Chapter Twenty-One
Enchanter’s nightshade, Circaea lutetiana, takes its scientific name from the Greek enchantress Circe, best known for turning men into pigs. In floriography, enchanter’s nightshade means witchcraft and sorcery.
I hope that you are right about this, Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said. She fidgeted in the carriage seat, picking at the bulky cloak that covered her gown. Out the small window, the palace lights shone over the street. A dozen carriages stood before them, waiting for their turn at the entrance.
“I’m as sure as I’ve been about anything. Except for my marriages, of course.”
“You were married? You’ve never mentioned that.”
“Oh yes, three or four times. One does not become a matchmaker without some hands-on experience, you know.”
“Three or four times? You don’t remember?”
Mrs. Rose sighed. “I was young, and there was sherry. But that is neither here nor there. We must focus on our plan.”
Elswyth frowned and shifted in her seat again. “You don’t think that people will be scandalized?”
“That’s rather the point, isn’t it? The queen and Venus Forscythe have already made a scandal of you. Let us really give them something to talk about.”
Mrs. Rose slapped Elswyth’s hand as she picked at her robe. “Stop that. You’ll ruin your gown.”
“I know. It’s just rather prickly. I feel like I’m lying naked in a bush.”
“Ah. My third honeymoon,” Mrs. Rose said.
She seemed lost in a pleasant memory for a moment but then came back to the carriage.
“Besides, you must do something to lure the men in. Prince Oliver’s ball is the last of the season.
This is your final opportunity to elicit a few suitors. The worst thing you can be is boring.”
“Well, it’s certainly not boring. But I should think I am already ruined. My chances of finding a suitor are slim.”
“Ah. But that is Elswyth Elderwood you speak of, and tonight you will be someone else. That is the beauty of a masquerade. Now is the time to show them who you really are, beneath all the rumors, all the preconceptions.”
“All the scars,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose fidgeted then. “That’s not what I meant. But as you wish.”
“They will know it’s me, though. My mask won’t cover my scar completely.”
Mrs. Rose waved a hand. “Everyone knows who everyone is at a masquerade. The point is not to truly disguise oneself. It’s carnival; for a night, your name and your house don’t matter. You can be whoever you like.”
Elswyth looked out the window. Lords and ladies streamed out of carriages, through the crowded grand entrance of the palace.
Each wore a mask: full-face masks of animals, half faces of jesters, lace masks that barely covered the eyes.
Her own was a mask of scalelike leaves, flaring out into delicate wings around her eyes.
“Elswyth…” Mrs. Rose said. Worry crept into her voice. “Regarding your sister…”
Elswyth raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Mrs. Rose to speak of Persephone.
“Yes?”
“This is the last ball of the year, and the largest. There will be no lord of fortune or rank that is not in attendance. It would be considered a slight to the queen.”
“I know, Mrs. Rose, you’ve told me a hundred times. I will not embarrass you. I promise.”
“That’s not what I mean. What I mean to say is…” Mrs. Rose fidgeted with the kerchief in her lap. “If a nobleman really did take your sister… he will be here. Tonight.”
Elswyth made her way along the long red carpet that led toward the palace.
Dozens of peers walked alongside her, some stopping to stare.
The cloak that covered her gown was scarlet silk, shimmering in the light of the gas lamps.
Her scar was unhidden by powder, branching over her cheek in full color, weaving under the leaves of her mask.
Doubtless few expected her to attend after the scandal at Syon House and the rebuke of the queen.
But here she was. From the way the crowd dispersed before her, one might think she had horns.
Elswyth joined the line before the entrance of the grand ballroom.
She stood behind a couple who might have been Lord and Lady Aster, in masks of pluming peacock feathers.
Before them was a young woman she believed to be Belladonna Hawthorne, wearing a mask speckled with cerulean gemstones.
That meant the tall man at her side was likely Lord Adelphus Hawthorne, her chaperone, in his mask of holly branches.
Seeing them together made her wish Percival were at her side again.
Soon Elswyth was next in line. She stepped into the ballroom, where a crowd of hundreds lingered around tables, preparing for the dance, chatting idly.
The ballroom was perhaps the largest she’d ever seen, a palatial monstrosity that could have fit Devereux Place three times over.
She forced herself not to gawk at the grand ceiling, instead keeping her eyes level with the crowd.
She stood in the entryway until those waiting by the door to see the arrivals took her in. Whispers crossed the room, and soon the idle chatter stopped, and the crowd turned to stare.
Elswyth forced a playful smile. They would see that she was not afraid, even if her heart hammered inside her chest. Then she curtsied low, unclasping her cloak as she did. She stood, and the silk spilled to the ground, revealing the gown beneath.
Or lack thereof.
The crowd clamored. There was not a scrap of fabric on Elswyth’s body.
Instead, she had fabricated leaves from every inch of her skin, creating a slender gown that hugged each subtle curve.
It spilled out from her waist in a long sheath, hanging around her ankles.
Invisible structures of wood helped give the gown form, but it was clear from a look that Elswyth Elderwood wore no gown at all.
Whispers spread across the room like wind. Women gasped; men laughed. Some even applauded. Her gown of leaves was not so revealing that she could be called nude, so none could really call for her expulsion. But it was certainly something that none had seen before.
Elswyth suppressed a full grin, instead assuming an air of nonchalance.
She lifted her chin and strode into the room, gliding past a group of gawking debutantes.
Usually, she would have wilted under so much attention, but Elswyth had already been humiliated in front of the entire nobility.
She surprised herself to find that she was not afraid, not like she’d been before.
The worst had already happened. There was something freeing in that.
One of the debutantes next to her—a woman wearing a mask of lily petals who might have been Begonia Pritchett—whispered, “Whore.”
Elswyth turned to her and gave a dazzling smile. “Oh, Begonia. So splendid to see that your face did recover from the rash.” Elswyth cocked her head and frowned. “Mostly, at least. Perhaps you should have opted for a more complete mask.”
Begonia looked shocked and then furious. Her lips trembled as though to say something, her face burning bright red—for the second time in recent memory, Elswyth supposed.
Then Elswyth turned and walked toward a waiting tray of champagne. Perhaps that was cruel of her to say—Begonia’s face had mostly recovered—but she was tired of the degradation. If they insisted she play the villain, then she would play the part as best she could.
She had barely touched the champagne to her lips when a young man approached her. He wore a half-face rabbit mask with porcelain ears. Beneath, he was gangly and awkward with an acne-pocked face and a slender jaw.
“Ahem. Miss Elderwood. My name is Basil Twigg. I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to meet—”
“Miss Elderwood?” another voice said. She turned to see a tall, swarthy youth with a struggling beard and a mask of birch bark. “My name is Woodrow Wilton. I believe you know my sister…”
Basil Twigg turned to Mr. Wilton and interrupted him. “I was speaking with the lady, sir. Miss Elderwood, I would like to ask you to dance.”
“As would I,” Woodrow said coldly.
Mr. Twigg ignored him. “The cotillion? Perhaps the waltz?”
“I am quite skilled at the waltz, actually,” Woodrow said. “I could show you, if you like.”
A third man that Elswyth believed was Mr. Marc Mandrel approached them. “Erm, Miss Elderwood, was hoping to ask your hand for the polka—”
Elswyth didn’t have to say a word. Soon, the three men were talking over each other.
Mrs. Rose, it appeared, had been right. All it took for young men to forget Elswyth’s missteps was the right gown and the right woman wearing it.
She sipped her champagne as Mr. Twigg scribbled his name on her dance card.
She watched the room around her. Most had moved on from her grand entrance, but some still lingered, watching her and whispering.
A pair of golden eyes found hers. He stood beneath a curling wisteria vine, a glass of absinthe in his hand.
Silas watched her from across the room, standing against a backdrop of purple flowers.
He wore a mask made of black thorns over his eyes, but she knew the scowl beneath it instantly.
She turned her gaze away. They had not spoken since the incident at the museum. He had replied to none of her letters, nor could she find him at Gall’s laboratory. It seemed that Silas had made it very clear where they stood. Still, she looked once more to where he lingered beneath the wisteria.
He was gone.
That’s not important now, she thought. The information you need is somewhere in this room. This is your last chance. You cannot be distracted.
“… Miss Elderwood?” Mr. Twigg said. He’d been speaking, but she hadn’t been paying attention.
“Yes?”
“The waltz is about to start. Shall we?” He extended an arm.
Elswyth slipped her hand around it. “Naturally.”
Mr. Twigg led her to the dance floor. On the eastern wall, a full string band readied their instruments. Above them all, sitting on a raised platform, was Queen Viscaria.