“Well. I am obviously difficult to bore, otherwise I wouldn’t be memorizing folk tales, would I?”
To her surprise, Mr. Gardner laughed, if a little uneasily. “Right then. If you must know, I’m a paleontologist. An amateur. But I really can’t get enough of bones. I love bones. They’re just so—oh.”
Mr. Gardner stared over Elswyth’s shoulder. She turned to see Lady Gardner standing behind her, lips pursed, hands folded. She came forward and grabbed her son by the arm. “My dear, have you forgotten that you asked Sylvia Reed for her hand in the next quadrille? It will start any minute.”
“Actually, Mother, I was just having a rather fascinating conversation with—”
“Off we go!” Lady Gardner said, and pulled her son away from Elswyth’s grasp. She frowned watching the two of them disappear. Lady Gardner practically shoved Elwood into the arms of Sylvia Reed, who swept him into a fidgety waltz.
Elswyth frowned, looking sidelong up at the topiary woman. “Thank you for the help,” she mumbled.
“You neglected to tell him how her story ends,” a voice said. She turned, surprised that anyone was speaking to her at all, and saw a man standing on the other side of the topiary.
“Sir Silas,” Elswyth said. Her pulse stuttered slightly. They had not spoken since their unfortunate encounter in Gall’s laboratory.
“You sound so excited to see me,” Silas said.
“Has Venus sent you to harry me? Run along and tell her that I will not be cowed.”
“I came here on my own. I was merely walking by and heard a rather familiar passage.Take the flowers of the oak, and the flowers of the broom…”
Heat flushed Elswyth’s face. Silas only smiled.
“I’m inclined to think that you’re reading my papers,” he said. “I did think something was out of place, in the laboratory.”
“That passage is from a Welsh myth. I could have read it anywhere,” Elswyth said.
“Yes, but it’s my translation. Professor Elm’s is far too flowery,and Professor de Chêne’s is simply inaccurate. I took that straight from Middle Welsh. Mind numbingly boring, but I’m pleased with the result. So tell me, are you enjoying it?”
Elswyth clenched her teeth. She’d found a copy of his recently published research in Gall’s laboratory, and her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had been reading it surreptitiously when she had time alone in the lab, but she’d hoped he would never find out.
“If you must know, I find some of your conclusions far-fetched. From the way you talk about them, one might think you believe the eldren once actually existed.”
Silas put a hand to his chest in mock pain. “That stings, Miss Elderwood. When you publish research—if you ever do—I shall be sure to read it with such a sharp eye.”
“What exactly do you want, Sir Silas?”
“Is it so strange to believe that I came for intelligent conversation? Are you so eager to be rid of me?”
“I find you irritating,” Elswyth said.
“You study plant medicine; it’s such a fine line between irritation and stimulation, is it not? One might think that lust and loathing are two sides of the same coin.”
“I assure you that this coin has merely one side.”
“An impossibility,” Silas said. He smiled and then stepped up to admire the topiary. “Tell me, did you get to the end of the Flower Bride’s tale?”
“I did, but I can’t say I remember it.”
“Surprising, for one with such a memory.”
“I skimmed.”
“Now that actually does hurt,” Silas said. He sighed and then turned back to the topiary. “The magician created her to be the perfect bride. Summoned her from the softest lilies, thesweetest-smelling roses. But she despised her mortal form. How can one take a field of flowers and force it into flesh, to ache and hunger and die? She wanted desperately to kill her husband and escape. But he was a magician, and he had enchanted his skin into wood as hard as steel so that no sword nor spear could pierce him. But the Flower Bride was clever, and she spent years crafting a single magic seed and, when the time was right, snuck that seed into the magician’s food. From her seed a thousand flowers sprouted. They bloomed from his eyes and his ears, from his mouth, from every pore in his skin. Their roots tore his insides to pieces, and she escaped. Away from the magician’s castle and into the wild, where she became a field of flowers once more.”
Elswyth frowned. She thought how, not so long ago, the idea of poisoning Cousin Ficus had occurred to her. How the lot of all women seemed the same, going back even as far as myth. And she thought of Persephone, captive or dead. Taken from her, perhaps, by the whim of some man.
“He got what he deserved,” Elswyth said bitterly.
