Chapter Twenty-One #2
She wore her usual gown of black, this time accented with streaks of gold. Gold jewelry, too, accented her neck and wrists.
What was strange, however, were the bees.
Viscaria wore them as a mask. They crawled over the skin around her eyes, sometimes dancing between the flowers on her gown, feeding off their nectar. She paid them no mind. Instead, her old eyes watched Elswyth as she took to the dance floor.
Mr. Twigg followed her attention. “Yes. Frightening, isn’t it. I always expect them to sting her, but it hasn’t happened yet.” The dance began, and Mr. Twigg swept her into an awkward waltz.
“Some flowers release pheromones that attract bees,” Elswyth said, thinking aloud. “She must be fabricating the same essence from her skin, so that the bees won’t sting.”
“If you say so,” Mr. Twigg said. “Still gives me the willies. I think she does it on purpose, to keep people on edge. My friend Arris Blatt swore he saw one land on her eye once. She didn’t even blink.”
“Why bees?”
Mr. Twigg shrugged. “She’s obsessed with them. Everyone knows that. Her estate in the country has something like ten thousand hives. Apparently a few villagers die every year, just wandering into the wrong field.”
Elswyth watched a bee land on Viscaria’s neck, crawling up her jaw.
“I hear she calls them her babies,” Mr. Twigg whispered. “People say she’s gone mad since her own children died. All she has left are her bees and Prince Oliver. No wonder the man’s such a prick.”
He nodded toward Prince Oliver, standing near the queen in a brilliant navy suit. He wore a pearlescent porcelain mask and spoke with a young woman and her mother. A horde of other debutantes lingered nearby, waiting for their turn.
The prince’s eyes left the woman in front of him and found Elswyth’s. He stared at her curiously until Mr. Twigg swept her away.
Elswyth frowned, wondering why the prince had looked so strangely at her. Then she felt Mr. Twigg’s hands slide lower along her back.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Twigg.”
“Miss Elderwood,” the man said. He smiled, and his teeth were crooked.
“Your hand appears to be slipping.”
“Is it?” Mr. Twigg said. His finger tucked beneath the leaves that made her gown, finding the skin of her lower back. He caressed it awkwardly.
“Perhaps I gave you the wrong impression with my gown,” Elswyth said.
“Oh, I think you gave me the perfect impression.”
“And what is that?”
“Don’t be coy. I know how you Elderwoods are.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Elswyth started, but the dance reached a crescendo, and Mr. Twigg spun her quickly, reaching farther into her gown, touching the skin just below her waist.
Then Mr. Twigg jumped. He pulled back his hand, which was speckled with small, bloody pinpricks. He grabbed his finger, making a pitiful expression. “Eden! What was that?”
Elswyth retracted the thorns that sprouted from her lower back. “Really, Mr. Twigg, you should know not to venture into brambles. There might be thorns. Do remember that, next time your hand slips beneath a lady’s gown.”
The waltz ended. The other dancers disbanded, walking past them.
None seemed to have noticed. Mr. Twigg’s face blanched.
He began to speak but then stopped. His face went from white to red, and he leaned slightly forward, subtly covering his groin with his hands.
A noticeable swell was starting there, pressing against his pants.
“What… what did you do to me?”
Elswyth cocked her head. “I only gave you what you wanted. Why, it might even be the natural result of your explorations beneath my gown. But I did inject a potent aphrodisiac through that thorn. Epimedium sagittatum. It has a rather funny common name: horny goat weed, I believe.”
Mr. Twigg’s eyes widened. Elswyth walked past him but lingered by his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched. “I do hope you find what you were looking for tonight, Mr. Twigg. The herb should last a few hours. Best of luck.”
With that, Elswyth left the dance floor. Mr. Twigg lingered for a moment, hunched over, and hurried away. A few women nearby chuckled as he ran through the exit. Some other men stared at her warily—she supposed she really was a thornback, now, after all.
Elswyth reached for another glass of champagne and frowned. But what had Mr. Twigg meant, when he said I know how you Elderwoods are?
Someone cleared their throat behind her. Elswyth turned to see not another suitor but a squat bespectacled man.
“Dr. Gall,” she said, smiling. “I hadn’t expected you here.”
Dr. Gall looked sheepish. “I’m not one for balls, really, but ever since I was given my title, I’m required in all sorts of foul places.”
“I understand perfectly. Well, I am glad you are here. It would be nice to have some elevated conversation, for once.”
Dr. Gall smiled. “I agree. I wanted to let you know that I received your schematics for the living engine. I think what you’ve done is brilliant.”
“But it still does not work,” Elswyth said.
Gall frowned. “No. It keeps making far too much gas. It’s more of a bomb than an engine at this point. But alas, we shall continue on. I gave it to Silas to take a look at. He’s not much of a scientist, but the boy has clever ideas.”
Elswyth’s face must have twisted at the mention of Silas.
“Oh, do not worry, Elswyth, the credit is still all yours. But we must work together, if we are to make any progress, don’t you think?”
“Yes. I only—How is Sir Silas? I have not seen him at the laboratory recently.”
Dr. Gall waved a hand. “He is in one of his moods again. They come a few times a year, but they always pass. Why? Have you two been getting along?”
Dr. Gall looked at her cluelessly. His eyes blinked behind the glasses.
“Fine, yes, just fine. I only worry… I might have said something to offend him. He has not returned my letters.”
Gall frowned. “It has nothing to do with you, I’m afraid. I imagine it’s his wife.”
The dull clatter of the room seemed to vanish. For a moment, Elswyth stood perfectly still.
“Wife?” she asked.
“Well, yes,” Gall said. He looked at her curiously, and then his expression dropped. “Oh, no. You didn’t know. I’ve spoken out of turn.”
“Silas is married?” Elswyth asked. She tried to maintain composure, to not give her panic away. “I—I didn’t know.”
“He, erm, well—He was married. I’m afraid she died. Around this time last year.”
Elswyth’s shoulders relaxed. Panic subsided into curiosity and then into pity. Oh, Silas, she thought.
“That’s terrible. How did it happen?”
“He rarely speaks of her. I shouldn’t say more. Oh, dear… I’m afraid I’ve betrayed his confidence.” Dr. Gall began to fidget with his gloves.
“Of course,” Elswyth said, but her mind still lingered on Silas. “Rest assured I shall say nothing of it. Let us return to happier subjects.”
Gall smiled but seemed suddenly anxious. “Yes, well, I was actually going to ask you something—”
Gall was interrupted by two men in blue uniforms. They bowed deeply to Elswyth. “Miss Elderwood,” one of the men said. From his uniform, she could see he was a royal steward. “Prince Oliver has requested the next dance with you.”
Elswyth blinked. “What?”
“Prince Oliver has requested the next dance.”
Elswyth fumbled, looking at her dance card. “I dance with Lord Van der Mast next.”
The steward smiled but seemed irritated. “You will dance with Prince Oliver next. Please, come.” Over his shoulder, she could see Prince Oliver waiting near the dance floor, hands folded behind his back.
Elswyth looked to Dr. Gall, who looked slightly disappointed. “Go on, Elswyth. We shall talk later.”
Elswyth cleared her throat, lifted the scant hem of her living gown, and followed the two royal stewards to the dance floor.
Prince Oliver waited there, unsmiling. He was even more beautiful up close, she saw, and younger than she realized.
Perhaps only a few years her senior. He had glorious blue eyes and a slender jaw that was striking, if slightly effeminate.
It was clear that the debutantes staring at them didn’t want him only for his status.
The royal stewards led her to the prince’s feet. She curtsied, staying low. “My lord.”
“I am not my grandmother,” Prince Oliver said in a lazy voice. “Please, rise.”
Elswyth stood, unable to meet his gaze. Somewhere in the recesses of her subconscious, Mrs. Rose’s voice was shrieking.
The room had hushed, save for a steady current of whispers.
A group of ladies stood nearby, clucking behind their fans.
And among them, Venus Forscythe, standing with her mother.
Her face had gone pale as porcelain beneath her silver mask.
Thankfully, the waltz began. Prince Oliver took her hand and waist, and soon they were sweeping across the floor.
Oliver said nothing, merely looked into her eyes.
His motions were rigid, his hands cold. But Elswyth smelled the overpowering odor of absinthe on him, and his eyes seemed glazed and drunk.
Elswyth risked a look at the room. The crowd closed in around the dance floor, watching them. Even the queen stared down with irritated interest.
Now was her chance.
Elswyth concentrated. From the spaces between the leaves of her gown, flowers began to sprout.
Wildflowers, soft and bright, in all their myriad hues.
Lilies, too, and orchids, roses and marigolds and zinnia.
Hibiscus and lavender and jasmine. They spotted the ivy gown and then swallowed it, blooming into a true ballgown.
Soon she danced in a gown of a thousand colors, a rainbow sweeping across the floor.
All around her, the crowd’s whispers turned into sounds of delight. Prince Oliver, to his credit, maintained his composure. He swept her around the dance floor, his face stern and distant.
Soon the flowers began to drop. She pruned a peony here, a magnolia there, and they followed behind her in a trail, like flower petals laid out for a bride.
As each flower fell, it revealed the leaves beneath, now colored with the crimsons and oranges of autumn.
Soon all the flowers were gone, forgotten on the floor, and Elswyth wore a flaring gown of autumn leaves, the vermilion train fading into a golden bodice.
Finally, even these fell, replaced by wintery-white elderwood leaves.
She formed a laurel of yew branches around her temples, speckled with bright red berries, and poured vitae into the elderwood gown until it glowed like moonlit snow.
Think of how glorious it will be, Mrs. Rose had said, four seasons in a single dance.
Elswyth’s breath raced, from the dancing as much as the floromancy. But soon the waltz slowed to a stop. Prince Oliver released her, bowed, and then gestured to Elswyth. She curtsied, and the crowd exploded into applause. Something like pride swelled in her chest.
The applause ended. The crowd dispersed.
She turned to thank Prince Oliver, who stood before her, smiling thinly.
As was tradition, they bowed to each other.
They stayed like that for a moment, bowing low, their heads close, faces downturned.
Then Oliver spoke, forcing each word through the clenched teeth of his smile.
“Stop what you are doing.”
Elswyth’s skin prickled at the coldness of his voice. She stared at the floor, still bowing, but risked a look at him. The smile on the prince’s face did not falter, but neither did it seem to match what he was saying.
“What?” Elswyth said.
“Stop what you are doing,” Oliver whispered, “or what happened to your sister will happen to you.”
A chill washed over her skin, and the sounds of the room faded into the background. She moved to speak, but her lips trembled. “What did you just say?”
The prince ignored her. He stood from his bow, still smiling. Elswyth did the same. The room spun around her. A pervasive prickle moved up her spine, as if her body was urging her to flee.
The prince inclined his head to her in a final farewell.
Then he turned on his heel and stalked across the room.
Two royal guards fell into step behind him, following him to his seat on the dais.
Queen Viscaria’s eyes, obscured beneath her mask of bees, tracked him all the way there.
Then, for a moment, they settled on Elswyth.
Elswyth stood frozen on the dance floor. People approached her, fawning over her gown, riddling her with questions. But she could not focus. She stammered that she felt ill and then rushed from the room, through the crowd and out the doors.
She fled down the hall as people blurred on either side of her.
What happened to your sister will happen to you.
She reached the entrance, racing through the double doors.
What happened to your sister will happen to you.
Night air filled her lungs. The party behind her still blared into the darkness, music and lights and people. They streamed in and out of the gates, climbing into carriages, oblivious to her panic. She turned down the side of the palace into a small garden, protected by a row of hedges.
What happened to your sister—
“I should have known,” a woman’s voice said. Elswyth turned to see a slender figure sitting on a bench outside the castle doors. Venus Forscythe had been crying; red splotches streaked her porcelain cheeks. She’d removed her mask of polished silver and cradled it in her hands.
“What?” Elswyth said, but her own voice seemed far away.
“I should have known. You’re just like your sister. Another provincial whore.”
Elswyth was too stunned to say anything. She stared at Venus like a stranger, speaking another language. Venus stood and moved to leave. Then she stopped, hugging her shawl around her shoulders, and looked at Elswyth.
“At least when she did it, I understood. At least she was pretty.”
Elswyth said nothing, too shocked to speak.
Venus looked at her and laughed. Then she wiped her eyes with her shawl, turned, and vanished into the garden.