“Three or four times? You don’t remember?”
Mrs. Rose sighed. “I was young, and there was sherry. But that is neither here nor there. We must focus on our plan.”
Elswyth frowned and shifted in her seat again. “You don’t think that people will be scandalized?”
“That’s rather the point, isn’t it? The queen and Venus Forscythe have already made a scandal of you. Let us really give them something to talk about.”
Mrs. Rose slapped Elswyth’s hand as she picked at her robe. “Stop that. You’ll ruin your gown.”
“I know. It’s just rather prickly. I feel like I’m lying naked in a bush.”
“Ah. My third honeymoon,” Mrs. Rose said. She seemed lost in a pleasant memory for a moment but then came back to the carriage. “Besides, you must do something to lure the men in. Prince Oliver’s ball is the last of the season. This is your final opportunity to elicit a few suitors. The worst thing you can be is boring.”
“Well, it’s certainly not boring. But I should think I am already ruined. My chances of finding a suitor are slim.”
“Ah. But that is Elswyth Elderwood you speak of, and tonight you will be someone else. That is the beauty of a masquerade. Now is the time to show them who you really are, beneath all the rumors, all the preconceptions.”
“All the scars,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose fidgeted then. “That’s not what I meant. But as you wish.”
“They will know it’s me, though. My mask won’t cover my scar completely.”
Mrs. Rose waved a hand. “Everyone knows who everyone is at a masquerade. The point is not to truly disguise oneself. It’s carnival; for a night, your name and your house don’t matter. You can be whoever you like.”
Elswyth looked out the window. Lords and ladies streamed outof carriages, through the crowded grand entrance of the palace. Each wore a mask: full-face masks of animals, half faces of jesters, lace masks that barely covered the eyes. Her own was a mask of scalelike leaves, flaring out into delicate wings around her eyes.
“Elswyth…” Mrs. Rose said. Worry crept into her voice. “Regarding your sister…”
Elswyth raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Mrs. Rose to speak of Persephone.
“Yes?”
“This is the last ball of the year, and the largest. There will be no lord of fortune or rank that is not in attendance. It would be considered a slight to the queen.”
“I know, Mrs. Rose, you’ve told me a hundred times. I will not embarrass you. I promise.”
“That’s not what I mean. What I mean to say is…” Mrs. Rose fidgeted with the kerchief in her lap. “If a nobleman really did take your sister… he will be here. Tonight.”
Elswyth made her way along the long red carpet that led toward the palace. Dozens of peers walked alongside her, some stopping to stare. The cloak that covered her gown was scarlet silk, shimmering in the light of the gas lamps. Her scar was unhidden by powder, branching over her cheek in full color, weaving under the leaves of her mask. Doubtless few expected her to attend after the scandal at Syon House and the rebuke of the queen. But here she was. From the way the crowd dispersed before her, one might think she had horns.
Elswyth joined the line before the entrance of the grand ballroom. She stood behind a couple who might have been Lord and Lady Aster, in masks of pluming peacock feathers. Before themwas a young woman she believed to be Belladonna Hawthorne, wearing a mask speckled with cerulean gemstones. That meant the tall man at her side was likely Lord Adelphus Hawthorne, her chaperone, in his mask of holly branches. Seeing them together made her wish Percival were at her side again.
Soon Elswyth was next in line. She stepped into the ballroom, where a crowd of hundreds lingered around tables, preparing for the dance, chatting idly. The ballroom was perhaps the largest she’d ever seen, a palatial monstrosity that could have fit Devereux Place three times over. She forced herself not to gawk at the grand ceiling, instead keeping her eyes level with the crowd.
She stood in the entryway until those waiting by the door to see the arrivals took her in. Whispers crossed the room, and soon the idle chatter stopped, and the crowd turned to stare.
Elswyth forced a playful smile. They would see that she was not afraid, even if her heart hammered inside her chest. Then she curtsied low, unclasping her cloak as she did. She stood, and the silk spilled to the ground, revealing the gown beneath.
Or lack thereof.
The crowd clamored. There was not a scrap of fabric on Elswyth’s body. Instead, she had fabricated leaves from every inch of her skin, creating a slender gown that hugged each subtle curve. It spilled out from her waist in a long sheath, hanging around her ankles. Invisible structures of wood helped give the gown form, but it was clear from a look that Elswyth Elderwood wore no gown at all.
Whispers spread across the room like wind. Women gasped; men laughed. Some even applauded. Her gown of leaves was not so revealing that she could be called nude, so none could really call for her expulsion. But it was certainly something that none had seen before.
Elswyth suppressed a full grin, instead assuming an air of nonchalance. She lifted her chin and strode into the room, gliding past a group of gawking debutantes. Usually, she would have wilted under so much attention, but Elswyth had already been humiliated in front of the entire nobility. She surprised herself to find that she was not afraid, not like she’d been before. The worst had already happened. There was something freeing in that.
One of the debutantes next to her—a woman wearing a mask of lily petals who might have been Begonia Pritchett—whispered, “Whore.”
