With that, Lord Forrester stormed from the room, followed by a flood of other guests. Many of them wept, scratching at the sores on their hands and faces, or yelled obscenities as they passed her. Elswyth reached out. “I can help,” she said. “I can make medicine for the rashes—”
“You’ve done enough,” Lady Forscythe said. Her voice, high and shrill, echoed in the now-silent atrium. Her face was flushed red with anger, and her eyes ate at Elswyth. “I should have expected nothing more from the sister of that harlot Persephone.”
Harlot?she thought, but the mention of Persephone barely registered. The room was moving too quickly, and her mind struggled to catch up. Elswyth turned to Venus, who was busily fanning the fainted Hyacinth Thatcher.
She seemed unable to conjure the words. “You—your—why?” Elswyth said. “Why at your own party?”
Venus looked perfectly innocent. She helped Lord Ashdown lift Hyacinth Thatcher to her feet and guide her to the doors.
Lady Forscythe stepped between Elswyth and Venus. Her face was twisted into a look of pure rage. “Leave,” she said. “Now.”
“You planned all of this,” Elswyth said to Venus, calling over Lady Forscythe’s shoulder, “from the beginning. All so that I wouldn’t tell anybody about you and Silas.”
A slap. Pain exploded across Elswyth’s face.
Lady Forscythe raised her hand again. “I said leave my house at once!” she shrieked. “You have ruined my party, and if I have anything to say about it, you shall never show your disgusting face at a ball again!”
Elswyth flinched at the hatred in the woman’s voice. Tears began to well in her eyes. She turned away, covering her tears and her scar, and ran from the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Pyracantha, meaning “firethorn” in Greek, is a genus of thorny shrub in the rose family. While often grown in gardens for their beautiful flowers, the thorns secrete a poison that can induce agonizing pain. In floriography, firethorns meansolace in adversity.
The door to Dr. Gall’s laboratory creaked open, the elaborate lock echoing within the thick steel. Elswyth lurched awake, a thin string of drool sticking to the schematics on her workbench. A greenish smoke wafted from the glass orb to her right, spilling out over the stone floor.
“By god, what is that smell?” Mrs. Rose said. She stepped into the laboratory, covering her nose with a pink kerchief. “It’s like rotting eggs!”
Elswyth, now suddenly very awake, began fanning the smoke away with a nearby book. The liquid within the sphere bubbled. She snatched the neutralizing agent from the wall, dumped it into the orb, and then watched the concoction hiss its last breath, clumping into a foul green paste. She capped the orb and then ran to the far wall, climbing up the ladder to the high window andthrowing it open; she cranked the hand pump she’d built to vent the gas, and the room began to clear.
Mrs. Rose stepped farther into the room, still covering her nose, inspecting the glass orb. Percival followed, looking wide-eyed around the room. It was foul. Half-eaten meals and mugs of stale tea littered the workstation, and loose papers lay scattered over the floor. She’d barely left the laboratory for a week, burrowing herself into her work, returning home only to scavenge for food and wash her underarms. Suffice it to say she was not welcome at society events after what had happened at Syon House.
“What the devil are you doing in here?” he said, suppressing a cough.
Elswyth cranked once more, and then descended the ladder and collapsed against the wall. Her gown was already stained with ichor and crusted in dirt, so she didn’t think twice about sinking to the floor.
“Another of Dr. Gall’s experiments. The concoction in that orb is a mix of algae and bacteria. Swamp water, essentially. The symbiotic mixture creates flammable gas as a by-product. The idea is to create a device that can produce and store fuel for a steamship. A living battery.”
Percival moved over to the glass orb, looking inside. “Flammable gas—by god, Elswyth, you might as well be building a bomb!”
“And a bomb that smells like flatulence, at that!” Mrs. Rose chimed in.
Elswyth ignored her. “You needn’t worry, Uncle. It doesn’t work. I’ll have to tell Dr. Gall I’ve failed.” She took a rag from the nearby counter and wiped the soot and sweat from her forehead. “Just another thing I’ve made a mess of, it seems.”
Percival and Mrs. Rose shared a sheepish look. Mrs. Rosestepped forward. “Elswyth, we’ve been meaning to talk to you. I understand that the events at Syon House were quite troubling. But it’s been nearly a week that you’ve been locked away. The gossip columns are going wild with speculation—”
Percival cut her off with a withering look. “We’re worried about you, is what Mrs. Rose is attempting to say.”
“I’ve been knocking for an hour, for goodness’ sakes, and you still didn’t answer. I had to have the groundskeeper unlock it! Really, Elswyth, you cannot hide in this dreadful place for the rest of the season!”
Elswyth looked at the door, where Gall’s skeletal butler—Nettles, she thought—eavesdropped shamelessly. “It appears not even three inches of steel can provide me privacy from you, Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said, scowling. She tossed her rag on the ground and then rubbed her temples.
“Privacy! When you’ve been locked away for a week, inhaling toxic fumes, neglecting your grooming. Green Eden, look at your hair!”
She sounded terrified, like some hysterical actress in the Grand Guignol, exposed to a monster. As though Elswyth’s face were cause for revulsion. She turned her scar away, but fresh anger rose up in her when she thought of Lady Forscythe’s last words to her:You shall never show your disgusting face at a ball again.
“Does my appearance offend you, Mrs. Rose?” Elswyth hissed at her. “Am I so monstrous?”
Mrs. Rose stepped back, looking wounded. “No, Miss Elderwood. I only meant—”
