The woman crawled out of her chair and around the corner of the table, running toward her. Soon she was fussing over Elswyth, wrapping her in a hug.
Elswyth winced. “You are hurting my remaining organs,” she said.
Mrs. Rose dropped her instantly. “Oh, of course, of course. It’s just—well, I’m so glad to see you, Elswyth. I thought… Well, never mind what I thought. You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”
To Elswyth’s surprise, she saw tears twinkling in Mrs. Rose’s eyes. Mrs. Rose dabbed at them with her pink kerchief. “Are you… crying?” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose stood up straight, blinking the tears away. “Of course,” she said. “To think, I almost lost my most lucrative client. Would be terrible for my reputation, you know.”
Elswyth smiled despite her cracked lips. A small part of her thought that Mrs. Rose might have left her behind if she were not able to participate in the season. She now saw that was not true.
“But never mind that now,” Mrs. Rose continued, dragging Elswyth toward the doorway. “You shouldn’t be standing! By god, girl, you’ve just been stabbed. Back to bed, back to bed this instant!”
By the time Mrs. Rose had successfully coaxed Elswyth back to her room, Kehinde and Percival had arrived, bursting through her chamber door. Mrs. Rose had prepared tea and broth for her, and insisted on spoon-feeding her while she rested.
Percival wept at first, but his sentimentality was quickly replaced by rage. He paced the length of her bedroom, interrogating her. “And can you remember anything else the man said? Anything at all that might be important?”
Elswyth took a spoonful of broth from Mrs. Rose, which soothed her bruised throat. Her voice was still haggard from where the man had choked her. “It’s all a blur. I’m sorry.”
Kehinde and Percival shared a look. Mrs. Rose seemed so shaken that her hands trembled around each spoonful of broth. “That monster. I’m glad he’s dead. To attack a woman in her own home, in her bed! What’s this city coming to? Robbers and thugs! Doubtless he was after your jewelry.”
“I do not think he was an ordinary criminal,” Elswyth said. “His accent was aristocratic. He was well dressed. And it seemed… it seemed as though he was sent to kill me. I think he was an assassin.”
Mrs. Rose pulled back the spoon from Elswyth’s mouth. “My. Oh my. I think I would like a drink. Shall I get anyone a brandy?”
Before anyone could respond, Mrs. Rose was across the room, pouring four glasses of brandy from a decanter. Kehinde intercepted her. “Perhaps we should go together to the kitchens and prepare something. It would give Elswyth time alone with her uncle.”
Mrs. Rose set down the brandy, hands shaking. She nodded and then allowed Kehinde to take her from the room. Elswyth inclined her head gratefully. Mrs. Rose’s constant doting was making her anxious.
Percival sat next to her bed and took her hand.
“I was reticent to say so at first. To think that someone out there would want you dead… but I should think I agree with you, Elswyth. Kehinde reached out to an old acquaintance familiar with the criminal underground, and she was able to provide some information.”
Percival produced a small folder, which he set on Elswyth’s bed. “The man who attacked you was one Mr. Autumnus Clipper. A member of the Nightshade Society of Gentleman Assassins.”
She took the envelope and opened it. Within was a report on the man, including two photographs. One was of the man’s face as she remembered it, with dark glasses and sagging jowls. The second showed the man’s corpse, withered and rotten, nearly mummified. Her stomach lurched at the sight.
“The Nightshade Society is the premier syndicate of assassinsand poisoners in the empire. To procure the services of a Nightshade assassin is no small feat. They are difficult to find and even more expensive to hire. A single operation by a Nightshade assassin costs as much as any palace. Mostly because their reputation is sterling. They do not fail.”
Elswyth frowned, looking down at her stomach. “And yet they did.”
“All the more troubling. I do not think the Nightshade Society will take kindly to the death of one of their own. Mr. Clipper may be only the beginning.”
Her muscles ached. A headache threatened at her temples. She rubbed them, setting down Mr. Clipper’s file. To her dismay, Percival continued.
“And then there is the matter of the knife,” Percival said. He reached into his suit pocket and procured a small package wrapped in cloth. When he unwrapped it, Elswyth saw the flash of silver. He placed the blade in her hands, and for the first time, Elswyth noted its intricate details. It was forged of Damascus steel that rippled with lines like the grain of wood. It was nearly a foot long, with a serpentine edge, and the handle was made of wood and jade with a hollow center. She noticed small pores in the surface of the handle that burrowed toward the blade.
“A poisoner’s kris. Sixteenth century, Indonesia. A floromancer can concentrate poison into the handle, which pools in the central compartment and then leaks into the grooves on the blade. An assassin’s tool, and a priceless artifact—impressive even for a Nightshade Assassin.”
Elswyth turned the blade over in her hand. She fabricated the essence of nightshade into the wooden handle and watched as it pooled in the jade chamber. When she turned the blade upsidedown, threads of lavender-hued poison ran across carvings on the surface of the blade like water through the veins of a leaf.
“It seemed my assassin was paid quite well,” Elswyth said.
“Indeed.” Percival took the blade back and wrapped it in the cloth and then set it at the foot of the bed. “What I have yet to discern is why he was sent or who precisely sent him,” Percival said.
“I think it is rather obvious, is it not?”
“I feared you would say that. You believe the Reaper sent him. And you believe the Reaper is Prince Oliver.”
