Still, there came a time when Mrs. Rose had no choice but to allow Elswyth to make her first social calls. Although she had no invitations to teas or garden parties as of yet, it was customary for young debutantes to make house visits to friends of the family. And with the beginning of the social season the hourglass had officiallybeen tipped: Elswyth had five months to find a husband—and a single summer to find her sister.
Elswyth had, of course, prepared for this. She’d spent evenings scouring Persephone’s letters for the names of her friends and acquaintances, and Mrs. Rose coached her through the process of calling upon each one. Soon her schedule was full with appointments—not to mention hours in the laboratory assisting Dr. Gall.
Those initial teas yielded little information. Lady Poplar, a friend of Uncle Percival’s, called Persephonevibrant; Miss Hyaline Lakewood, who met Persephone only once for tea, called hercharming; Miss Cauline Pettle said that she wasdarling. But none of them had ideas about what might have happened to her. Or if they did, they weren’t willing to share such macabre speculation. And none of them really seemed to know Persephone, not in the way that a friend would. They didn’t know how she spent her time or with whom, didn’t know if she’d had suitors or close friends, didn’t know her hopes or wants or dreams. All they could say is how sorry they were that such a beautiful girl had died so young.
It made Elswyth want to scream.
And so, two weeks after the start of the social season, Elswyth made her call to the last woman mentioned in Persephone’s letters: one Miss Venus Forscythe at Syon House. This call was of particular interest to Elswyth; Persephone had been expected at Syon House for a ball on the night she disappeared.
Even at first glance, Syon House was the most lavish residence Elswyth had ever seen. It appeared in the window of the carriage, castle-like, with white stone towers and toothed battlements. The ride through the surrounding gardens seemed to take almost as long as the ride from Devereux Place; it had its own conservatory,fernery, rock garden, and ornamental pond. Such opulence could not be ignored, even on the outskirts of a city as expensive and crowded as London.
Mrs. Rose sat across from her in the carriage. She had not stopped talking for the entire hour-long carriage ride to Syon House. “… And remember that if a gentleman sees you from a window, it is impolite for him to nod first, but if you nod, then he may bow in return. Although I don’t suppose you’ll be seeing any gentlemen through windows. But still, it’s best to be prepared. And remember not to eat peas with a fork, that’s a faux pas, and remember—”
Elswyth reached across the carriage and took Mrs. Rose’s hand.
“Mrs. Rose. I will be fine,” she said.
Mrs. Rose looked surprised, then worried, and then finally annoyed. “That’s what all the women say before they nod at the wrong fellow through a window and are deemed a harlot. After that, it’s a slippery slope, and gaining back one’s reputation is surely difficult. Oh yes, a lack of etiquette is the surest way to land in a house of ill repute, I guarantee it.”
“I do not think that forgetting which fork to use will lead to a life of prostitution. But I appreciate your concern.”
“Oh, butdoremember your lessons dear. It is not every day that a newcomer to London is invited to the house of a duke!”
“You have taught me well, Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said. “I will remember to use the proper fork and do my best not to slip into a life of sin.”
Mrs. Rose fidgeted, her fingers drumming on her purse. “I suppose I shall have to trust you, Miss Elderwood,” she said. “Now, chin up. Shoulders back. And do try to smile.”
The entryway of Syon House was a cavernous foyer capped with a stained-glass dome. Two curving staircases flanked the main hall, a marble chamber lined with doric columns and porphyry busts on stone pedestals, their featureless eyes staring at her blindly. The floor shone white, and a crimson carpet stretched toward the stairs. Farther along, a gold chandelier dangled between the staircases, reflecting light from the dome above and sending shimmering sunbeams across the room. The palace was spotless, as though it were a museum rather than a home.
“This way, Miss Elderwood,” the footman said. Elswyth followed him up the staircase, looking at the portraits to her right, where rows of silver-clad dukes stretched back to the War of Three Roses. The second floor of the house was nearly as spacious as the first, with two wings on either side, lined with countless passages. The footman led her down the right, finally entering through an ornate door into a high-ceilinged drawing room. Massive tapestries hung from the white walls of the room. One depicted the burning of Eden and another Pluto abducting the goddess Proserpina and taking her to the underworld. Other details in the room belied the massive wealth of its owner: crown molding, gold statuettes on marble plinths, towering oil paintings, and thick curtains in crimson velvet.
What Elswyth noticed first, however, were the two people with swords, desperately trying to stab each other. They wore pristine white jackets with shining mesh masks, as they lunged at each other across the wooden floors. The smaller of the two danced toward the larger, one arm behind their back, slashing and thrusting, searching for weak spots. The other retreated smoothly, parryingthe blows with practiced ease. Their swords clashed, and the sound of singing metal filled the room.
The smaller fencer flèched, leaping into the air, and thrust at their opponent’s face. The larger fencer’s mask jerked back, and then the smaller fencer was on them, their blade at their victim’s throat.
“Point,” a woman’s voice said, muffled by a fencing mask. The smaller fighter’s chest heaved. Elswyth noted that this fencer wore no trousers—instead, she wore a white skirt made of the same material as her jacket. She removed her mask, and a stream of golden hair spilled out.
Elswyth recognized the woman beneath the mask immediately. Last she saw that perfect golden hair, it was wrapped around Sir Silas’s fist. Last she saw the woman’s pink lips, they were open in a moan of pleasure, her cheeks flushed with blood. And now—like then—the woman breathed heavily. She turned to her and smiled, and Elswyth tried not to let the shock show on her face. She glanced at the door and then dipped into a low curtsy.
“Miss Forscythe,” she said. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”
“Miss Elderwood! We’ve been waiting for you,” Miss Forscythe said brightly. Elswyth had time to wonder who “we” meant when the second fencer took off their mask.
A troublingly familiar face emerged, with a strong nose, heavy brow, and smooth brown skin.
Silas Blackthorn turned to Elswyth and bowed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Miss Elderwood.”
Elswyth curtsied, staring at the floor. She tried to keep the uneasiness from her voice, suspecting that she’d been caught in some sort of trap. “Sir Silas.”
Miss Forscythe watched their interaction with apparent amusement. Then she turned to Silas. “I think we are done with our lesson for today, Sir Silas. I have a guest.”
“Very well, Miss Forscythe,” Silas said flatly. There was no hint of familiarity in their exchange, nothing to suggest what Elswyth had seen in the hedge maze. It appeared that she was dealing with a very talented pair of actors.
Silas bowed deeply to Miss Forscythe and then turned to Elswyth. “Miss Elderwood. A pleasure to see you again. I’ve missed you around the laboratory. One might think you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have had other engagements, I’m afraid,” Elswyth said.
“Yes, I can see that. But don’t let your teas and parties keep you from me for too long. We have so much to discuss. Regarding our shared passions, of course.”
