“What now?” Elswyth said.
“Now we wait. You’re certain you have enough vitæ?”
Elswyth nodded. She’d been saving up her stores for two weeks now. She could feel it glowing inside her like the warmth of the sun.
“I’m ready,” Elswyth said, but her hands trembled.
Mrs. Rose nodded and then managed an unsure smile. “And Elswyth, you’ll do splendidly. I have the utmost faith in you.”
Fifteen minutes passed, and the heralds began lining the debutantes up before the doors of the throne room. Elswyth took her spot behind Miss Clavuncula Blum, who glanced at her and then continued whispering with Miss Azalea Perche. She could scarcely see the throne room beyond them but could hear the excited clamor of hundreds of guests, waiting in the wings to judge each debutante as she passed. The herald began calling the women by name, beginning with those of the highest station—Miss Daisy Barclay, Miss Farina Bellerose, Miss Galea Gagneux—all down the line until Elswyth stood just three women from the door, then two, and then she was next.
She watched as Clavuncula Blum stepped down the promenade. The eyes of the ballroom followed her and her crimson gown set with roses. They were near the very end of the line of debutantes, and so the crowd had grown bored. As Clavuncula passed, smiling rigidly, the crowd continued murmuring, not paying her any mind.
Behind Elswyth, Miss Liana de Lavigne whispered: “Roses, again. How sweet,” and the woman next to her laughed. Liana herself wore a massive headdress of orchids, which her mother pruned anxiously.
“Miss Elswyth Elderwood!” the herald called. Elswyth swallowed and then stepped forward onto the long carpet that stretched into the hall.
The throne room of the royal palace seemed more ancient thanthe rest of it. The roof above her was like a cathedral, with stone buttresses arching overhead. Tapestries hung between stained glass windows, and sconces beneath them shone with gaslight.
On either side of the long carpet was the crowd, a mix of lords and ladies in their finery, waiting for the ceremony to be over with and for the ball to begin. But at the mention of her name, the conversation had stopped—every eye in the room seemed to fix on her.
Elswyth kept her gaze forward. At the end of the long walk, a lone tree towered over the room. It grew within the walls of the palace itself, its white leaves reaching up to the stone trusses, giving off an eerie glow. Its white roots crept through the stone floor and the red carpet ended just before it, like the long tongue of a waiting beast.
Nestled in the trunk, where a throne-like seat had been carved, sat a lone dark shape. She seemed minuscule compared to the ancient elderwood tree, but she sat proudly upon the seat, her hands curled over the arms of the chair. She wore a mourning veil beneath her silver crown, and so Elswyth could not see the woman’s face. In the branches of the tree, five ravens waited, their caws sounding over the music of the ballroom. Their black eyes stared down at Elswyth from branches that stretched like a spider’s web over the surrounding court. The leaves of the elderwood scraped together, creating the sound that gave the royal seat its name: the Whispering Throne. Centuries ago, before the War of Three Roses, that had been Elswyth’s ancestor’s seat—it was the very tree from which House Elderwood took its name.
Elswyth’s skin began to crawl, and gooseflesh washed over her exposed arms. As she walked, the people on either side began to whisper. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but shecould guess: Why the bland gown? Why no blooming flowers or bright colors?
Elswyth ignored them, trying to focus on the sound of her own breath and the flow of vitæ that swam and pulsed through her veins. Then, as she walked, she began to transform.
First, she drew vitæ into her shoulders: white bark washed over her skin, then branched outward. Pauldrons of elderwood formed, fanning out to extend from her body in crooked branches. From her forehead, she summoned a crown of elderwood, the thorns and branches cresting above her red hair. Traditionally, debutantes wore flowers to be presented to the queen. To choose a tree was unusual, but that was precisely why Elswyth had chosen it. Elderwood was nearly impossible to grow floromantically; only the most powerful floromancers could work the stubborn wood. It was also somewhat taboo, despite being her family’s namesake. Elderwood trees, after all, were said to be doorways for the dead.
Then, directly on schedule, the gas lamps dimmed.
The room plunged into darkness, and the crowd around her erupted. A few ladies let out yelps of surprise, and gentlemen scrambled for cigarette lighters. Elswyth stifled a smile, imagining Mrs. Rose sneaking around in the maintenance room, fiddling with the pipes. They probably only had a few moments before the staff found her and turned the gas back on.
Elswyth took a deep breath, waiting for just the right moment, and then breathed, pulling vitæ from within herself. She let it spool out into her skin and then into the threads of the dress.
A faint glow began to spread through the gown. The light took one thread and then another, moving through the intricate weave she’d created. It crept into the pauldrons of elderwood and then into her crown. Slowly, the space around her illuminated. Just afew inches at first, then a foot, then three. She breathed again and then released more vitæ into the gown, into the places where the seams connected with her skin. She’d held the vitæ within her for too long, and it felt good to release it. Now she let it wash from her in waves, until the gown was shining like the moon itself.
The crowd gasped. She could see the faces of the first row in the light of her gown, their mouths hanging open. She did feel some pride at that. The fabric was her own design, thin threads of cotton hybridized with elderwood essence, all of it woven together so that it lived, responding to her floromancy. She sent vitæ to the hem, and elderwood leaves sprouted there, creating a luminescent train.
The crowd began to speak. Then they began to cheer. The applause seemed thunderous, but she kept her eyes forward, suppressing a smile.
Elswyth had nearly reached the end of the promenade when the lights flickered back on. That was well and good—she was completely drained of vitæ by the time she reached the throne. Even with weeks of storage, that much elderwood had cost every drop.
When she reached the dais where the Whispering Throne sat, she was breathless, and her head swam. All around her, the applause was raucous. The crowd had come to be entertained, and she had certainly obliged—but ultimately, it was the queen’s approval that mattered.
She took the final steps toward the Whispering Throne. It was even more monumental up close, and she saw now that the tree existed in a dome-like chamber of its own with an oculus above it, providing meager light.
Queen Viscaria sat just ahead of her, amid the runes carved into the trunk of the ancient tree. She was ancient herself. Her skinsagged beneath her veil, and her hair was dry and gray, done in an intricate weave beneath her crown. She was so pale that she might have been part of the tree—the paper-thin skin of her hands was as bone white as the wood beneath them. Jewels were the only color that punctuated the black of her gown and veil: an array of diamonds sat over her brow, shining like ice. In her hand she held a silver scepter topped with a ruby-colored stone the size of an infant’s skull.
To the queen’s right, tucked into the roots of the massive tree, was a second throne, much more modern, made of silver and polished elderwood. A young man stood before it in military regalia, a navy-blue uniform cut with a silver sash and decorated with countless gleaming medals. His hair was the color of chocolate and hung over shining blue eyes. Elswyth recognized the crown prince, Oliver d’Orange-Plantagenet, from Mrs. Rose’s description, but was not prepared for how handsome he appeared. He looked at her with a tight expression, something unreadable in his face.
Elswyth stopped before the throne, and then dipped into the curtsy that she had practiced with Mrs. Rose a thousand times in two weeks. It was a remarkably athletic venture already, performing a proper curtsy, and now Elswyth was totally drained of vitæ. By the time the queen spoke, her left leg shook.
“Elderwood,” the queen said. Her perfect diction seemed at odds with her age, a blade hidden beneath an ancient tongue. It was a voice that expected to be heard.
“Your Majesty,” Elswyth said.
