“Persephone,” Elswyth said. “Persephone’s gown. I know it.” She recognized the embroidery—it had been a gift from their father before the start of her season, and Persephone had hated it, because it was already three seasons out of style. But what was it doing here? And how could Persephone have dropped her gown? Why hadn’t she been wearing it?
She turned back to Gillie, and this time she could not keep her voice even.
“Gillie, you must tell me where you found this gown. You must tell me exactly what you saw—”
A nasally voice interrupted her. “Andwhatdo we have ourselves here?”
Elswyth turned, eyes adjusting to the light, and saw three men approaching. They wore long black coats with wool peaky caps, and their smiles seemed to catch the moonlight. Each wore a single red carnation pinned to their lapel.
Elswyth felt something tug at her reticule. She turned and saw Gillie darting away, down the alley—a stalk of ivy sprouted from her wrist, clutching Elswyth’s purse. Elswyth wanted to shout, but the men were drawing nearer, and Gillie had already fled, blending into the shadows and slinking away. Her soot-stained face vanished against the bricks. A week’s allowance gone. She only hoped the girl could hold on to it.
“A few ne’er-do-wells, out past curfew,” one of the men said, a barrel-chested brute with a greasy mustache.
“Coming from an opium den, likely,” said another. He came into focus, tall and thin with sallow skin and weaselly eyes. He looked to Kehinde and then to Elswyth. “A foreigner and a whore,” the man said.
Elswyth’s face flushed. “You will not speak to us like that,” she said. Kehinde, next to her, touched her arm.
The men looked at each other and then laughed. “Well, I’ll be. Certainly not a whore, to have an accent so fine,” the broad one said. “M’lady.” He mocked her diction with a tip of his cap.
To her surprise, Kehinde smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said jovially, “thank goodness you are here. I’m afraid we’ve become a bit lost. I was just escorting the young lady home. Perhaps you could direct us back toward the road?”
The men paused and then chuckled. The weaselly one looked at Kehinde, who continued to smile. “You look like a suspiciousone,” the weaselly man said. “Looking to make this girl your next victim, eh, Reaper? Get off on ripping ’em open?”
Elswyth summoned her most aristocratic voice. “Leave him be. Or I will have you arrested by morning. I am the niece of Lord Devereux, and—”
Elswyth stopped. The man was laughing.“Niece of Lord So-and-So,”he said, looking to his companions. He turned to face her, shrugging. “I don’t know who the hell that is, love. But I wonder what Lord So-and-So would think if someone found his niece in the Rows, looking for a private place to playhide the picklewith her butler. My, what a treat that would be if the society papers found out.” He grinned, showing a shining gold tooth. “Would take a pretty penny to keep that from getting to the gossips,” he said.
He was close enough that she could smell the liquor on his breath. His friends laughed behind him, closing in. The man lifted his hand to Elswyth’s face, grabbing her chin. “A shame you’ve got that scar,” he said. From his pocket, he produced a straight razor and flicked it open. “Don’t make me give you another one.”
Elswyth froze, feeling the man’s greasy hand on her face. Almost instinctually, thorns sprouted from her fingertips.One finger in the eye,she thought,then run. If you can make it to—
A fist exploded from Elswyth’s right, connecting with the man’s jaw. Blood sprayed across her face as he fell, unconscious, to the ground, his mouth twisted at an awful angle. Next to her, Kehinde stood, his arm extended. His knuckles were glossed over with black wood, shining in the meager light.
Elswyth looked at Kehinde again. In fact, his entire face was covered in the same black wood. It was completely smooth, almost polished-looking, like a carving in ebony. His facial scars seemed more intricate somehow, tracing out patterns in his wooden skin.A subtle gold grain swam beneath the black, forming patterns on his cheeks. Even his eyes were made from wood, his pupils just a shade darker than the rest.
The next man started to shout for help, but Kehinde had already moved on him, taking his cane and sweeping the man’s legs out. He landed in a heap, a pained gasp escaping his lips. Then Kehinde’s cane came down on the man’s head, cracking it against the stone.
The third thug—the largest—charged at him, producing a cudgel from his coat, ready to strike. The club came down on Kehinde’s forehead, knocking his head to the side. Kehinde, unperturbed, slowly turned back to face him. The club had left no mark on his strange wooden skin. Still, Elswyth winced, crying out as the man reared again. This time, Kehinde parried with his cane and then landed a blow on the man’s ribs.
The man keeled over, staggering backward. Then something silver flashed in his hand. A pistol. He pulled it from his waistcoat, aimed it at Kehinde, and fired.
The gunshot rang throughout the alleyway. Elswyth barely had time to scream.
Kehinde’s hand flashed. The bullet connected with his forearm and then, impossibly, ricocheted to the left, embedding itself in the brick wall with a plume of dust.
The man stared at him, dumbfounded. “What the bloody hell are you?”
Kehinde swiped his arm downward, and thorns flew from his fingertips. They struck the man in the face, each one oozing black liquid.
The man wavered, stupefied, before his eyes fluttered closed. Then he collapsed, convulsing on the ground.
Elswyth’s breath raced, each inhale more difficult than the last. “You—you killed him!”
“No. But perhaps I should have. The thorns are laced with a sedative,” he said, face impassive. “He will wake in a few hours. The others, though…”
Kehinde turned to face the other two men. Elswyth saw that only one remained. The third man—the weaselly one who had touched her scar—was sprinting down the alley, cradling his jaw in his hand, trying to yell for help.
Next to her, Kehinde kneeled. Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a needle-like thorn capped with a puff of cotton. He put the thorn in his mouth, letting it steep for a moment, and when he withdrew it, a viscous yellow liquid glistened on the tip.
