“Stand. Let us look at you,” the queen said.
Elswyth slowly rose from her curtsy. Her nerves prickled as she looked upon the queen. Most of the debutantes curtsied and then were dismissed, having barely caught the woman’s eye. She’d seenthousands pass before her in almost a century of ruling—why take interest in any one girl?
“Hm. Tell us, how did you get that scar?”
She lifted a hand to point at Elswyth. It trembled in the air, like another branch on the Whispering Throne, quaking in an unseen breeze.
Elswyth’s left hand twitched. “When I was a girl, I was afflicted with blight. It is a remnant of that disease, Your Majesty.”
“Curious,” the queen said. She extended her withered hand toward the Crown Prince. “Our grandson Oliver was afflicted by the blight as well. And yet he shows no such scars. Some at court are saying that the scar is a consequence of dabbling with dark magics. As you displayed at Syon House.”
Another whisper from the crowd. The tension in the room seemed like a smog to Elswyth, smothering her. “It was… a rather severe case, Your Grace.”
The queen stared at her, eyes moving up and down her body.
“You are not the beauty your sister was—”
“My apologies, Your Grace.”
“Nor does it seem you have her intelligence, or you would not interrupt us so.”
Someone in the crowd gasped. Blood rushed into Elswyth’s cheeks.
Elswyth opened her mouth to apologize again, then closed it, keeping her head bowed.
“We did so enjoy your sister. So beautiful. So charming,” the queen said. She leaned back in her throne and appraised her with ancient gray eyes. “We wanted the rose of the Elderwood line. It appears we’ve gotten the thorn. You may go.”
The Queen flicked her wrist toward the door.
The room went dead quiet. One heartbeat passed, then another, and Elswyth stayed frozen in place. Finally, a herald came forward, guiding her from the throne room. She passed through the waiting crowd, among the other debutantes, whose sharp eyes devoured her, whose smiles hid behind cupped hands and fluttering fans. It seemed that she passed through a sea of whispers, and the tide was rising up to swallow her.
The herald escorted her to a set of double doors on the right hand side of the room, toward the blissful solitude beyond. Just before she reached it, she heard a familiar voice ring above all the rest.
“Such an angry person,” Venus Forscythe said in a stage whisper. Elswyth caught a glimpse of her, standing in her clique of debutantes. “Certainly you heard what happened at my party. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if she herself was the one who murdered her sister. Oh well, it’s all for the best. No man will have her now. If I were her, I’d return to the woods, where she belongs.”
Venus’s voice rang high above the room. The women around her laughed, and their laughter followed Elswyth out of the hall and into the night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hellebore, also called the winter rose, is a poisonous flower known to cause anaphylaxis, vomiting, and cardiac arrest. In floriography, hellebore signifiesscandalandcalumny.
It took an hour in the garden for Elswyth to calm herself. She found a spot in the hedge maze just outside the palace, where an old floral arch stood in the center, and took a seat on the stone bench there. She forced herself to breathe but could not stop the tremor in her hands. Traitorous tears streaked down her face, and she wiped at them, cursing herself for being so foolish. Queen Viscaria’s word was law among London’s elite. An unequivocal condemnation by Her Majesty surely meant that Elswyth was ruined. There could be no debate about that. She would not marry this season, probably not ever—even the likes of Ficus would not want a bride condemned by the queen. It was already July, and the end of the summer loomed closer each day, a herald of destitution. Her father and grandmother were soon to die, her house would pass to Ficus and whatever fairer bride he chose, and she would inherit nothing. Perhaps Percival would allow her to stay while she sought her own means of survival,although she knew that feeding and housing her was a financial burden that she could not ask him to bear indefinitely. Perhaps Gall would find the funds to pay her for her work—perhaps he would vouch for her to attend Oxford in the fall—but surely even the masters there heeded the queen’s words. Would they take her now that she was reviled among the realm’s most powerful?
She could work. She had talents. Perhaps she could sell some of her effects before Cousin Ficus claimed them and save enough money to start an apothecary, to sell medicines and tonics. Her mother’s necklace alone was solid gold, but she would mourn if she had to part with it. But perhaps it would fetch her enough to feed herself and keep a small flat in an unfashionable part of the city. An image of the Rows crept up in her mind’s eye, with its cramped buildings and filthy streets. With no husband, would that be her fate? To age into some ancient hedge witch, selling fake love potions to unwitting girls?
Fresh hatred arose for Venus Forscythe. Her trickery had caused this. If it were not for the outbreak at Syon House, Elswyth might have stayed free of the queen’s wrath. She might have passed unnoticed under those old, hateful eyes. But no. Venus Forscythe had made Elswyth into a spectacle. People were already prone to suspect her of some moral deformity because of her scar, but Venus had given them a reason to confirm their suspicions. Now she was some fairy-tale sorceress to them, ensnaring unsuspecting gentlemen with eldren magic.
Why?she thought.Why would Venus determine to ruin me if not to stop my search for Persephone? If not to hide the fact that she had a hand in her demise?Had she—and her powerful father—even managed to turn the queen against her? If Venus truly was to be the prince’s bride, she must have some access to Queen Viscaria.Opportunities to bend her ear, disparage Elswyth, and precipitate her destruction.
Elswyth buried her head in her hands and wiped the wetness from her cheeks. Perhaps her hope of finding a husband had been misgiven. But she had time remaining in London. Time to learn, finally, the fate of her sister.
She looked up at the palace, rising high above the hedge maze, windows like luminous jewels in the fading light. Sounds of music and merriment poured out into the city and through the rustling leaves of the hedge. Inside those high palace walls, someone knew what had become of Persephone. And Elswyth would know, too. No one would stop her. Not Venus Forscythe. Not even the queen.
By the time Elswyth had returned from the garden, the debutante ball was well underway. The crowd had dispersed from the promenade and now mingled throughout the central atrium. A dance floor had been cleared at Queen Viscaria’s feet, beneath the branches of the Whispering Throne. Lords and ladies drank tall glasses of sherry, and debutantes stood waiting nervously for gentlemen to approach them. Eligible bachelors wore white roses pinned to their lapel and tended to cluster together, no doubt discussing which young ladies had caught their eye.
When she entered the ball through the main doors, the herald announced her once more. She wished he hadn’t. It drew the attention of the whole room, and it seemed that all conversation stalled for a moment. Even the band missed a few notes before starting up again.
None of them, of course, approached Elswyth. It seemed as though she naturally repelled anyone standing close to her. Theireyes lingered, yes, but Mrs. Rose was wrong: Their morbid curiosity did not, in fact, translate to fascination.
