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 thecrowd 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 shecould 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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In floriography, yellow jasmine—also called gelsemium—meanselegance. In its concentrated form, yellow jasmine is a powerful paralytic, causing numbness, convulsions, and loss of muscular control.
The prince of England?” Mrs. Rose said. “Prince Oliver. Prince Oliver d’Orange-Plantagenet. Prince Oliver, as in the queen’s grandson Prince Oliver?ThatPrince Oliver?”
They sat in the drawing room of Devereux Place beneath the watchful eyes of Percival’s trophies. Percival himself sat on the couch across from her, looking more tired than ever. Kehinde sat in a chair near the hearth, deep in thought, whittling a small figurine of a lion out of dark wood. And Mrs. Rose paced around them all, hands flying frantically as she spoke.
