“That seems as cruel as thorns and vines. Bewitchment through botany.”
Kehinde shrugged. “Cruel, but not uncommon. Think of all those debutantes and their ambitious mothers—how many playful touches, how many dances and drinks are laced with an aphrodisiac, a hypnotic, a stimulant… In nature, a creature uses everything at its disposal to survive. And even in those lofty ballrooms, people are not free of their nature. London and a jungle have more in common than you’d think.”
Elswyth arched an eyebrow. “You mean to suggest that women in society are using floromancy to manipulate one another?”
“Of course. Where do you think I learned the subtle art of psychotoxins, if not by observing the ladies of court?”
“I suppose you learned these techniques from the same order that taught you the Ebony. Or from some far-flung place in your travels,” Elswyth said.
Kehinde smiled, brown eyes shining in the moonlight. “London is as far-flung to me as any place. Yet this is a truth you find everywhere. In every forest on Earth there exists a web of poisons and antidotes. A plant is eaten by an insect until that plant develops a toxin to defend itself; the insect evolves an antidote, and the cycle repeats—poison, antidote, new poison, new antidote. Floromancers are no different. A tangled web of poisons and cures has woven itself over the centuries, and you must learn to navigate it quickly, lest you be consumed by it.”
Elswyth stared at the glistening droplet of poison, still dangling from Kehinde’s finger. Then she finished her tea and set her cup down on the table. “All right. I am ready to begin.”
Kehinde cocked his head. “We already have.”
“What do you mean?”
He nodded at her teacup. “You’ve been drinking poison for ten minutes.”
Elswyth dropped the teacup. It bounced off the tabletop and then shattered on the ground. When she stared at her now-empty hand, it shook violently. Her skin shone unusually pale in the moonlight, and blue veins swam darkly beneath the surface.
“What?” she said, her voice wavering.
“Poison,” Kehinde said. “I poisoned you.”
“When? Why?”
“Right when you sat down. I secreted poison through my hand as I made your tea. It takes a while for this particular toxin to take effect, especially when absorbed through the stomach. But it’s highly concentrated. I don’t doubt that the dose is enough to kill you.”
Elswyth put her hand to her stomach, which had begun to roil. She looked at where the tea lay in a puddle around the broken cup. A small film of iridescent oil shimmered on the surface like a rainbow in the moonlight. “Yes, but why?”
He shrugged. “I intend to teach you to become an adequate master of poisons. The first step in training is to expose oneself to as many poisons as possible, to identify their essences, and, eventually, to build a tolerance. The practice is called mithridatism.”
Kehinde bent down and dipped his finger into the spilled tea. He tasted it, considering. “Hm. Not bad. I learned the technique while living among a group of vishakanya in India. ‘Poison Maidens,’ they’re called. Orphan girls raised to be immune to poison. They become quite effective assassins.”
Elswyth couldn’t focus on his words. The world seemed to blur.
“I think you might have forgotten the fact that poisons kill people. I cannot learn anything if I am dead!”
Kehinde tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Oh—yes. I must have let that slip my mind. It’s no matter. All you need to do is identify the poison I gave you via the essences in your bloodstream, and then concentrate an effective antidote.”
“But I have no idea how to create an antidote!” Elswyth said.
Kehinde shrugged. “I suggest you find out how…” he said. He took out his pocket watch and tapped the glass. “In the next five minutes. Once the bleeding starts, you won’t have more than a few minutes of consciousness—”
Elswyth coughed. Blood erupted from her mouth, splatteringacross the stone floor. She stared at it, an ink blot that seemed to spread and shift in the shadows.
“—before death,” Kehinde continued.
Elswyth felt as though someone were pressing a long needle into her brain. Kehinde wandered in her vision, breaking into reflections of himself. Her heart pounded strangely in her chest, missing a beat and then fluttering out three more, a drummer that had lost the tune.
“You’re…” Elswyth stammered. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Did you think that learning to be a poisoner would be safe?” Kehinde said. “You will only die if you allow yourself to. The Reaper will not wait until you are ready to defend yourself, and neither will I.”
His words seemed faraway. She stood and then promptly collapsed to the ground, landing painfully on the stone. Her wrists screamed. She tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled and gave out, sending her back to the ground. She rolled onto her back, her breath ragged, a film of sweat forming on her brow even in the icy air.
Above her, Kehinde came into focus. He swayed like an old tree, the moon shining behind his head like a crown. He said something, but it was lost to her, as though she were hearing him from far away, underwater. Then, as though pulled down by a current, the world slipped away.
