To Mrs. Rose’s credit, she adamantly disagreed with Uncle Percival on the matter of Elswyth’s departure from London. She berated him whenever he was in the house, which was not often. He spent nearly all his days at Parliament dealing with the riots brought on by famine and hysteria over the Reaper murders. Elswyth heard her arguing with him up and down the staircase as he tried to ready for bed.
“I’m quite sure that we’re close to a visit from Daniel de Lyon, which is the first step, you know, to a proposal—”
“She has a proposal already. Cousin Ficus will do, if it keeps my niece safe.”
“Yes, but what of all the work we’ve done? Would it not be a waste to deny her a better match? To deny her a chance at love?”
“Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but love is rather difficult when one party is dead.”
“I’ve never felt that way at all,” Mrs. Rose said. “Really, Percival, don’t you think you might be overreacting—”
“You may address me as Lord Devereux, Mrs. Rose. I am not usually one to remind one of one’s place, but do remember that you are a guest in my house and an employee of my family. It is not your place to question the decisions I make for my blood. Now. Elswyth will marry Mr. Ficus. That is settled. With that in mind, I think that your services as a matchmaker are no longer required.”
“But—”
“You have been contracted until the end of the social season, and I will honor that contract. But I will not hear any more talk of this.”
There was a pause, and then Mrs. Rose said, “Like bloody hell you won’t.” For a moment, it seemed as though her elegant accent dropped, revealing something slightly more crass beneath.
Percival said nothing. Mrs. Rose cleared her throat. “Apologies. But her father writes my checks, not you. And until I hear word from him dismissing me, I’ll keep on doing my job, which is to find Miss Elderwood the best possible match. And I cannot do that if she leaves. So I will continue my lessons with her because… because she deserves better than the life you lot have cooked up for her. And that isthat, Lord Devereux.”
Percival mumbled something and then huffed. “Fine, fine. Continue your lessons if you must. But by the light of God’s green Eden, please, do it quietly.”
There was a small, satisfied sound from Mrs. Rose. Her usualaccent returned, precise as ever. “Perfectly splendid, Lord Devereux. I shall call upon you again a-morrow.”
And Mrs. Rose’s small steps disappeared down the stairs.
That night, Elswyth awoke to a shadow over her bed.
Terror gripped her. In her mind’s eye, she saw Mr. Clipper’s violet teeth and smelled the poison and stink of him. She thought of a man in her room again, another assassin, and felt as though she might scream. But she would not be caught off-guard again. No, this time, she remembered Kehinde’s training.
Elswyth pooled vitæ into her left hand. From her fingertips, she summoned witch hazel thorns, dense and dark. Each one she filled with strychnine until the tips dripped with glistening poison.
She watched the shadow. It did not move, but it was surely in the shape of a man. When the thorns on her hand were ready, Elswyth sprung from her bed. She sliced her hand and the thorns sprayed through the air.
The shape moved. Her thornsthunkedinto something wooden, and for a moment Elswyth thought she’d hit the wall, that terror had made her delirious and there was no-one in her room at all.
Then a small light appeared in the corner: a little mushroom, glowing pale in the darkness. More followed until the light illuminated the figure’s face. Kehinde stood there, the lines of his scars casting shadows against his skin. He had summoned a patch of foxfire to his hand, and now the mushrooms glowed like little moons, illuminating the corner of the room where he stood. His other arm was raised defensively, and Elswyth saw where her thorns had embedded in the plate of Ebony armor he’d grown there. He lowered his forearm and inspected the thorns.
“You are getting better at that,” he said.
“I have a good teacher. You frightened me half to death. I thought you were…”
Kehinde frowned, realizing. “Apologies. I should have considered… I was merely watching over you.”
“Watching over me? Or ensuring that I do not escape?”
“Our restrictions are for your own good,” Kehinde said. “If the Reaper really is Prince Oliver, there is nowhere in this city that you are safe. Letting you out of the house would be exposing you to another attack.”
“I can defend myself,” Elswyth said.
Kehinde looked her up and down. His eyes shone in the pale glow of the mushrooms. “So you can. It would seem that my simple poisons pale in comparison to… other methods. I suppose I now understand your reluctance to kill.”
“You don’t understand me at all. You and Percival see me as nothing but another damsel to be protected. A princess, locked away in a tower.”
“Are there not dragons about, Elswyth?” Kehinde said. “The tower is how we can protect you, for now.”
“And what of your other princess—is my life worth Persephone’s?”
