She did her best to smile and dipped her head to the few acquaintances she passed, even as they did their best to ignore her. She moved toward a servant carrying a tray of champagne, and as she took a glass, noticed that the largest group of bachelors was staring at her. One whispered something to his friend, and they both laughed uproariously. Her scar burned.
They do not need to like you,Elswyth thought.Their opinion of you does not matter. All that matters is learning what they know about Persephone.
She repeated this over and over again like a prayer, but no matter how much she wanted to be immune to their stares, she still felt like that scared, scarred little girl she’d once been. She wished Persephone were there—Persephone, who always dazzled so that she didn’t have to. Her shield against the world.
With nothing else to do, Elswyth observed. She stood by one of the large murals and watched the party play out before her. She noted the flowers that each debutante wore, testing herself on their meanings. Those wearing acacias, Mrs. Rose had said, already had a gentleman in mind for marriage. Those gentlemen who wished to court her might be so bold to assume that he himself was her secret love, or was at least daring enough to try and steal her away.
These were all well-known signs, things any gentleman likely knew. But there were less obvious signals that filled the room in flashes of color. A woman wearing tiger lilies expected to be offered a hefty bride gift, while one wearing dahlias could offer a substantial dowry.
And there were endless more, flowers Elswyth couldn’t even name, each varietal and cultivar with its own distinct meaning.She watched the ladies watching each other, subtly changing the flowers in their hair. Insects flashing their poisonous colors, speaking a language that men could not perceive.
At the front of the room, by the Whispering Throne, Elswyth spotted Venus. She stood after a perfect curtsy before the queen, conversing with her. The queen did not smile, but she tolerated her presence. That alone was a sure sign of favor. When the queen was finished with Venus she dismissed her with a flick of her wrist. Miss Forscythe allowed herself a small, satisfied smile and then went to rejoin her mother.
The moment she was alone, gentlemen swarmed her. They each presented her with a flower, sprouted from the veins in their wrists, the meaning of which corresponded with their intentions. Passion, love, status, wealth—whatever they might have to offer.
From those she wanted to dance with, she accepted the flower with her right hand. From those she would dance with only out of obligation, she accepted with her left. And for those she wouldn’t dance with at all, she graciously declined them outright. By the time the men were finished, she stood with a looming bouquet of roses and tansies and viscaria, lilies and oleander. She put them all aside when Prince Oliver approached her, handing them to her mother as though they were an afterthought. He bowed and summoned a white rose from the veins of his wrist, which curled and bloomed into his hand. She took it and grafted it to the skin above her temple, signaling to the other gentlemen that she was spoken for.
Above them, in the Whispering Throne, Queen Viscaria looked on as if pleased. Prince Oliver offered Venus his arm, and they moved to the dance floor, looking as perfect as a pair could be.And yet Elswyth could not help but think the prince looked uninterested in his partner. His eyes were glazed over, his expression blank.
A hush had fallen over the room the moment that Prince Oliver approached Venus. It was as though everyone there was watching a fairy tale unfold before their eyes. Elswyth turned away, downing the rest of her champagne.
Elswyth considered taking another glass but then thought better of it. She would need her wits about her, if she was to inquire about Persephone. That, and she generally found it best not to drink away one’s self-pity.
She doubted anyone would talk to her long enough to answer questions about her sister. But if she secured just one dance, perhaps she could leave with her head held high. Not as a complete pariah, which would hopefully hold the door open for future conversations with peers. She needed to find someone who was willing to be seen with her. Someone unafraid of the queen, or at least so afraid of Elswyth that she could corner him into conversation.
She watched the dancers through the first quadrille and another waltz. She tried to smile—to look available, affable even—but her mood soured by the moment. She hoped that some desperate eccentric would ask her for a dance, but even those unfashionable gentlemen turned their shoulders when she walked by.
Venus danced twice with the prince. If Mrs. Rose was to be believed, that was as good as a proposal, although nothing had been announced as of yet. Her mother radiated pride as she watched Venus dance, and Elswyth understood why: Venus was perfect. She never tripped over herself, never buckled under the weight of all the eyes on her. She didn’t wither in the light, not like Elswyth; she bloomed in it. A flower in full sun. In that moment, watching herwith the prince, Elswyth fought a weakness that she’d kept buried her whole life. That despite her insistence, she wanted nothing more than to be like Venus Forscythe. To be adored. Unscarred.
She pushed the feeling down, remembering her uncle’s words. That had always been Persephone’s lot, not hers. She was not the more beautiful daughter, no, or the more graceful, but she was the one who persisted. And so she would continue to persist.
She left her perch and began to move through the ballroom, and finally, after two dances of walking and pretending to admire the artwork, she saw him.
Elwood Gardner,she thought,third son of Lord Haymitch Gardner and Lady Senesce Gardner.She recognized him from the description in Mrs. Rose’s dossiers and recalled as many details about him as she could. Elswyth might not be socially graceful, but if she was talented at anything, it was rote memorization. Thank botany for that.
Third son of a baron—beneath my station, but not so far as to be unfit for a dance,she thought,and that means I can approach him without a proper introduction. Something of an academic, I believe. A bit awkward, but not physically repulsive. Second season seeking a match and no bride to speak of, yet we are almost of an age. He had also called upon Persephone once, although she never returned the call—perhaps not enough of a slight to warrant murder, but worth investigating nonetheless.
Elswyth moved across the ballroom to where Mr. Gardner stood, examining one of the topiary statues. He was tall with white-blond hair and thick, round spectacles. The glasses magnified his eyes, which gave him a constantly surprised expression.
She slid into position next to him as though she were looking at the topiary as well. It was in the shape of a beautiful woman, entirely made of flowers. “Blodeuwedd, I believe,” Elswyth said.
“Is it? I’m not familiar with the—”
He turned to face her and nearly jumped. “Lady Elderwood, I—”
“Just Miss Elderwood, I’m afraid,” Elswyth said.
“Miss Elderwood. I didn’t see you there. I’m surprised—erm—honored to make your acquaintance.”
He said the words unsurely, nearly looking over his shoulder. It came to Elswyth’s attention that Mr. Gardner’s mother was standing nearby, conversing with Lord and Lady Barry. She met Elswyth’s eyes briefly.
Elswyth returned to the topiary. “Yes, Blodeuwedd. Bloomwife, in English. It’s said that mortal magicians created her from flowers to be the perfect wife.They took the flowers of the oak, and the flowers of the broom, and the flowers of the meadowsweet, and from those they conjured up the fairest and most beautiful maiden, and named her Blodeuwedd.”
To her surprise, Mr. Gardner smiled. “What excellent recall! Do you study folklore?”
“No, no—I am a botanist, in truth. I’ve merely been reading a treatise on comparative folklore as it pertains to the eldren myths. If I’m not mistaken, you are a scholar yourself.”
Mr. Gardner seemed hesitant. He looked again to his mother, who was trying to extract herself from her conversation. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. Mother says it’s boring, and if I don’t leave this season with a wife, I’m quite sure she’ll kill me.”
