“You must have some amount of the old blood to master a plant like the corpse flower.”
Silas shrugged. The vine retreated into his sleeve, and he folded his hands behind his back. “Of the old blood I can’t say. My father is fallow, although my mother’s family is an ancient one. But one benefit of being raised between two countries is exposure to a rather diverse array of useful species.”
She thought for a moment. “In botany, there is a term for this. Hybrid vigor. Perhaps it is the same with floromancy.”
A slow smile crept over his lips. “Do I look vigorous to you, Miss Elderwood?”
Elswyth’s face flushed. She squirmed in her seat. “You look like you are covered in fruit juice.”
Silas smiled crookedly. “Well, you are welcome to keep watchingme instead of doing your work, if it pleases you.” The vine-whip flicked out again, ensnaring the last melon. He extended his sword and the fruit impaled on the blade, sliding all the way to the hilt. Juice dripped from the melon down the handle, soaking Silas’s hand. He licked at his fingers and made a sound of surprised pleasure. “Or better yet, make yourself useful and grow some more melons.”
Elswyth scowled again and turned back to her book. She tried to focus on the words, but she was too fixated on the sounds of Silas: his heavy breath, his boots hitting the tile floor, the sound of the sink as he washed his hands. His words flustered her. She wasnota lab mouse. She had a spirit of adventure. She would see the world, when the time was right, not that Silas would ever acknowledge a woman as—
“What’s this?” Silas said. Elswyth nearly leapt out of her seat.
He stood over her shoulder, looking at the open book on the desk. She’d been so lost in her own irritation that she hadn’t even heard him approach. Now he was dangerously close, sweat-speckled shirt hanging near her ear, smelling like melons and… something not at all unpleasant. Juniper. Saltwater. The sea.
“You frightened me,” Elswyth said. “I would appreciate a warning next time. If you must know, it’s a rather cumbersome text about the varieties of flammable gases created in bogs and—”
“Not the bogs, Elderwood,” Silas said. “This.”
He held up a slim envelope. “I found it on the table over there. It’s got your name on it.”
Elswyth took it hesitantly. It did have her name written across the front in stout handwriting that she did not recognize. The full text said:For the eyes of Elswyth Elderwood.She flipped it over. There was no return address, no other writing at all—only a single blackrose attached to the envelope. Elswyth frowned. What had her floriography book said about black roses?
“Well, go on. Open it,” Silas said. “Some admirer, I assume?”
Elswyth ignored the cruel jest. Then she took a scalpel from the desk and sliced through the envelope, taking out the letter inside. She frowned.
It was blank.
“What does it say?” Silas asked.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t be bashful.”
“No, I mean it’s only paper. There’s no writing.”
She turned it over. The other side was empty as well. The parchment was cream-colored, sturdy, but otherwise ordinary. There was no watermark, no monogram or imprint that might reveal the sender.
“Perhaps they sealed in the wrong note,” Elswyth said.
Silas snatched it out of her hand.
“Excuse me!” Elswyth said. “It might be blank, but it’s still mine. It’s rude to take someone else’s letters.”
Silas stepped away, running his hand over the page. Then he held it up to the light.
“It’s not blank,” he said, turning back to her. He grinned.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a hidden message.”
Elswyth stood, striding across the room and snatching back the letter. She felt the paper again, flipping it over once, twice. “I don’t see anything.”
“You don’t know how to look.”
