“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—Hewasmarried. 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.
