The mandrake turned, featureless face settling on her. Its flytrap mouth opened, and it screamed again, mandibles shaking, dripping saliva onto the floor. Elswyth clutched her ears and blood trickled onto her hands.
The mandrake flung Percival to the side. He flew across the room, slamming into the far wall. The head of a water buffalo crashed on top of him, shaken down from the impact. Blood sprayed on the mahogany boards.
The mandrake circled her. It knelt down on its forelimbs, dragging its long claws on the floor. Then its face opened wide again, tilting upward, almost sniffing the air. The petals fluttered as it drew close.
Elswyth scrambled backward, blade outstretched. She pushed the broken table down in front of her, blocking the creature’s path, but it easily climbed over, limbs moving like an insect’s.
The mandrake drew near, rising on its hind legs, towering above her. She moved backward until her back found the wall. There was nowhere else to go. It reached out with a clawed hand, almost curiously. Did it remember her? Did it remember what she did, her face as she drowned it in formaldehyde?
Elswyth swiped at it with her blade. The mandrake retreated for a moment but then crept forward again. Once more, it reached out its clawed hand as if to touch her.
She screamed and brought her blade down, cutting off its hand at the wrist.
The claw fell to the ground with athud. Green ichor spurted from the mandrake’s wrist, and it backed away, cradling the stump to its chest. It looked down at the place where its hand used to be—and then it charged her. Its face opened, and Elswyth saw into its throat, into the endless churning teeth, into the wide-spreadflytrap mouth. It screamed into her face, and she dropped the knife. The stink of rotting meat on the creature’s breath made her stomach turn.
The mandrake dove at her, its mouth wide, ready to snap its jaws around her head. She imagined its rows of teeth sinking into her, ripping, tearing…
The mandrake kept screaming. And then its face exploded.
One minute, she was staring deep into the creature’s throat. The next, she was staring at the open wound of its neck. Ichor and bits of flesh covered her, sprayed over her face and gown. She stood frozen, ears ringing, unable to move.
The mandrake’s headless body swayed for a moment and then collapsed. It twitched on the floor, neck wound gurgling green blood onto the wood.
Percival lay on the far wall of the room, propped up against a shattered table. His stomach still bled, creating a puddle on the floor around him, and his skin was gray and damp. He held the elephant gun that had once hung over the fireplace. The wide barrel smoked.
“Take that, you bloody pansy,” he said. He coughed, and more blood gurgled into his beard. Then he dropped the elephant gun to the side.
Elswyth ran to him, wiping the ichor from her eyes. He lay there, chin against his chest, slumped to the floor. His breaths were shallow and rapid, and when he looked at Elswyth, his eyes seemed glassy and far away.
“I saved you,” he said. He smiled, his teeth bloody, foam bubbling at his lower lip.
She unbuttoned his shirt and looked at the wound beneath.With each breath, more blood poured out of it, staining his skin red.
She screamed for Kehinde, but her words came out in a sob. Elswyth looked around for a cloth, anything to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing, so she pressed her hands to the hole in Percival’s stomach, trying desperately to stanch the flow.
“Elswyth…” Percival said. His voice was gentle. Weak.
Blood spurted through her fingers. Too much, too much for anyone to lose.
“I—I can heal you,” Elswyth said. Tears started falling, and her words came out panicked and broken. “I just need time. I need my tools. Hold on, Uncle. Please hold on.”
She peeled back his ruined shirt and began fabricating a salve to stop the bleeding. She could weave roots through the wound, to close it, but what of the wound on his back? Blood came from his mouth—that meant his stomach was punctured, probably the intestines too, and he was wheezing through what sounded like a ruptured lung. Could she repair it? No, but perhaps Dr. Gall could. Perhaps—
Percival’s shaking hand found hers. “It’s too late, Elswyth,” he said.
“No, I can fix it, I can, I just need—”
“Elswyth, dear, I am gone. It’s all right now. Don’t cry.”
“It’s all my fault,” Elswyth said. Her face twisted as she cried. “I brought this on you. If I hadn’t insisted on looking for her… If we hadn’t gone to the Rows…”
“It wasn’t your fault, Elswyth. It is Silas. You must go now. Save Mrs. Rose while you still can.”
Elswyth shook her head. “I’m not leaving you. I won’t go. I—”
Percival coughed. Blood sprayed from his lips. He took Elswyth’s hand, but his grip was weak.
“There’s no time. You must listen to me. What you told me about your mother… Cerise loved you. She loved you more than anything.”
