One evening in late June, Elswyth sat at her desk in Dr. Gall’s laboratory, struggling to read the small print in a sprawling old book. The sun had just set on a glorious summer day. The dark grounds of the Royal Gardens hid beyond the glass wall ahead of her, distant streetlights shining like stars refracted through water. Yet her head ached. She’d spent the day running between what social engagements Mrs. Rose had managed to secure for her. Tea with Lady Wheatley, needlework with Miss Awn and Miss Farrow, a charity art exhibition at the Woodstock Estate—she’d hardly had a moment to herself. Her work at the Royal Gardens was her one time to be alone. If her evenings were free, she would report to Gall’s laboratory and manage his botanical specimens, record and reset his experiments, and study the stack of recommended reading he’d assigned her for the summer. It was dull at times, but dull was blissful after a day spent as a socialite. Uncle Percival even allowed her to work unsupervised, understanding the necessity of solitude to a scholar’s work.
Silas Blackthorn, evidently, did not understand.
The sound of a wet slap broke her concentration. She frowned, hunching her shoulders over the desk, trying to focus on the book despite her exhaustion and the repeated interruption.
The so-called eldren lights observed in swamps and wetlands can likely be explained by a—
Another wet thud sounded behind her.
—similar principle. Bacteria decomposes dead organic matter and produces methane and phosphine, which upon contact with oxygen ignite to create the phantasmal—
Three more wet thuds sounded.Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
Elswyth slammed the book shut and burst out of her chair. “Eden’s ashes, Blackthorn, will you please stop doing that?”
Silas Blackthorn looked over his shoulder as if surprised she’d spoken. He stood in the opposite corner of the cavernous laboratory, his breath heaving, his shirt half-open, exposing the skin beneath, all shining with sweat. Between the muscles of his chest, nestled between the hair and a few old scars, was his strange amber amulet, catching the light of the gas lamps and flickering like a flame. In his right hand, he held a familiar sword, the same rapier he’d pursued her with in the hedge maze. And all around him, sliced cleanly in half or exploded into pulp, were a half-dozen melons.
Elswyth blinked, her curiosity briefly overtaking her irritation. “What on earth are you doing? We’re supposed to be working.”
Silas shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow. “I am working.”
As if by way of example, Silas shot his left hand forward. A vine, concealed in the sleeve of his overcoat, snapped out across the room. It ensnared a melon where it sat on a table, ripping it back toward Silas with deadly speed. His sword flashed, and the melon fell into pieces, sliced so cleanly in half that not a speck of juice landed on Silas’s shirt.
Elswyth scowled. She could tell from his expression that she was supposed to be impressed. In fact shewasimpressed—that sort of nastic movement was extremely difficult to produce in vines and took scores of vitæ to maintain—but she’d never give him the satisfaction of showing interest, even if she did want desperately to identify the species.
“Working on your assignments. Not on your physique.”
“Well, a sturdy physique is essential to archaeology. Lots of heavy old things to move. Don’t know why the ancients insistedon making everything out of stone, really. Quite inconsiderate, terrible for my back. So, in a way, I am contributing to my work.”
“And I’m sure maintaining your physique has nothing to do with impressing young ladies,” Elswyth said, “or ruining their few precious hours of silence and privacy.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Elderwood,” Silas said. He made a dismissive gesture. “I hardly notice the lab mice.” Silas whipped out his vine again, snatching another melon. This one he sliced in two without looking.
Elswyth made an indignant sound. “I am not a lab mouse.”
“Oh?” Silas said, raising an eyebrow. “What else do you call someone who putters around in a laboratory all day, hardly making a sound?”
“Someone doing their job, I should think,” Elswyth said flatly, “which cannot be said forallof Gall’s assistants. I honestly don’t know why the man hired you.”
Silas nodded to her book. “If my job started and ended with books, I’d rather be a common laborer. At least then I’d exist in the world, rather than only in words. See the sun every once in a while.”
“Botany does not start and end with books. In fact, it demands discovery. Adventure. Fieldwork is what I should like to do, surely, but I must prove myself an apt scholar first. Not everyone is afforded the same opportunities to see the world, Sir Silas.”
“Ah, the poor, well-bred debutante, jealous of the freedom that bastardy affords me. I know this sad tale. My sympathies. Tell me, your golden cage—is it solid, or merely gilded?”
Elswyth sighed. “And to think, we were almost having an actual conversation. I don’t know why I try with you, Blackthorn.”
“If you do not enjoy my company, you are more than welcome to leave. Some fresh air might do a mouse good.”
His vine-whip slid back toward his sleeve, and Elswyth’s gaze followed it. Evidently her interest in his methods was obvious. “You recognize something familiar?” he said. The vine moved like a sentient thing, peeking out of his sleeve and curling around his hand. Elswyth furrowed her brow, looking at the red thorns that speckled the edges of the vine.
“The corpse flower,” Elswyth said, realizing. “The vines that nearly dragged me into its pit. You’ve learned to fabricate them?”
Silas nodded, examining the vine as it twined between his fingers. “There are certain benefits to working in the greatest botanical library in the world.”
“I thought you weren’t interested in floromancy.”
“I’m not interested in botany. Floromancy, of course, has its uses.” To demonstrate, Silas extended the vine and ensnared a dagger waiting on his desktop. It flew to his hand, and he flipped it idly.
