Elswyth turned to her and gave a dazzling smile. “Oh, Begonia. So splendid to see that your face did recover from the rash.” Elswyth cocked her head and frowned. “Mostly, at least. Perhaps you should have opted for a more complete mask.”
Begonia looked shocked and then furious. Her lips trembled as though to say something, her face burning bright red—for the second time in recent memory, Elswyth supposed.
Then Elswyth turned and walked toward a waiting tray of champagne. Perhaps that was cruel of her to say—Begonia’s face had mostly recovered—but she was tired of the degradation. If they insisted she play the villain, then she would play the part as best she could.
She had barely touched the champagne to her lips when a young man approached her. He wore a half-face rabbit mask with porcelain ears. Beneath, he was gangly and awkward with an acne-pocked face and a slender jaw.
“Ahem. Miss Elderwood. My name is Basil Twigg. I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to meet—”
“Miss Elderwood?” another voice said. She turned to see a tall, swarthy youth with a struggling beard and a mask of birchbark. “My name is Woodrow Wilton. I believe you know my sister…”
Basil Twigg turned to Mr. Wilton and interrupted him. “I was speaking with the lady, sir. Miss Elderwood, I would like to ask you to dance.”
“As would I,” Woodrow said coldly.
Mr. Twigg ignored him. “The cotillion? Perhaps the waltz?”
“I am quite skilled at the waltz, actually,” Woodrow said. “I could show you, if you like.”
A third man that Elswyth believed was Mr. Marc Mandrel approached them. “Erm, Miss Elderwood, was hoping to ask your hand for the polka—”
Elswyth didn’t have to say a word. Soon, the three men were talking over each other. Mrs. Rose, it appeared, had been right. All it took for young men to forget Elswyth’s missteps was the right gown and the right woman wearing it. She sipped her champagne as Mr. Twigg scribbled his name on her dance card.
She watched the room around her. Most had moved on from her grand entrance, but some still lingered, watching her and whispering. A pair of golden eyes found hers. He stood beneath a curling wisteria vine, a glass of absinthe in his hand. Silas watched her from across the room, standing against a backdrop of purple flowers. He wore a mask made of black thorns over his eyes, but she knew the scowl beneath it instantly.
She turned her gaze away. They had not spoken since the incident at the museum. He had replied to none of her letters, nor could she find him at Gall’s laboratory. It seemed that Silas had made it very clear where they stood. Still, she looked once more to where he lingered beneath the wisteria.
He was gone.
That’s not important now,she thought.The information you need is somewhere in this room. This is your last chance. You cannot be distracted.
“… Miss Elderwood?” Mr. Twigg said. He’d been speaking, but she hadn’t been paying attention.
“Yes?”
“The waltz is about to start. Shall we?” He extended an arm.
Elswyth slipped her hand around it. “Naturally.”
Mr. Twigg led her to the dance floor. On the eastern wall, a full string band readied their instruments. Above them all, sitting on a raised platform, was Queen Viscaria.
She wore her usual gown of black, this time accented with streaks of gold. Gold jewelry, too, accented her neck and wrists.
What was strange, however, were the bees.
Viscaria wore them as a mask. They crawled over the skin around her eyes, sometimes dancing between the flowers on her gown, feeding off their nectar. She paid them no mind. Instead, her old eyes watched Elswyth as she took to the dance floor.
Mr. Twigg followed her attention. “Yes. Frightening, isn’t it. I always expect them to sting her, but it hasn’t happened yet.” The dance began, and Mr. Twigg swept her into an awkward waltz.
“Some flowers release pheromones that attract bees,” Elswyth said, thinking aloud. “She must be fabricating the same essence from her skin, so that the bees won’t sting.”
“If you say so,” Mr. Twigg said. “Still gives me the willies. I think she does it on purpose, to keep people on edge. My friend Arris Blatt swore he saw one land on her eye once. She didn’t even blink.”
“Why bees?”
Mr. Twigg shrugged. “She’s obsessed with them. Everyone knows that. Her estate in the country has something like tenthousand hives. Apparently a few villagers die every year, just wandering into the wrong field.”
Elswyth watched a bee land on Viscaria’s neck, crawling up her jaw.
