“You and Kehinde should stay here,” she said.
Percival raised an eyebrow. Kehinde, too, looked surprised. He paused, clutching his walking stick in his fist.
“What do you mean?” Percival asked. “Of course we’re coming with you.”
“We know nothing of this Lady Sheers, but it seems she deals with young women. Two heavily armed men could frighten her and scare her off. And for all we know, the Reaper could be about, watching us. It’s best if you stay here and stand guard. I will go inside.”
Percival scoffed. “Like hell you will!”
“There could be danger,” Kehinde said.
Elswyth inclined her head to him. “If there is, I will handle it. I am ready. You have prepared me well.”
“Elswyth, I’m not sure about this,” Percival said.
“If I feel unsafe, I will call for you. Stay close.”
Percival looked between Elswyth and the alleyway, uncertain.
“Uncle, you must have faith in me. There are some things I must do alone.”
He thought for a moment and then set his jaw and nodded. “I do. But if you are not back in twenty minutes, I am coming inside.”
Mrs. Rose’s voice chimed in from the carriage. “And I am staying righthere!”
Uncle Percival took out a pocket watch and flashed the face to Elswyth. “Twenty minutes. Not a second more.”
She nodded and then turned away, facing the alley. The lonelantern hung above her, its gas flame flickering in the autumn wind. Dead leaves flew in eddies in the alleyway, making scraping sounds across the floor. The place looked abandoned. Forlorn.
She stepped forward, through the passageway. The vine-covered walls swallowed her as she walked. Finally, she came to the little house at the end of the alley. Ivy covered this, too, the woody vines twisting in and out of shattered stained glass windows. The door, made of ancient timber, had no adornment save for a bronze mascaron of an eldren.
Elswyth grabbed the wooden ring in the eldren’s mouth and knocked. Once, twice, three times. At first, nothing happened. Then a small latch opened in the door, and a lone yellow eye stared out.
“Who are you?” an old woman’s voice said. Elswyth had the strangest sensation of déjà vu, as though she’d been to this door before.
“Lady Sheers?” Elswyth asked.
The eye flicked left and right. “Who wants to know?”
“My name is Elswyth Elderwood. I’ve come to ask about my sister, Miss Persephone Elderwood.”
“I don’t know any Persephone Elderwood,” Lady Sheers said, “and I don’t know any Elswyth Elderwood, either. You should go. It’s nae safe out here at night.”
Lady Sheers began to close the latch.
“No! I know—I know it’s not safe. That’s why I’m here,” Elswyth said, reaching forward. Lady Sheers lingered there for a moment, listening.
“My sister came to you. She came here, and she never cameback. She was taken, I believe, by the Reaper. Please—she was silver-haired. Fair. About my height.Please.”
Lady Sheers said nothing. The latch closed, and Elswyth stood there in the alley, shoulders slumped.
A slithering sound came from the door, followed by the groan of rusted hinges. Beyond it, an old woman waited—if she could be called that. Half her face was gone to warping, replaced by knotted bark. Pine needles sprouted from her scalp alongside her hair, and a burl of wood jutted from one shoulder like a hunchback. Lady Sheers wore ratty robes, threadbare from years of use, and her single yellow eye looked up at Elswyth through strings of gray hair.
“Come. This will be easier over a cup of tea,” she said. She began to limp down a set of stairs to her right, descending into a basement. Elswyth turned to look over her shoulder, where Percival watched her, gripping his rifle. She gave him a reassuring smile and then followed Lady Sheers into the house.
The door closed behind her, sealing tight with roots that snaked through the wood. All down the stairs, she could see them weaving through the dirt walls as if they were part of the house itself, binding it to the earth. The shape of Lady Sheers disappeared into the basement, and Elswyth lifted the hem of her wedding gown, following her.
She stepped into a simple room with a dirt floor. Ancient candles covered every surface, dripping blood-colored wax, and a fire burned in the hearth. Herbs hung from the ceiling, pennyroyal and silphium and St. John’s wort, all in dry bunches like witch’s brooms. A central table dominated the room, marked by the thousand cuts of a blade and worn smooth by countlesshands. Lady Sheers was a hedge witch, Elswyth realized. A practitioner of dubious floromancy that existed somewhere between medicine and magic.
