It took a tremendous amount of vitæ. Her head swam, her vision fading, and her legs began to waver as though she were on a ship. She began to wither, as all floromancers do that expend too much of their vitæ. Her skin sagged and wrinkled, taking on the faint green-black of a bruise. She stopped the flow of vitæ before she lost consciousness. Sweat cooled on her brow, and her breathing became labored, wheezing. Would it give her away? Would her pursuer see the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the trembling of her arms? She clenched her eyes shut, then dared to open them a fraction, hoping they were concealed behind her mask of leaves.
The man thundered into the clearing where she’d stood just moments ago. He was even taller up close. His hair and suit were all a mess, and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a muscular chest crisscrossed with small scars. His breath steamed like a horse’s, and a sheen of sweat glittered on his brow, dripping into his dark eyes. His strange amber amulet hung from his neck, catching the sunlight. But that was not what troubled her—what troubled her was the sword in the man’s right hand.
Her breath caught. The saber curled slightly, its sharp edge trailing along the ground. Did he intend to kill her? Would he, for merely witnessing what she had?
The man stepped forward, staring in disbelief at the dead end. Then he looked down, directly at where her footsteps still showed in the dew.
Her stomach dropped. Her footsteps. How could she have forgotten? They would lead right to her hiding place.
His eyes followed her tracks. Then he turned and looked directly at her.
Elswyth clenched her eyes shut, knowing they would be visible through her disguise. She dared not breathe, dared not think. She could hear his footsteps stepping slowly toward her, whispering in the grass, hear the sound of the rapier as it trailed on the ground. Hot breath brushed against her face. A hand traced the leaves of her hair and she struggled not to flinch—did he know? Was he—
“Silas!” came a sharp voice. The woman’s voice—she must be in the corridor. The man’s hand vanished.
“What are you doing?” the woman’s voice hissed. “Where is she?”
“Dead end,” said the man. “Her footsteps stop right here. Seems as though she escaped. Perhaps she climbed the hedge.”
“That’s not possible,” said the woman.
“Oh, I don’t know. She was rather spry.”
Elswyth dared to crack her eyes open again. The woman came into view, meeting the man in the middle of the corridor. Her skin was flushed and her stylish hair frayed at the edges. She smacked the man’s chest.
“How could you let her go, you useless idiot!” the woman said.
“And what would you have had me do, if I caught her? Slit her throat?” the man asked, laughing.
The woman said nothing. She only frowned and looked away.
“She has no idea who we are,” the man continued. “Who is she going to tell?”
“Perhaps you are nobody, but I have a reputation to protect,” the woman said. She pushed herself away from the man, but he kept her close. “Why was she even here? You said it was closed.” Her lips twisted into a perfect frown.
The man rolled his eyes and brought the woman toward him with one strong hand. She collided with his chest, their faces mere inches from each other.
“It was probably some gardener’s assistant, gone to fetch a pair of shears. Don’t let it trouble you. Come. Let’s be rid of this place before we’re further interrupted.”
The man’s hand traced up her back, and he attempted to bring her into a kiss. The woman pushed away, rebuking him.
“Make this right, Silas,” she said. Then she broke from his grasp, turned, and left.
The man stood alone for a moment, a sour look crossing his features. He turned back once more to where Elswyth hid, and she quickly closed her eyes, praying he did not see her.
When she opened them again the man named Silas was gone.
When they’d returned to number 4, Elswyth immediately called for supper. Mrs. Rose fetched it, two heaping bowls of stew with fresh bread and wine. Elswyth tore into it like an animal, forgetting all manners. They sat at the tea table by the window while Mrs. Rose daintily stirred her soup.
“You eat like a hog,” Mrs. Rose said, wrinkling her nose. “Please stop making those sounds. I think they can hear you chewing in Berlin.”
Elswyth paused through a gulp of wine and stared across the small table. She swallowed. “If I don’t replenish my vitæ, I’m likely to faint,” she said.
Mrs. Rose sighed. She sipped her small glass of sherry. “Will you at least explain what happened in the hedge maze? You looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”
“There was moaning, to be sure,” Elswyth said, “but no ghost. I’m afraid I stumbled onto a pair of gentlefolk making the beast with two backs.”
Mrs. Rose leaned forward. “My—how scandalous! Surely a husband and wife?”
