“I know, Uncle,” Elswyth said. She sobbed over the words. “I’m so sorry.”
“No. You misunderstand. Cerise was powerful. More powerful, even, than you. And if you took her vitæ to heal yourself, it was because shegaveit to you.”
Elswyth froze. She wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “What?”
“You did not kill her, Elswyth. You were a child, and sick. I believe she gave you her life, so that you might live yours… And though I miss her dearly, I am so happy that she did.”
When Percival smiled his teeth were bright red. What he described was impossible, and yet Elswyth’s ability to take vitæ from humans was also said to be impossible. Percival could not know if what he said was true—only Elswyth and her mother had been in the room that day—and yet he sounded so resolute. Perhaps he was convincing himself as much as he was reassuring Elswyth. But why wait until this moment to tell her?
She reached into herself and felt the pulse of light within her, feeling the flow of vitæ along her veins, pooling in her stomach, pumping through her fast-beating heart. She wove her fingers beneath his ruined shirt and around the bleeding wound, feeling the cold skin there and the shaking breaths that rattled through him. Elswyth sent her floromantic sense into Percival. She saw the outline of his body in orange light, saw the pulse of his vitæ. Itdimmed by the moment, receding from the wound in his stomach, his blood draining with it.
Then she pulled on her own vitæ, breathed deeply, and pushed it into Percival.
His eyes widened for a moment, and he took in a rattling breath, looking up at the ceiling.
And nothing happened.
The vitæ wouldn’t move. She tried again, pushing harder this time, but his body rejected her vitæ, like oil to water. It flowed back into her, continuing along the path of her veins, unused.
“But—”
A sob interrupted her. She turned to see Kehinde limping into the room. His left arm was in a sling and he used a crutch to support his left leg. His eyes were wide with horror.
“Percy?” he said. His voice was high, helpless. He saw the wound in Percival’s chest, and a grim wail escaped his lips. He dropped the crutch and hobbled to them, falling to his knees.
Percival smiled. “My love.”
Kehinde brought Percival’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’m here, I’m here Percy.”
“My heart,” Percival whispered. He opened his shaking hand and cupped Kehinde’s face, leaving a smear of blood on the scars there.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Kehinde said. “We’re going to heal you. We’re going to get you to a hospital. Won’t we?” He turned to Elswyth. His voice trembled and his eyes were red with tears. “Won’t we?”
Elswyth’s mouth fell open. What could she say? Kehinde stared at her, desperate. His teeth clenched, his face a mask of pain. He grabbed Elswyth by the shoulders. “Tell me you will heal him!”
Percival stroked Kehinde’s cheek, bringing him back. His fingers shook. “We’re past that now, Kehinde. It’s time.”
“No—” Kehinde said, shaking his head. “No, please.”
“It’s all right, love. We knew this day would come.”
Kehinde began to sob openly. “I’m not ready, Percy. I’m not ready for it to be over.”
Percival’s eyes began to water. Finally, tears spilled over the edge, mingling with the blood. He looked at Kehinde and smiled. “You were the only adventure I ever needed.”
Kehinde laughed through the tears. He nodded. “And you were mine.”
Percival began to fade. His eyes fluttered, and his voice was weak.
“We had a good go of it, didn’t we, love? For what we were given?”
Kehinde lifted his head, wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. “The very best.”
Percival smiled. He took one last, rattling breath, and then stopped. Then Lord Devereux’s eyes went still as glass, and the great hunter was dead.
They stayed like that for a long while. Kehinde, with his head in the crook of Percival’s neck, cried quietly. Elswyth kneeled by his side, numb. All around them, the glass eyes of Percival’s trophies stared down at him. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the ticking of the grandfather clock, and Kehinde’s gasping breaths.
After a while, Elswyth stood. She moved over to the dead body of the mandrake, staring at its elongated limbs and twisted grayskin. It seemed to be deflating, the viscera within pouring out the open wound of its neck.
