The palace loomed to her right.Palaceseemed an inadequateword. It was a jewel, a city within a city, with branches and wings all made of white stone and golden windows shining in the sunset light. A high iron fence separated the street from the queen’s residence, and Scottish Guards punctuated each length of it like statues, standing stone-still.
The carriage pulled through the gate of the palace, leaving the clamor of the street behind. After a few minutes of waiting, they stopped before the massive double doors at the head of the carriage circle. A royal footman stood there, who opened the door and waited for Elswyth’s hand. She took it, stepping out of the carriage and onto a sprawling red carpet. Mrs. Rose followed her, the appropriate number of steps behind.
The palace seemed monumental to her, floor upon floor of columns and porticos and balustrades. The carpet before her led up the steps and into the main hall, where debutantes waited anxiously, their mothers in tow. She imagined her own mother there, by her side, and felt a wash of sadness. Then she imagined Persephone being presented not a year before, and the sadness seemed to double.
Mrs. Rose stepped up behind her. “Onward and upward, Miss Elderwood. The queen waits for no man—or woman, I suppose.”
Elswyth entered the yawning mouth of the palace doors. On either side of her, murals on the walls depicted the War of Three Roses: Queen Rowyn Elderwood’s floromancer knights in wooden armor faced Queen Aurelia Plantagenet’s soldiers with swords of steel. It was fitting, she supposed. That war had almost ended House Elderwood and established the supremacy of the Plantagenet dynasty. And now, centuries later, the last scion of the Elderwoods would present herself to their family’s ascendant rival. She would prostrate herself at Queen Viscaria’s feet to be judged, with the fate of her bloodline hanging in the balance.
The stewards led them into a waiting room with the other debutantes, and immediately Elswyth was overwhelmed by color; they might as well have entered a greenhouse. Each young lady was covered head to toe in flowers. Those ladies with old blood sprouted flowers themselves, those unlucky enough to be born fallow merely pinned them to their gowns or wove them into their hair. All around her, mothers fussed over their daughters’ costumes, putting the finishing touches on their elaborate floristry.
Mrs. Rose’s lessons did seem to have taken root in Elswyth. The room before her was not just a sea of random faces but a collection of names and titles, and beyond that, a web of intricate social connections. She saw Miss Calyptra Fairfield wearing a bouquet of pansies in her hair, Miss Phyllis Awn with a gown laced with violets, and Miss Nymphaea Barkley with a bustle covered in golden daisies. Compared to the other debutantes, Elswyth’s gown must have seemed rather plain: an unplaceable white fabric embroidered with elderwood leaves along the corset. The figure of the dress was slender, with no bustle or crinoline, and the gown left her shoulders bare.
Elswyth counted off the ladies in the room once more until she was sure she knew each one. She had initially assumed that her sister’s killer was a man, but that was not necessarily so. Venus Forscythe had shown her that women could be just as dangerous. Elswyth suspected that the person responsible for Persephone’s disappearance was powerful, wealthy, and, above all, socially influential—and ladies, even more so than lords, dealt in influence. But would one of these women have the influence needed to sway the police? And if the person who murdered Persephone really was the Reaper, would any of these women have reason to hunt and kill prostitutes? Would any of them have access to thefloromancy necessary to create the mandrake? She felt these disparate connections like a web, and yet she could not see the spider at its heart.
Elswyth joined the debutantes gathering near the double doors at the end of the room. Two ladies in front of her whispered to each other, distancing themselves. She saw the way their eyes ran along her scar, no longer hidden by powder.
Mrs. Rose was reminding her, once again, of the importance of a strong curtsy, when a voice said her name. She turned to see Venus standing with her mother. Venus looked radiant. She wore a gown of crimson chiffon with a heart-shaped bust and flaring skirt. In her hair, she wore a coronet of orange blossoms. Likewise, she wore a long cloak woven from whiteGenistapetals—both oranges and broom flowers were symbols of Queen Viscaria’s house.
Venus smiled, although her voice had carried a bitter edge. Lady Narcissa Forscythe looked elsewhere, refusing to acknowledge Elswyth.
Elswyth couldn’t help but scowl, but Mrs. Rose cleared her throat and Elswyth forced a polite smile. She’d been reminded, over and over, that she must remain civil. All around her, prying eyes lingered on their conversation.
She curtsied shallowly, inclining her head. “Miss Forscythe,” she said. She bowed more deeply as she turned to Venus’s mother. “Lady Forscythe.”
Venus turned to Mrs. Rose. Her lips twitched into a smile. “Is this your mother? Ever so pleased.”
“This is Mrs. Vivian Rose,” Elswyth said. “She is assisting me today.”
Miss Forscythe’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I knowyou—the matchmaker. Well, there’s no shame in that, you know. We all must do what we must. I understand perfectly, given your circumstances. Why, without my mother, I’d be so lost. I can’t imagine. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Lady Forscythe glanced at Elswyth and began fanning herself. “Yes. Such a shame to be here alone. Every year, Queen Viscaria expects even more extravagant displays. Why, I’ve been attending the presentation for two decades now, and even I was at a loss. Of course, Madame de Lis did beautifully with Venus’s gown. But that can’t be said for everyone in attendance.”
Lady Forscythe’s eyes lingered on Elswyth’s gown. Elswyth managed to keep her expression neutral.
“Oh, come now, Mother,” Miss Forscythe said, “I think it’s a wonderfully simple dress. No floromancy at all—probably best after the incident at my party, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but no telling what the queen will think of it. She does adore a show.”
Elswyth smiled thinly. She was about to excuse herself, but Mrs. Rose stepped in. “Certainly Venus’s gown will fascinate Her Majesty. The color is so bright, it simply cannot be missed.”
Venus’s smile faltered for a moment. In that split second, Elswyth had never been more grateful for Mrs. Rose.
Venus regained her composure. “If you do need anything, Miss Elderwood, do not hesitate to ask. We hold no ill will toward you after what happened at our party. We know that it can be so daunting to be a debutante without a mother… or even a sister. And we always strive to help the less fortunate. Even when we are wronged.” Venus turned to her mother, who nodded sympathetically.
Elswyth wanted to slap her; her scarred hand twitched.Did you do it?she thought, watching every subtle movement of Venus’s expression.Did you murder my sister?
Venus laughed. “Why, if I was here all alone I wouldn’t even be able to dress myself.”
“Certainly no one would accuse you of that, Miss Forscythe,” Elswyth said. She let her eyes linger on Venus’s dress and managed the smallest disapproving frown. “I did expect another green gown from you, however. You looked so lovely with those leaves in your hair. Tell me, will Sir Silas be in attendance today?”
The room erupted into whispers. Lady Willow and Lady Awn, standing nearby, dared to laugh.
Venus’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Lady Forscythe’s face bloomed red. Before either of them could speak, Mrs. Rose cut in. “If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to speak to my protégée before the ceremony begins.”
With that, Mrs. Rose took Elswyth by the hand and led her away from the Forscythes. All around them, the sound of chatter resumed. Every lady in the room had stopped to watch their confrontation. When they were well away in a corner, Mrs. Rose smiled wickedly.
“Fabulous, Elswyth, fabulous. Oh yes, that will set the gossips talking. Your barbs were perfectly sub rosa.”
