When Persephone woke, the fire had gone out. Sweat covered her brow, clinging to her cheeks like dew. The corsage she’d so carefully grown was wilted, dead, the petals plastered to her skin. Above her, herbs still hung from the ceiling, branches reaching from the canopy of some terrible forest. A dream came back to her in pieces. A white bee drinking blood from a white flower. A little boy with asphodels for eyes, holding a pale, molding fruit.
She rolled onto her side and tried to force her way upright, but her head swam and she lay back down. Pain sliced through her stomach, and she curled into herself, gasping. Finally, she managed to push herself up. Her stomach screamed, but she lifted herself off the table, wavering on unsteady feet. Something moved in the corner of the room: a mass of shadow, covered in rags and moss. Then she saw the hedge witch’s lone yellow eye staring back at her.
“You must rest,” the hedge witch said. “Lie back down.”
When Persephone spoke, her words were dreamy and far away. “Is it done?” she slurred. “Is—is it gone?”
The hedge witch looked at her, her amber eye glinting in the dark. “Aye. It’s dead, but not gone. You will need to pass it soon. Until then you must rest.”
Persephone felt another lurch in her stomach. Tears welled in her eyes. “Good,” she said, forcing a smile, “good. Well, then. I must be on my way.”
She moved around the table, grabbing her ruined gown and holding it to her chest. Then she limped toward the stairs, forcing herself to walk through the lancing pain in her stomach. The hedge witch blocked her path.
“You must stay,” she said. “You are not well.”
Persephone stumbled past her. “No, I—I cannot stay,” she said, still slurring. “People will talk. I have places I need to be. People—people who are expecting me.”
“You’ve been asleep for hours,” the hedge witch said. “Whatever plans you had, you’ve already missed them. It’s dark. The alleys won’t be safe.”
Persephone ignored her. All she could think about was getting out of that witch’s dungeon, into the fresh air, beneath the open sky. She clutched her stomach and hobbled up the stairs, notlooking back. The hedge witch kept calling, following her, but Persephone was faster, even in her stupor. She unlatched the lock, forced open the door with her shoulder, and spilled out into the night.
It was dark. She limped through the narrow alley, ivy on the walls seeming to grab at her, until she stumbled into the street. The coach was not there. She looked left, then right, peering into the fog, but her carriage was nowhere to be found. The man had taken her money and left.
Persephone wanted to cry. Her stomach ached, and her mind felt so clouded. But she made herself move forward, up the muddy street, out of the slums and toward the city. If she could get to a busier road—if she could find her way through the endless labyrinth of alleys and shadows—perhaps she could hail a new coach. Perhaps she could make it to Lady Forscythe’s ball or, if not, at least toward home.
She began trudging up the slope, the mud staining her high-button boots. They were ruined, like the black-stained gown still clutched to her chest. The fog pinched at her, drifting through her shift like searching fingers.
Lady Forscythe’s ball,she thought, through the poison fog of her mind,Syon House. Ten o’clock. Mustn’t be late.She moved faster up the hill, keeping her eyes forward. To her right, a group of women sat outside of a brothel, smoking.
One of them called out at her. “Had a bit too much to drink, love?”
“No—no, thank you,” Persephone slurred, too quietly.
“You looking for work, beautiful? Come on, come inside,” another woman said. The others laughed, a chorus of waitingcrows. Persephone shuffled faster, up the hill, away from the women and their taunting.
Lady Forscythe’s ball. Syon House. Ten o’clock. Mustn’t be late. Mustn’t be late.
A group of men spilled out of the pub behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and one of them caught her gaze, a wiry man with a soot-stained face and a smile full of black gaps. He called after her, and his companions laughed.
Persephone walked faster, but it was no use. The men followed, twice her stride, and her fine shoes were not meant for walking in the mud. She stumbled as she tried to move faster, faster, up the hill.
Lady Forscythe’s. Ten o’clock. Lady Forscythe’s. Ten o’clock.
The men drew nearer. In her clouded mind she was sure she could smell the stink of them, of brandy and rotten beer, of soot and filth andman. Something primal within her whispered that she needed to move faster, up the street, out of there, but her stomach felt as though it were filled with razors. She started to run, gasping as the pain shot through her. Up ahead, light shone at the top of the hill. She was so close.
Her foot slipped. Persephone stumbled, falling to the street. Pain drove through her belly like a lance as her knees hit the ground. The agony escaped her lips as a scream. The ivory muslin fell too, landing in the mud and manure. Filth soaked the fabric; the dress was ruined. She wept, curling inward and clutching her belly and her ruined gown.
“Miss?” said a man from behind her. “You all right then, miss?”
She forced herself up, scrambling onto her feet. “Get away!” she screamed. “Get away from me!”
The man looked at her strangely.
“You need me to get someone for you, miss? You’re bleeding. You know. Down there.”
Persephone looked down. A red stain spread between her legs. It trailed down her gown, blooming like an orchid. She stared at it as though in a dream. Then she turned away from the men, staggering up the hill.
“I mustn’t be late,” she slurred, “but I must—I mustn’t be late.”
