Chapter Twenty-Seven
In Greek mythology, Cyparissus—the namesake of the cypress tree—was a famous hunter and a lover of Apollo.
One day, by accident, he killed the tamed stag that Apollo had gifted him.
His grief was so great that he transformed into the first cypress.
The tree’s dripping sap is said to be his tears, falling to this day.
In floriography, cypress means mourning.
We need to go after Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said.
They burst into the drawing room of Devereux Place, Percival and Elswyth supporting the injured Kehinde between them.
They lowered him onto the couch slowly. The blow from the Reaper had cracked his Ebony armor, splintering the wood and breaking the bones beneath.
His leg, too, was shattered. Strong enough to stop bullets, Elswyth thought, and Silas snapped it like kindling.
She crossed the room, fetched her botany kit, and began tending to Kehinde’s wounds.
“We need to regroup, Elswyth,” Percival said. “We threw everything we had at him, and he barely flinched.”
“He has Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said. Her voice shook.
“And he has gravely injured Kehinde. If we follow him, we will surely be defeated again. We need a plan,” Percival said.
Kehinde tried to sit up. “We must find Vivian,” he said, wincing. “I can fight.”
Percival gently lowered him back down onto the couch. “I know you can, my love. But for my sake, please. No.”
“What else are we to do?” Elswyth said. “We cannot trust the constabulary. We are on our own.”
Percival thought for a moment. “Elswyth… do you really think that was Blackthorn?”
She hesitated. “The necklace that the Reaper wore is a powerful artifact, one that confers vast amounts of vitae. And the last time I saw it, it was in Silas’s possession.”
Percival and Kehinde shared a curious look, but neither seemed overly surprised at the existence of the amberheart.
“But certainly that does not mean that he is the Reaper,” Percival said.
He whispered something to Kehinde, who nodded, biting down on a strap of leather.
Percival counted to three and then jerked Kehinde’s broken arm back into place.
He screamed, an agonizing sound. Slowly, the Ebony armor retreated from Kehinde’s skin.
Beneath it, he was slick with sweat, his face a faded brown-gray.
Bruises crisscrossed his bare chest and stomach beneath the patterns of scars there.
Elswyth reached into her kit for the alcohol and began to disinfect.
“Who else would it be?” Elswyth said. “Unless someone else has taken the amberheart from him.”
Perhaps that was why he needed it back so badly. He’d been using the power in the stone to abduct the missing women. But why show her the stone? Why let her use it?
“What about the prince? You were so sure before this that he was responsible.”
Elswyth frowned. She knew, now, without a shadow of a doubt, that Persephone had been engaged in an affair with Prince Oliver.
And that when she became pregnant, he sent her to a hedge witch to have the pregnancy terminated.
So how did Silas fit into that? Why had he killed Lady Sheers?
And what of the murdered prostitutes and their stolen organs?
“Maybe… maybe he still is. Maybe Silas is just a foot soldier. The prince wouldn’t kill Persephone himself, but he would send someone to do it for him.”
Elswyth began to wrap Kehinde’s wounds. Kehinde seemed distant, teetering on sleep. Still, he said: “Silas Blackthorn has no love for the Crown. Why would he act as the prince’s assassin?”
Elswyth shook her head. “I don’t know. None of this makes sense. But that necklace belongs to Silas. I know it. And he was at the same dinner where Captain Burr was murdered. Burr was goading him all night. How simple would it have been to poison his drink?”
Percival looked up at her, considering. “Elswyth… I know… I know that you care for the boy. This must be quite difficult…”
“I do not care for him any longer,” Elswyth said. She turned away, hiding her frown. “Those feelings are past. And if that was indeed Silas Blackthorn…”
“Then he is the one who killed Persephone,” Percival said.
Elswyth clenched her eyes shut. Silas had told her he’d been in Cairo at the time of Persephone’s disappearance.
In her na?veté—or her infatuation—she’d neglected to confirm it.
Perhaps she’d merely wanted to trust him so badly that she turned a blind eye to the possibility that he could be involved.
She thought of his lips on hers. Of his hands on her body. All that time, he knew… he knew what he’d done to her sister. And he strung her along anyway, keeping her close, making sure that she did not discover the truth.
He’d said he loved her. He’d made love to her. And all of it, a lie. A thought arose, unbidden: No one could ever love you. This seemed like proof.
“I’ve been played for a fool,” Elswyth whispered.
“We all have,” Percival said. Silence fell over the room, and Percival’s face was twisted into a mask of rage. He seemed ready to scream. “That bastard… came into my house. I vouched for him, to society, when no one else would. I let him near you, my family.”
Percival put his head in his hands. Kehinde, still delirious, put a hand on Percival’s shoulder. “There is no way we could have known. All we did was show kindness to someone who needed it,” he said. He looked at Percival gravely. “But now is not the time for kindness.”
Percival wiped his eyes and then nodded. “I fear you are right. We must do something.”
Kehinde paused. He looked, perhaps for the first time since she had known him, actually frightened. “He broke the Ebony, Percival. Your guns did nothing. What are we to do?”
Percival hesitated. His hand found Kehinde’s. “I don’t know,” he said.
Elswyth shook her head. “He has Mrs. Rose. If we do not act soon, then her fate may be the same as Persephone’s.”
Percival and Kehinde shared a look. Kehinde nodded, pushing himself up. He stood, shakily, with Percival supporting him.
“We are with you, Elswyth,” Kehinde said.
Elswyth nodded. Tears pricked at her eyes, and suddenly she was moving, throwing her arms around both of them.
“Until the end,” Percival whispered.
Elswyth’s quarters were dark. She lit a lantern and moved to the bed, searching for the item she’d stashed there, wrapped in cloth and hidden under the pillow.
Elswyth peeled the cloth away, revealing the blade beneath.
The jade handle of the poisoner’s kris shone in the firelight, the grooves in the steel shifting like serpents.
The weight felt alien in her hand, but she remembered the cold steel of it.
Remembered the way it felt, hilt-deep in her stomach.
Had Silas sent that assassin? Had she been too close to the truth?
She closed her eyes, shaking the thought away. How could she have been so easily fooled?
Tears threatened at her eyes. For a moment, she really believed that Silas—that someone—could have loved her.
Could have seen her scar, and the woman behind it, and said I love you anyway.
She should have known right then that Silas was manipulating her.
He’d swallowed his disgust and made love to her because he had to.
To ensure that she would not suspect him.
Elswyth shook her head as though the physical motion would dislodge the thought from her mind. Now is not the time for self-pity, she thought. He has Mrs. Rose. He must be stopped.
Elswyth focused on the blade. She hefted it in one hand, surprised at how light it was, how balanced. Then she concentrated, fabricating cyanide from her hand. It seeped into the handle and then swam through the veins in the steel. Green ichor pooled at the tip like venom from a fang.
She thought of driving it into Silas’s heart. Thought of the look in his eyes when she did. Would it be shock? Regret? Or just that same smirk he always wore?
She knew the blade would not kill him. It might not even slow him down.
Her poison, Kehinde’s armor, Percival’s guns—they’d been useless.
Whatever Silas had become—whatever he truly was—she had no way to fight him.
The amberheart gave him an unlimited stream of vitae, and he had used it to turn into something more plant than human.
How, she didn’t know. There was floromancy at work here that she couldn’t pretend to understand.
She wiped the blade with a cloth, removing the poison.
Then she moved to the wardrobe next to her work station and opened the door.
A lone gown hung within, the dark fabric almost shimmering in the light of her lantern like onyx.
If she was going to face Silas, then she would need protection. And luckily, she had prepared.