Her father looked at her. His mouth opened slightly, as if he did not know what to say.
“I am dying, Elswyth.”
A peculiar silence settled over the room. Her father’s four words sank like fangs into her throat, tightening until she could no longer breathe.
“What are you saying?” she asked. But her voice was too small and far, far away.
“I am ill. That is why I cannot marry. I’m afraid that, in my grief over your mother, I waited too long to find a new wife. I will not sire a son. Not now, not ever.”
“You are…” Elswyth started, then shook her head. “How? What is wrong?”
“The warping, Elswyth,” her father said.
Elswyth’s mind swam. Her father showed no signs of the growths and galls that plagued her grandmother. The disease was common enough among older floromancers, even those with little ability, like her father. When her thoughts finally settled, her words came out in stops and starts. “But that is not a death sentence, not necessarily. Grandmama has been living with her warping for a decade. There are treatments, medicines…”
“The doctor has excised all the growths he can. But your grandmother’s warping is on the outside. Mine is in my organs, Elswyth. It’s in my bones.”
He absently put a hand to his stomach, staring into the fire. She imagined what that must feel like—to experience the slow growth of plants inside one’s body, growths that one could not control. How painful it must be.
“How long?” Elswyth asked.
“A year, perhaps,” he said. “The doctor has prescribed laudanum for the pain, and it helps some. But it won’t stop the growths.”
Her father turned to her, set his glass on the mantel, and pulled back the sleeve of his robe. There, under the silk, she could see fresh wounds where some of the galls had been cut away. But even in the bloody patchwork of his forearm she could see new growths forming, spots of black lichen and the tips of crooked branches breaking through the skin.
“It’s spreading quickly. Soon, I will not be able to hide it. There is no hope for me in finding a match, not with a death sentence so close and not a penny to my name. I am sorry, Elswyth. You are all we have.”
A thousand emotions moved through Elswyth, amorphous, ineffable. She settled on anger so that she would not be sad or frightened. Even so, her words came out tearful. “When were you planning on telling me? How long have you known?”
He sighed. “It began about a year ago. My plan was to see you and your sister married before I passed. I could not, in good conscience, leave you unprotected in the world. I never told Persephone. I didn’t want to trouble her during her season, and I knew she would find a wealthy husband without my prodding. And then Persephone was gone, and you were grieving her—how could I have told you then?”
Her father’s voice began to break, and Elswyth felt her heart would break with it. “But now I fear I have no choice. I am sorry for keeping this from you for so long.”
The weight of it was too much. First her mother, then Persephone, now her father. Her grandmother would follow soon, and then Elswyth would be alone. The last Elderwood.
“Father, I… I do not think that I can bear it if you die. There must be something we can do.”
Her father moved to her, knelt, and put his hand on hers. He looked up into her eyes, and she tried not to weep.
“That is not for you to worry about. I am working with very good doctors. I may see a few years yet, if I am lucky.”
“But—”
“Elswyth,” her father said, sternly. He took both her hands in his own. “There is nothing you can do for me. You must look to your own future now. Women may be able to inherit some things now, yes, but not a lord’s land or a lord’s title. When I die, you will be destitute. Youmustfind a husband. And soon.”
Elswyth blinked her eyes. She stood, dropping her father’s hands and moving to the bookcase. She looked at the old volumes for a while as she wiped the tears away. She straightened her skirts, lifted her chin, and then turned around, poised.
“And how do you suppose I do that, Father? I am certainly not the most agreeable woman, nor am I the most beautiful. What man will want a wife with the scars I bear?”
“In that respect, I suppose I do have some good news. You… already have a proposal.”
Elswyth hesitated. “From whom?”
“Your cousin. Mr. Ficus Elderwood.”
Cousin Ficus—a mean little man and nearly twice her age. He used to bring Elswyth and Persephone sweets when they were children and then take them away, lest they get too fat. Cousin Ficus, who always came sniffing around their house as if he ownedit. Because, he supposed, one day he would—if Ambrose Elderwood never had a male heir.
“Cousin Ficus,” she said.
