Page 97 of Bane Bloom

The poor man could barely put one foot in front of the other, but between us we got him back to the sitting room and the armchair by the fire.

“Thomas,” I said, “I think I saw a bottle of brandy in the pantry.”

He nodded.

“Mix it with water—warm water from the kettle.” Then I noticed a thin trickle of blood down Thomas’s neck. “You’re injured!”

“I’m all right, lass,” he said, turning to go. “I’ll be right back.”

Apparently Carroll had hurt him. Ambushed him, perhaps. But Harding seemed to be in worse shape. Bruises were already forming on his neck, and he was trembling. He was probably in shock.

I tugged a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around his shoulders. Then I went to the hearth and tossed in a couple of more logs, sending up a shower of sparks.

Thomas returned with the glass of brandy and water, and I took it from him and held it out to Harding. “Try to drink this, sir. I believe it will help.”

He closed his hand around the glass, which shook, and drank half of it before setting it on the side table.

“Is there anything other than your neck that hurts, sir?”

He shook his head, wincing and gripping the edges of the blanket. “Bruised knees, but I shall live.” Then his eyes fixed on me. “What in heaven’s name was that thing, and whyever were you calling it ‘Mr. Carroll’?”

Thomas and I exchanged a glance, and he gave a slight shrug. He was leaving it to me to decide what to tell the curator.

“Perhaps we should wait until you’re somewhat recovered for that,” I said, hoping for time to figure out what to do.

Harding frowned. “I’m recovered enough to sit here and listen.”

I sank down on the sofa, taking a moment to organize my thoughts.

“I would never tell you this story and expect to be believed had you not just received an introduction to the strangeness of Pine Cottage.”

Harding’s expression wasn’t particularly friendly. Observing that Thomas and I knew what was going on, he perhaps blamed us for what had happened to him. “Please get on with it, Miss Gray.”

“I don’t believe there’s any call for rudeness, Mr. Harding,” interjected Thomas. “What happened to you just now is no fault of Miss Gray’s.”

The curator’s frown deepened, but he nodded. “Forgive me. I’m in a good deal of pain.”

“Of course, sir,” I said.

“The creature in the glasshouse was a woodwose,” continued Thomas, “and Miss Gray called it ‘Mr. Carroll’ because that’s who it is.”

Harding’s brow knitted. “A woodwose is a mythological creature. Nothing more than an old story.”

“Pine Cottage will challenge your notions of what is real, sir,” I said. He began to look cross again, and I continued, “The flower that you were so eager to examine is the Elfbloom. It is a wish-granting flower, created by Thomas’s mother and grandfather, who wanted a plant that would return Lily Bane from the dead.”

Harding let out a long breath, looking more weary than shocked. “The rumors of Prudence Bane’s witchery reached us even in London, but no one ever believed her anything more than a lonely and grief-stricken woman who learned plant medicine from her father. She had perhaps inherited his troubled mind as well, and likely she would have been better off had she returned to London.” His gaze moved between Thomas and me. “As evidenced by any blasphemous belief of hers that she had power over the dead.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, sir,” I said flatly, and one of the curator’s gray brows lifted high on his forehead. I didn’t like him reducing her this way. “Prudence Bane befriended the spirits of the plants in the glasshouse over the years she grew up here. They helped the Banes create the Elfbloom. Ingesting the Elfbloom grants a person their heart’s desire. But it is fairy magic and comes with a high cost.”

Harding’s eyes now went to Thomas, clearly hoping he was about to contradict my nonsense. Instead, Thomas said, “The Elfbloom draws people in. When Mr. Carroll came to Pine Cottage, he became fixated on it. I tried to come between them, but eventually he managed to cut a petal and make a tea from it. The last thing I saw him do was discard his clothing and plunge into the lake. By the time I reached the beach, he was wading out of the shallows in the form you’ve just witnessed.”

Harding was shaking his head. “If this were true—which I do not for an instant believe, mind you—why not destroy the plant?”

“I have tried, sir,” replied Thomas. “And tried again. It only grows back. All I can do is keep people away from it. I failed Mr. Carroll.”

With a challenge in his eyes, Harding said, “Explain to me then why Mr. Carroll could possibly have desired a . . . a transformation that would leave him like that?”

“Becoming a woodwose was not Carroll’s wish,” I said, “only the way in which it was fulfilled. Fairy magic—”