“Is mariticide simple enough for you?”
Elswyth blinked. “Certainly you are not implying…”
“Tell me, what do you know of her husband, the late prince consort?”
“He died of heart failure. Decades ago.”
“So the story goes. But it is well known—among those who pay attention—that the late prince consort was a man who enjoyed his drink and his women. Much like his grandson, Prince Oliver, I hear.”
Silas nodded to where Prince Oliver stood, brooding over a glass of brandy. A small crowd of young women lingered near him, accompanied by their ambitious mothers.
“They say he was going to run off with a courtesan that he’d fallen in love with, thus besmirching the good name of the Crown. Queen Viscaria couldn’t let that happen, of course. And so the Viscarian Age began with a nightshade’s kiss, and we received our widow queen, long may she live.”
“Silas,” Elswyth hissed, “if anyone heard you, we’d be tried for treason.”
“Oh, nothing so public as that. It would bring far too much attention. Likely you’d be shipped off to your father’s house, locked away on the queen’s orders. Perhaps, a year from now you’ddie mysteriously in childbirth or falling from a horse. I’d be put on a ship to India straight away, but of course that ship would never arrive. Tragic, how these things happen.”
The waltz rose to a crescendo and Silas spun her, the skirts of her gown flaring. The song finished, and the crowd applauded. Elswyth pulled away from Silas, then curtsied. Her heart pounded in her chest.
She moved to leave, but Silas took her hand again. He leaned in close, so that she could smell the juniper and bourbon on his breath, and the sea-salt smell of his sweat. “Luckily, though, secrets have a way of staying secrets. Do they not?”
“I have not betrayed you yet, have I?” Elswyth asked.
“No. And I appreciate that, Miss Elderwood. Knowing who to trust is the only thing keeping us alive.”
She examined him, his calm, almost featureless expression. “You have told me everyone’s secret but your own, Sir Silas. What is the mysterious Blackthorn hiding?”
Silas smiled, but his eyes were strangely distant. He bowed deeply, then took her hand. His lips grazed her fingers, eyes peering through dark locks of hair.
“Some secrets are better when kept,” he said. “Good evening, Miss Elderwood.”
And with that, Silas stood straight, turned away, and disappeared into the watching crowd.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Found in gardens across England,Nerium oleanderis renowned for its beauty and reviled for its poison. Every part of the flower is toxic, from the roots to the petals. Even grazing it can irritate the skin. In floriography, this flower meanscaution.
By the time Elswyth felt the first breath of autumn, no lady wanted to associate themselves with her. Invitations dried up, and soon she spent most days alone in the house, with only the occasional lesson from Mrs. Rose to keep her occupied. The end of the social season was fast approaching, and soon noble families would retreat to their ancestral homes to wait out the winter, taking any chance of finding her sister with them. Her father wrote constantly, asking about her search for a husband and providing updates on her wedding to Cousin Ficus—which, if she was unable to find a match, was to commence as soon as she returned.
Worse than that was the fact that her investigation into Persephone’s disappearance had completely stalled. All she knew was that the Reaper was a member of the nobility, one with considerable wealth and power. But that could be any number of people inthe city, and Elswyth felt as though she had dined or danced with all of them. And despite her best attempts at interrogating members of London society, no information had narrowed the field. She still believed that Miss Forscythe was connected to her sister’s killing, but she had no evidence save for the fact that Venus had tried so fervently to ruin Elswyth’s reputation.
But then there was the matter of the mandrake. Whoever the Reaper was, they were not only wealthy and influential. They were also the most talented floromancer in an age. If the mandrake was truly the Reaper’s spy, as she supposed. But that was the problem. There were no living floromancers with that sort of power. If there ever had been, they lived in the age of myth when eldren still walked the earth. They certainly weren’t attending balls in Mayfair.
Further dissections of the mandrake yielded little information, and now it floated, mangled and stitched together again, in a jar of formaldehyde. The question of the mandrake confounded her. If the Reaper could create servants like the mandrake, what else was he capable of? And why was he using his knowledge to do something as bleak as murdering prostitutes? He could be showered with academic acclaim. He could sell his inventions and reap the rewards. No, there was something unseen about his motives, something Elswyth could not yet perceive. It maddened her.
She spent those days in the late summer at Persephone’s old desk. She pored over her letters, double-checking her commonplace book to make sure she had not missed any names. Mrs. Rose came by each day to continue her lessons, although there was a sense of hopelessness to it. Elswyth recruited her to write letters, hoping for a few final meetings with peers around the city. If a lady refused tea, she wrote them again, asking her questionsdirectly—the time for niceties had ended. She received heaps of sympathy but little information.
Mrs. Rose kept Elswyth groomed with a sort of frantic consistency. She brushed her hair and drew her baths, laid out her clothes—gowns far too fine for moping around the house. She kept Elswyth’s room clean, too, slowly pruning the mess that had sprouted in Elswyth’s days of melancholy.
Elswyth was coming to learn that this sort of busybodying was Mrs. Rose’s way of showing affection. Perhaps she was not quick with a word of comfort, but she could clean and groom until there was not a hair out of place. Elswyth learned to accept this sort of fussing. If she didn’t, she feared that Mrs. Rose might abandon her as well.
“And this, do you need this?” Mrs. Rose asked. She held up a schematic from Dr. Gall—an updated design for Elswyth’s living engine. Elswyth was about to say that, of course, she needed it—but then she wasn’t so sure. The design was a failure. She couldn’t keep the living engine from exploding when it produced too much gas. Besides, at the end of the month, she would leave London if she could not find a match. And she wouldn’t be able to work for Dr. Gall anymore. “I suppose I do not,” she said. “But keep it. I’ll send it to Dr. Gall anyway. Perhaps he can make something out of it.”
Mrs. Rose frowned, setting the schematics aside. “And this? It’s ancient, Elswyth, really.”
Mrs. Rose gestured to a dried bouquet, sitting on the vanity. She picked it up with a look of disgust—the flowers had begun to mold at the stems.
“No!” Elswyth shouted. Mrs. Rose nearly dropped the vase. “Apologies, Mrs. Rose. That was Persephone’s. I once thought itmeant something. Held some clue about her killer. But now… perhaps I was being foolish. The floriography makes no sense, and there’s no note.”
