearly jumped. “Lady Elderwood, I—”
“Just Miss Elderwood, I’m afraid,” Elswyth said.
“Miss Elderwood. I didn’t see you there. I’m surprised—erm—honored to make your acquaintance.”
He said the words unsurely, nearly looking over his shoulder. It came to Elswyth’s attention that Mr. Gardner’s mother was standing nearby, conversing with Lord and Lady Barry. She met Elswyth’s eyes briefly.
Elswyth returned to the topiary. “Yes, Blodeuwedd. Bloomwife, in English. It’s said that mortal magicians created her from flowers to be the perfect wife.
They took the flowers of the oak, and the flowers of the broom, and the flowers of the meadowsweet, and from those they conjured up the fairest and most beautiful maiden, and named her Blodeuwedd. ”
To her surprise, Mr. Gardner smiled. “What excellent recall! Do you study folklore?”
“No, no—I am a botanist, in truth. I’ve merely been reading a treatise on comparative folklore as it pertains to the eldren myths. If I’m not mistaken, you are a scholar yourself.”
Mr. Gardner seemed hesitant. He looked again to his mother, who was trying to extract herself from her conversation. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. Mother says it’s boring, and if I don’t leave this season with a wife, I’m quite sure she’ll kill me.”
“Well. I am obviously difficult to bore, otherwise I wouldn’t be memorizing folk tales, would I?”
To her surprise, Mr. Gardner laughed, if a little uneasily. “Right then. If you must know, I’m a paleontologist. An amateur. But I really can’t get enough of bones. I love bones. They’re just so—oh.”
Mr. Gardner stared over Elswyth’s shoulder. She turned to see Lady Gardner standing behind her, lips pursed, hands folded. She came forward and grabbed her son by the arm. “My dear, have you forgotten that you asked Sylvia Reed for her hand in the next quadrille? It will start any minute.”
“Actually, Mother, I was just having a rather fascinating conversation with—”
“Off we go!” Lady Gardner said, and pulled her son away from Elswyth’s grasp. She frowned watching the two of them disappear. Lady Gardner practically shoved Elwood into the arms of Sylvia Reed, who swept him into a fidgety waltz.
Elswyth frowned, looking sidelong up at the topiary woman. “Thank you for the help,” she mumbled.
“You neglected to tell him how her story ends,” a voice said. She turned, surprised that anyone was speaking to her at all, and saw a man standing on the other side of the topiary.
“Sir Silas,” Elswyth said. Her pulse stuttered slightly. They had not spoken since their unfortunate encounter in Gall’s laboratory.
“You sound so excited to see me,” Silas said.
“Has Venus sent you to harry me? Run along and tell her that I will not be cowed.”
“I came here on my own. I was merely walking by and heard a rather familiar passage. Take the flowers of the oak, and the flowers of the broom…”
Heat flushed Elswyth’s face. Silas only smiled.
“I’m inclined to think that you’re reading my papers,” he said. “I did think something was out of place, in the laboratory.”
“That passage is from a Welsh myth. I could have read it anywhere,” Elswyth said.
“Yes, but it’s my translation. Professor Elm’s is far too flowery, and Professor de Chêne’s is simply inaccurate. I took that straight from Middle Welsh. Mind numbingly boring, but I’m pleased with the result. So tell me, are you enjoying it?”
Elswyth clenched her teeth. She’d found a copy of his recently published research in Gall’s laboratory, and her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had been reading it surreptitiously when she had time alone in the lab, but she’d hoped he would never find out.
“If you must know, I find some of your conclusions far-fetched. From the way you talk about them, one might think you believe the eldren once actually existed.”
Silas put a hand to his chest in mock pain. “That stings, Miss Elderwood. When you publish research—if you ever do—I shall be sure to read it with such a sharp eye.”
“What exactly do you want, Sir Silas?”
“Is it so strange to believe that I came for intelligent conversation? Are you so eager to be rid of me?”
“I find you irritating,” Elswyth said.
“You study plant medicine; it’s such a fine line between irritation and stimulation, is it not? One might think that lust and loathing are two sides of the same coin.”
“I assure you that this coin has merely one side.”
“An impossibility,” Silas said. He smiled and then stepped up to admire the topiary. “Tell me, did you get to the end of the Flower Bride’s tale?”
“I did, but I can’t say I remember it.”
“Surprising, for one with such a memory.”
“I skimmed.”
“Now that actually does hurt,” Silas said.
He sighed and then turned back to the topiary.
“The magician created her to be the perfect bride. Summoned her from the softest lilies, the sweetest-smelling roses. But she despised her mortal form. How can one take a field of flowers and force it into flesh, to ache and hunger and die? She wanted desperately to kill her husband and escape. But he was a magician, and he had enchanted his skin into wood as hard as steel so that no sword nor spear could pierce him. But the Flower Bride was clever, and she spent years crafting a single magic seed and, when the time was right, snuck that seed into the magician’s food.
From her seed a thousand flowers sprouted.
They bloomed from his eyes and his ears, from his mouth, from every pore in his skin.
Their roots tore his insides to pieces, and she escaped.
Away from the magician’s castle and into the wild, where she became a field of flowers once more. ”
Elswyth frowned. She thought how, not so long ago, the idea of poisoning Cousin Ficus had occurred to her. How the lot of all women seemed the same, going back even as far as myth. And she thought of Persephone, captive or dead. Taken from her, perhaps, by the whim of some man.
“He got what he deserved,” Elswyth said bitterly.
Silas went still. When she turned away from the topiary, she saw that he was staring at her, that same unreadable expression on his face. It made her furious, though she did not know why.
“What?” she asked, perhaps too harshly. She felt she could be harsh with him—they were both outsiders, her by deformity and him by birth, and so she never felt the need to be false around him. It was refreshing in a way.
“I only realized that the story must have reminded you of Persephone. I apologize. I did not mean to upset you.”
Elswyth examined his face. It was the first time Silas had ever said Persephone’s name. She looked to Venus and then back to Silas.
“What?” Silas asked.
“I suppose you knew each other. If she truly was Venus’s friend. You would have been at the same parties.”
“You overestimate how much Venus wishes to be seen with me.”
“But you did know her?”
Silas appraised Elswyth and then sighed.
“I spoke with her once, at a ball. You knew your sister. Tell me, how eagerly would Persephone Elderwood be seen speaking with a bastard and a rake? We were introduced, and she promptly turned her back to me and sought out the better-bred gentlemen in the room.”