“I should think it is!” Mrs. Rose protested. “Dr. Gall saved Prince Oliver from blight when the epidemic struck all those years ago.”
Elswyth bowed her head. “If only my family had your services. Blight took my mother from me,” she said. It was not a lie, not really.
Dr. Gall frowned. “I’m afraid I am not all Mrs. Rose thinks ofme. I lost my wife and son to the same illness. Medicine cannot yet forestall fate, I’m afraid.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Dr. Gall said, “But why speak of such things when we have another talented scholar in our midst?”
He gestured to Elswyth and then smiled.
“Me? Oh, no, I would hardly consider myself a real scholar. Not yet, at least.”
“Hogwash. Your Uncle Percival and I are old friends. He told me of your accomplishments, and they are no small thing. I, for one, think it’s wonderful that Oxford has begun accepting women. We need more young ladies entering the medical profession, I’ve always said so. But your uncle tells me botany is your goal?”
Mrs. Rose’s eyes bored into Elswyth. She ignored her.
“It is my favorite thing in the world,” she said simply.
“Then there is no better place in the world than the Royal Gardens,” Dr. Gall said, gesturing around. “British scholars have collected specimens from the farthest reaches of the globe. I myself keep a laboratory here. The medicinal applications of botany, you know, they’re quite extensive. Have you read Dr. Blumenthal’s study onHemsleya amabilisas a treatment for bacillary dysentery…”
Dr. Gall continued as he led her through the gardens. Elswyth enjoyed the conversation immensely. Her conversations with Mrs. Rose rarely ventured beyond the realm of etiquette, but it seemed there was nothing Dr. Gall could not speak knowledgeably about. He explained to her the different uses of each plant they passed, as well as their place of origin. The Royal Gardens had a hall for the great realms of the Empire—India, Africa, China—and each plant seemed more exotic than the last.
Elswyth could have spent decades wandering the labyrinth of the conservatory. To her, it was Eden encased in glass. Lime-green moss drooped from the stone walls, and strangler figs snaked themselves around colossal iron pillars. Fern fronds curled like tentacles above her, dew sticking to their minuscule hairs. Golden songbirds flitted between towering palms, darting over rare orchids that had been collected to extinction, and daylight poured from the dome above, where twisting trees opened like sunbursts beneath a cathedral of glass. She loved it in those halls of endless life.
Persephone would have loved it, too.The thought seemed to make light drain from the room. Guilt washed over her, that she should be enjoying herself while her sister could not. But it was impossible not to see her sister in every flower, in every tree. There was a rose she had worn in her hair, and here was a tree like the one they’d climbed as children. Even in death, she was in everything, following Elswyth like a shadow.
They had only just finished the Waterlily Atrium when Mrs. Rose insisted on a break. A stone bench sat just before the entrance to the Hall of Carnivorous Plants, marked by a wrought-iron sign. When Mrs. Rose had sat down and successfully cornered Dr. Gall into a conversation about remarrying, Elswyth was able to sneak away.
The interior of the Hall of Carnivorous Plants was darker than the other rooms. Towering prehistoric ferns seemed to block out the glass sky, making the lone path seem like a shadowed trail through some distant jungle. She perused the carnivorous plants on either side of it. Venus flytraps stood waiting, their fang-like cilia open to the dank air. Pitcher plants dangled from vines, purple mouths shining with viscous liquid. Cobra lilies curled over the trail, their translucent skin set with branching veins, their flowers fanning out like serpents’ hoods.
At the center of the atrium, under a shaded rotunda of opaque glass, was a circular enclosure. In the middle of it, surrounded by smaller ferns, was an immense plant. It had a bulbous stalk, nearly twelve feet in height, set in a pit in the ground. Then she recognized it as a gargantuan flower. White petals spread over the soil around it, gradually fading to red as they dipped into the pit of the flower itself. A foul smell radiated from it, like rotting meat. Elswyth covered her nose and stepped toward the placard.
The Yatavean corpse flower(Morscaedes titanum yataveus)—not to be confused with its Sumatran cousin—is the largest known species of carnivorous plant, sometimes reaching up to twenty feet in height and spanning several dozen feet in diameter. The greatest of its kind are known to digest mammals as large as elephants. The central spadix emits pheromones that attract its prey, and once the prey is caught, enzymes in the pitcher digest the creature, producing the smell of rotting meat, thus the name “corpse flower.”
Elswyth cocked her head and examined the plant. She removed her commonplace book from her reticule and began to sketch: the large central tower, the fanlike petals, the central pit. She walked around the perimeter, trying to capture every possible angle. But the enclosure was large, and it was difficult to see into the central pit, which dipped below the earth. She sketched some more, elucidating the light and shadow of the plant, small lines at first, then longer ones, finding the best shape. She crosshatched and shaded, labeling the petals and the spadix, and adding notes from the placard. But without a better view of the pitcher, there was no telling what was inside.
Elswyth hesitated and then looked around the room. She was alone in the Hall of Carnivorous Plants—no ladies or gentlemen strolled under the ferns, looking at the flytraps or the sundews. And it was shaded—even if someone entered, would they see her?
Elswyth lifted her skirts and stepped over the barrier, into the enclosure. The soil was soft under her shoes, and each step released more of the foul odor. She moved closer, toward the edge of the white petals, until she could see down the gentle slope of the flower and into the pit.
It was large enough for a person, certainly. She could see the liquid that waited at the bottom—see the rats and birds that had crawled in, slipped down the petals, and were now digesting. She covered her nose again, turning away.
Then, from under her foot, she saw movement. The petals just below her had lifted slightly, their viscous surface shimmering in the meager light. From beneath the petal, a vine curled outward. It was a deep green color and set with pale white thorns, like teeth. Elswyth cocked her head, beginning to sketch—
And the vine whipped outward, curling around her leg.
Elswyth screamed as thorns bit into her skin. From all around her, under the other petals, more vines appeared. The one around her ankle yanked her down, forcing her to her hands and knees. Its tendrils led back to the pit of the flower, where more vines unfurled, snaking toward her.
Another vine wrapped around her leg. And another. Thorns bit like teeth as the vines constricted, and a numbness seeped through her, crawling up her skin in a wave.
The vines began to pull. She dropped her commonplace book, scrambling, grabbing at the dirt with her hands, looking for any purchase, but all she came back with was fistfuls of dirt and fern. The vines dragged her onto the slippery white petals, and soon there wasn’t anything to grab at all, only her hands scraping at the flower, the pit of it approaching, the acid-filled mouth stuffed with corpses.
Oh, Eden, oh no, oh no—
A hand wrapped around her waist and yanked her upward. Metal flashed and the vine on her leg went slack, the thorns slipping from her skin. Then the strong arms dragged her back and away from the corpse flower. Then she was being carried like a child, tucked against a hard body. Her vision turned hazy. That numbing feeling began to spread over her whole body, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep.
As her vision faded, she caught a glimpse of the man carrying her: dark-haired, brown-skinned, amber-eyed, and strikingly familiar. Then the darkness of the room descended on her like a cloud, and she faded into sleep.
A burning sensation rocked Elswyth’s nostrils. She woke, gasping, coughing up saliva that formed in her throat. A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, keeping her steady. When she opened her eyes, she saw Dr. Gall, kneeling before her, a concerned look on his face. Next to him, Mrs. Rose stood, frantically waving a hand fan at Elswyth.
