It’s been waiting since the day I found it, Elswyth thought. Like a poisonous seed waiting to sprout. She’d let it happen, too, all because she wanted to see how it worked. Had Silas known that, when he sent it to spy on her? Known that she would keep it—that her curiosity and her ambition wouldn’t let her dispose of it?
She stood there for a while, feeling strangely distant, as though the room were floating away from her.
Behind her, Kehinde’s sobs had stopped. He forced himself up. “Elswyth. It is time,” Kehinde said.
“Kehinde…”
“I’m going with you,” Kehinde said. He limped over to her, arm still in his sling.
“You can barely stand.”
Kehinde’s face twisted. “I will have vengeance on the man who took Percival from me,” he said. “You will not stop me.”
He tried to move toward the door, but stumbled, wincing at the pain in his leg. Elswyth caught him and steadied him. She looked into his eyes, trying not to cry.
“I have already lost one uncle tonight,” she said. “I will not lose another.”
Kehinde’s eyes widened. He looked away. “But how will you find him?”
“The Royal Gardens. Silas keeps his rooms there. He must be keeping Mrs. Rose nearby.”
Kehinde nodded. He wiped the blood and tears from his face with the back of his sleeve. At that moment, he seemed almost young. Fragile. He straightened himself, stepped toward Elswyth, and to her surprise, cupped her face in his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“If you are going alone, you will not go unprotected,” he said.
“What do you—”
A surge of power cut her off. Through his hands, Kehinde sent waves of vitæ. It spread through her like fire, burning away her pain and fatigue. Kehinde concentrated, eyes closed, and Elswyth felt something growing over her face, down her neck, over her arms. She looked down, and ivory-toned wood plated her exposed hand, glowing faintly in the dark.
He took his hands from her face. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his breath raced. Elswyth looked at her hand, turning it over, flexing her fingers. The pale wood moved seamlessly. She caught her reflection in a shard of the shattered mirror on the wall, and then saw her face: It was coated entirely with bone-white wood, emanating soft light.Not Ebony, she thought.It’s elderwood.There was no mistaking it—she could see the faintly luminescent grain weaving beneath the polished surface. The branching mark of her scar arced across her armored skin, a red vein through the white.
Then the armor vanished from her face. She tried to call it forward again, but it would not come.
“Where did it go?” she asked.
“You cannot control the Ebony on your own, not without training. It will come when it is needed. I promise.”
“But Kehinde… this technique is sacred to you.”
“Tonight, vengeance is sacred,” Kehinde said. “Now go. Find Mrs. Rose.”
Elswyth studied his face. Then she nodded, standing, and moved toward the door.
“And Elswyth?” Kehinde asked. She paused in the doorway.
“What is it?”
Kehinde, staring at Percival’s body, slowly turned to her. Something fatal shone in his eyes. “When you find him—kill the bastard.”
The words hit Elswyth like a stone. Her body froze—they were the very same words her grandmother had whispered to her beneath the elderwood tree all those months ago at Persephone’s funeral.
Elswyth hesitated at the door. She looked over at where Percival’s body lay, covered in a sheet, and thought of Kehinde’s words:Perhaps some violence is worth the flame that follows.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Bittersweet nightshade, also called poisonflower, is a toxic vine found in woodlands across England. It was once commonly woven into bridal wreaths and was said to ward against evil. In floriography, this bittersweet flower meanstruth.
