Calabar bean, also called “E-ser-e,” is a poisonous legume used by the people of Old Calabar as an ordeal poison for those accused of witchcraft. A form of poison duel was also practiced: Adversaries would split the bean, and whoever survived was considered victorious.
Elswyth stepped into the garden and looked over her shoulder at the high windows of the house where her uncle slept. No sounds of protest came at the closing of the door. Darkness had long since settled over the garden of number 4 Devereux Place save for the moonlight that crept through the branches of the creaking trees. In that garden, between the pale columns of the ivy-covered pavilion, Kehinde Ogunlana waited. A silver tea set sat before him, reflecting the light of the moon.
Mrs. Rose had meant it when she said that Elswyth would spend every waking moment preparing for Miss Forscythe’s party. As such, she had been forced to meet with Kehinde at hours not traditionally consideredwaking. Over the last two days, she’d had three practice dinners, twenty rounds of parlor games, and an incalculable number of mock conversations. Mrs. Rose herself acted thepart of prying lords and ladies—complete with costumes and accents. She’d taken Uncle Percival away from Parliament to practice dancing, and they waltzed until Elswyth’s feet ached and Percival escaped out the back door.
Elswyth only wished she could do the same, but Mrs. Rose was always over her shoulder, questioning her. How must she respond to receiving a compliment on her gloves? How deep must one curtsy for the second son of a baronet? Which fork must she use for oysters and which for asparagus? The woman hadn’t left until eleven o’clock, and only then could Elswyth make her rendezvous with Kehinde.
Elswyth had needed to make a show of readying for bed in order to coax Mrs. Rose into retiring for the evening. As a result, she wore only a simple white nightgown and a thin robe. The train of the robe followed her, ghostlike, trailing on the grass. The night was cold, although spring woke more with each passing day. The snow was gone, and small green sprouts teased at the surface of the flower beds. Kehinde spent hours each day in the garden, coaxing plants from the soil with a touch, waking vines with a whisper. Now he sat in a fine suit of black wool and matching woven cap, his scars shining in the moonlight, over two steaming cups of tea. Elswyth stepped into the pavilion and slid into the wrought-iron chair across from Kehinde. “It’s frigid. Must we really meet outside?”
“If we are to keep this a secret from your uncle, then yes,” Kehinde said. “Tea?”
Elswyth gratefully accepted the cup, which warmed her frozen hands. She sipped, savoring the earthy flavor of oolong. Percival had been right; Kehinde really did make a better cup than anyone she knew.
“How are you not freezing?” Elswyth said. “You’ll catch your death.”
Kehinde smiled. “As I said, I am a man of many talents.”
Elswyth put her tea down. “How am I supposed to learn anything from you when you won’t speak plainly?”
Kehinde looked amused. He sipped his tea again. “My teacher used to do the same thing to me, you know. She said that learning comes from the pupil, not the master. If I didn’t make you work for it, you wouldn’t remember anything I say.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that when I am about to be murdered by a madman. Certainly he will respect your balanced approach to pedagogy.”
Kehinde laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He set down his tea, cleared his throat, and then raised his hand. Tree branches sprung from his fingers, sprouting green needles.
“The Siberian spruce,” he said, “Picea obovata.It can survive being entirely encased in ice without succumbing to the cold. Your uncle and I once traveled with a Sámi floromancer who taught me the technique needed to sustain oneself in freezing temperatures, thank goodness. No amount of hot tea could make these London winters bearable for me. Here, take some,” Kehinde said. He plucked pine needles from his fingertips and placed them on the table before Elswyth. “There are a few other herbs that are required to achieve the full effect, but this will be a good start.”
Elswyth took the pine needles and examined them with her floromantic sense, sending lines of vitæ through the waxy surface, through the pathways that spread throughout the needle like rivers. Slowly, she placed the needle on her tongue, tasting it, feeling the essences within illuminate—shapes appeared in her mind’s eye: constellations of vitæ, each with its unique pattern and purpose.
She began to chew the needle, then swallow it, and more shapes and structures appeared to her until she could feel the essence of the tree. She raised her hand, summoned the constellations of vitæ she’d felt before, and pine branches sprouted from her fingertips.
Kehinde looked at her curiously. “You know, that is a rare talent. Being anatural, as they say. The ability to fabricate foreign plants from a single taste is not common, even among the most capable of our kind.”
Elswyth shrugged. “But certainly not unheard of. I’ve read of many—Artemisia the Elder, Mòrag Màiri. Even my own ancestor Queen Rowyn Elderwood was said to have the ability.”
“Yes, but there is a reason those are historical examples. Can you name anyone you know personally that can do the same?”
Elswyth frowned. “What about you? What you did in the alley—it seems you’ve mastered hundreds of species.”
“I have. And all of them have been hard won through study and practice.”
Elswyth thought for a moment, fidgeting with her cup of tea. “My mother had the ability. Not that she would ever boast of it. But she could master any species she came into contact with, as I can.”
Kehinde took a sip of tea. “Curious as ever you Elderwoods. Always another mystery.”
“I do not mean to pry. But you are one to talk, Kehinde.”
He smiled, setting down his cup. “You speak, of course, of my armor.”
“I have performed every possible calculation. There is no way you could hold enough vitæ to summon it. Even if you could, there is no wood in the world hard enough to deflect bullets.”
“Ah. No wood thatyouknow of,” Kehinde said, smiling.
“Is it the African ebony,Diospyros crassiflora? Even that still shatters when met with modern rifles. Perhaps in some concentrated form? Or hybridized with another tree, something likeLignum vitæ?”
Kehinde smiled as she spoke, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He set down his cup of tea and began pouring two more. “I suppose I should have known you would not let this go. Your curiosity might one day be the death of you, Elswyth Elderwood. But tell me, what calculations are these?”
Elswyth pressed her pointed finger on the table. “In terms of pure vitæ expenditure, your armor is impossible. If I wanted to grow bark over my skin, that is one thing. But to make that wood dense enough to stop a bullet—and to summon and dismiss it multiple times, as you did—it cannot be done. The amount of food one would need to eat or sunlight one would have to absorb is astronomical. Even if one were to drink heavy cream in a greenhouse all day.”
