Page 50 of Bane Bloom

Outside, I hesitated near the door, scanning the lakeshore, the back of the house, and the ground that sloped up to Fleetwith Pike. No sign of either of them. The rain was still softly falling, and even though I had no wrap, I started in the direction of the stream, thinking of Annie and her cowslips.

In my self-directed botanical studies, I had read something about cowslips written by one of the earliest of the “lady botanists”—Hildegard of Bingen, a twelfth-century German abbess, natural historian, medical writer, and mystic, among other things. She recommended cowslips for warding off the “airy spirits” that plagued the melancholic and caused madness. Even at the time, I had wondered whether “airy spirits” might refer to fairies.

As I reached the stream, my eyes followed along the banks, and sure enough, near where it flowed into the lake was a marshy area where clumps of cowslips grew. Straight stalks with clusters of yellow flowers bright under the leaden sky.

The rain was coming down harder, and I hurried over and gathered a small bouquet, heedless of the mud soiling my hem and the loose locks of hair sodden against my face and neck. I could only imagine what Papa would have to say if he could see me. What would any of my old friends say about this fey woman gathering cowslips in the rain?

Hattie’s shrill voice came into my mind. “Don’t be daft!” Rossetti, too, entered my thoughts—it was just the sort of scene he would delight in. “How romantic, Miss Gray!”

Pushing thoughts of home from my mind, I carried my bouquet back to the house. Instead of using the front door, I opened the outer door to the glasshouse and stepped into its welcome warmth.

As I made my way to the chairs under the fig tree, I discovered that the glasshouse stove was still giving off some heat. Last night had been quite cold, and I’d noticed this morning that Thomas had lit it.

I lay the cowslips on the table and sat down. As the peace of the garden lengthened my breaths, and the warmth made its way into my bones, a feeling came over me that, despite everything, it would be a shame to leave here before my time was up. Pine Cottage was a wonder and a mystery, rather like a strange and not wholly pleasant dream, but the opportunity it represented was still very real.

I began to grow drowsy. My thoughts drifted to the bluebell glade, and my fall from the stone seat. The way Thomas had caught me and spoken low in my ear, sending vibrations to the very core of me.

“Why have you brought those?”

The unfamiliar voice snapped me awake. A stranger had materialized next to the pool—an entity entirely draped in silver.

“Who are you?” I managed, heart racing.

The visitor’s eyes were black with only slivers of whites, his skin a scaly, pearlescent gray. He gestured—long fingers with pointed black nails—to the table beside me. “Why have you brought those?” he repeated. His voice was deep but hollow, like an echo from a well. “I cannot grant your heart’s desire while they’re in your possession.”

He pushed back his hood, and hundreds of thin silver plaits fell loose across his shoulders and chest. More of them had been twisted up into a complicated crown. Forking black veins reached from his temples down the length of sharply angled cheekbones. He wore earrings made from fishhooks strung with black mussel shells displaying silver mother-of-pearl. They glittered even in his stillness.

“Your heart’s desire.” My eyes found the lily pool, and my breath caught.

The Elfbloom. This is a plant spirit.

Again the spirit flicked his fingers at the table. “Leave them and follow me.”

He turned without waiting for a reply and walked to the outer door, the silky, supple cloak gathering in a watery train behind him. Out of curiosity I did rise and follow, hesitating just outside the door as the spirit continued down the slope toward the lake. I felt an urgency building—a desperate desire to hurry after him, pulling at me like the strong currents of the Thames carrying everything out to sea.

Don’t lose this chance. It may not come again.

What chance?

To understand the Bane Bloom. To win my heart’s desire.

Thomas said the fairies aren’t to be trusted.

Maybe Thomas just wants to keep the bloom for himself.

While my mind divided itself on the question, my feet were already moving.

I followed the spirit to the shingle beach. The rain, though still soft, came down steadily, dripping from my nose, chin, and hair. But I no longer felt the cold. The temperature in dreams was always perfect—or perhaps only unimportant—and that was just how this felt.

Reaching the water’s edge, the spirit walked straight in, cloak floating about his waist like a silver lily pad. He turned, motioning me to follow.

Warnings rose and popped like bubbles on the surface of my mind. A warm, fluid sensation filled me, reminding me of the Christmas I’d tasted my first champagne. One of those warning bubbles held a memory of how I’d continued sipping, wishing to hold on to that buoyant feeling—until too much sipping brought on an altogether different sort of feeling. But that bubble, too, popped and was gone.

The spirit beckoned again.

I stepped into the lake, water filling my shoes as I waded out. What was waist deep to him came high up the bodice of my dress. A breeze stirred, and small waves began to lap at my chest.

The spirit smiled—thin lips, black like his eyes—and held out a hand. In his palm rested a single round petal, glinting silver like the scales of a trout.