Elementary

by Mercedes Lackey

  “We are, sir,” she agreed. “One plot every three days for the next three weeks.”

  “As you say, miss.” He was agreeing because he’d been told to. He’d rather move them all at once and had said so. Mei was worried about a drop in the peonies’ energy if they were all to be uprooted and distressed at the same time. Mr. Burkill was an expert botanist, and well read, but what she did wasn’t in any book.

  “I’ll manage it,” she said with a smile. “It means they’ll have plenty of blooms for the Coronation.”

  “Well, the beds are ready by the Pagoda. I think that’s a nice match, don’t you?”

  “It’s all right,” she said noncommittally. They all meant well, she realized. They didn’t grasp the intricacies of China, and to be fair, most had never visited it and never would.

  “Let’s hope the rain holds off,” he said, pointing up at the gravid gray clouds overhead.

  The bed was nicely dug, the soil black and rich. The gardeners had their wheelbarrows lined up like taxicabs and were carefully digging up each peony, placing it in a pot, and laying it in a barrow.

  By eleven, the entire first bed had been relocated and replanted, and she fussed along the rows, using the edging bricks as stepping stones. She made sure to touch each plant, reassuring them that they were as they should be. She told them to hold off on blooming until they were ready and refreshed.

  By Midsummer, they should be fully recovered and lush for the Coronation of King George V.

  The transfer of the first bed complete, she moved on to her regular duties.

  From the second bed she chose a full, healthy specimen, dug it up most carefully, and transferred it to a large pot. That was placed in a wagon and rolled off to be taken to the Palace. The new King didn’t know why peonies were always in bloom at his residences. He’d be told when the time was right.

  A light rain rolled in from the steely sky, and Mei sought shelter in the Temperate House.

  Burkill had tea served and invited the laborers to join them. He was a middle-class, Cambridge-educated botanist, but he politely ignored some of the class rules and kept in regular conversation with the workers. He did sit at his own table, though, and chose who would join him. Mei was the only subordinate who gained that privilege.

  “Your flowers are very strange, Miss Walsingham,” he said. “I’ve taken to analyzing them. They’re stronger than other peonies I’ve seen, but still very tender and delicate. I can’t explain it.”

  “My mother bred them,” she said. “I don’t know exactly what she did.”

  “I see,” he said. “Have you seen the Chinese delegation for the Coronation, miss? They’ve been through the garden twice this week.”

  “Only from a distance,” she admitted. “They wouldn’t know me, so I have no reason to visit with them.” That, and she was a half-breed. Some English accepted her as a “colonial,” others as the daughter of a diplomat. A goodly number treated her as a foreigner of lower station. The Chinese nobles and Imperial servants would think no better of her. Her mother’s exile and marriage to a foreigner would mark her just as outcast to the Chinese, if not more so.

  Ironically, the diplomatic delegation all wore English-style suits in their visits and business. Mei wasn’t sure if she was glad or annoyed that they weren’t in Chinese dress.

  “They might not be overly friendly, given your father’s station,” he agreed.

  “I’m all English now,” she said. If for no other reason than the forces she’d fought previously would be delighted to have her on their ground. She was here to stay, where Elemental Mages, her Talent, and her peonies kept her safe.

  And she did love the Gardens.

  • • •

  Her boarding room was in a house three miles from the Gardens’ main entrance. She was glad of her bicycle, which made the trip much easier, though many of the new automobiles were a problem in traffic.

  She arrived home at ten after seven. Mrs. Seton, her landlady, had baked fish on the table. The other residents were girls who worked as housekeepers or seamstresses and weren’t home yet.

  “That smells lovely,” Mei said. “But I have work to do. I hope you won’t think it rude if I take it upstairs.”

  Mrs. Seton smiled. “Of course, dear. But don’t work too hard. You need rest and fresh air.”

  “I get fresh air all day, madam,” Mei said with a smile.

  “Yes, but what about the rest?”

  “I will, thank you.” She placed a slab of lemon-seasoned haddock on a plate with some fried potatoes and took it upstairs.

  Once in her room, she set the plate down and removed her shoes. She did intend to rest. She also had to review the schedule for the protective peonies. Several plants were dispatched to the Royal quarters biweekly. Out of season, they were forced to bloom in a greenhouse. As they wilted, they were brought back to be nursed into renewed vigor, and others took their place. The entire replanting matter was interrupting that schedule. Then she was tasked with the water lilies in the same area. Those would be moved next, to a new pond. She was less tense over those, though she still wanted their move to be gentle. It showed her priorities, she realized, as the lilies would require more care in the move than regular peonies would.

  • • •

  A beautiful, formal garden was spread out beneath her. Mei could see two people in this garden. It was a hot and sunny day near the height of the sun, and there was a quality to the air that told Mei that this was not in England, or even in Reality.

  The man said, “Well, hulloo there! Gads, what a lot of beautiful flowers. Are these all your doing?”

  The woman started, not expecting to hear voices in the gardens at this hour of the day. Usually the workers did the rough tasks just after daylight broke, and the nobility, diplomats, and bureaucrats preferred early evening.

  She pulled her mouth into a neutral smile, gracefully rose from her kneeling position, and bowed. She hoped that he would mistake her for one of the lowly workers and thus escape his presence and his memory. She had not figured on his English “arrogance” and his willful ignorance of Imperial “civilized” behavior.

  Henry Walsingham hadn’t been appointed the King’s Representative to the Emperor of China without proving his skills in a different pool of sharks than the Imperial court. The unknown gardener’s grace and her expert and unobtrusive application of Earth Magic had actually gotten Walsingham’s attention weeks before. However, mindful of the proprieties he was bending, he had waited to approach until he was sure that they would be unobserved. After a quiet word to one of the sylphs hanging around him to keep watch, he had enacted his ambush.

  With a much moderated tone and a properly respectful return bow to one who might be an equal, Walsingham inquired in perfectly executed Mandarin, “It is my imperfect understanding that your Mastery is responsible for these humble gardens achieving their present grandeur. Would the Master Gardener consider imparting some of her wisdom to me?”

  Visibly realizing that she had strayed from the polite blankness that was proper to astonishment, the young woman schooled her expression. “If the worthy gentleman wishes to receive wisdom, he might try someone more appropriate to his station.”

  With another bow, she gracefully turned and walked away.

  Walsingham was forced to concede the encounter—but not the battle. The glint of amusement in her almond eyes was almost a dare for the war to continue.

  • • •

  Mei woke from the dream with a start. Why was she dreaming of how her parents had met? While she had been told the stories, these dreams were too vivid to be just a mere retelling. Shaking her head, she looked around her small room.

  She was still dressed, and her clock said it was close to two a.m. She shivered slightly. She didn’t remember how she got to bed, but she was atop the blankets, and England could be quite chilly eve
n in summer. She slipped into her nightgown and under the covers.

  Why that dream? It was almost as if she were watching it in person. It bothered her. Was she obsessing over the past? Was it some sort of coping mechanism? What was she missing?

  She drifted fitfully back to sleep.

  • • •

  The next morning, Mei took tea and toast with butter and marmalade. It wasn’t the same as rice porridge, but she did like the contrasting flavors of the tart orange and the savory bread.

  She reflected back on her dreams of last night. Why was she imagining how her parents had met? It was almost as if her parents were trying to tell or teach her something. Well, she would wait to see what developed. Signs from the other world came as they would and couldn’t be forced.

  She pedaled her way to the Gardens. Today she had to supervise moving another bed of flowers, review the orders for compost and minerals, and then encourage the recently transferred plants. The previous bed was being converted to something else, but Mr. Burkill would see to that. Her specialty was the Asian varieties that were becoming so popular now that England was promoting its Chinese connections, and above all, to keep the white peonies for the Royals.

  After rolling through the front gate of Kew Gardens, she parked her bike and secured it with a lock. From there, she went on foot to her station. She reflected on how much she enjoyed her walk in the mornings. It would become unbearable come winter, but for now it gave her a chance to see the other plantings before starting work. She courteously greeted the planters and other gardeners, and for every smile returning her greeting, she received a frown or a hostile look. Mei sighed. She hoped that it wouldn’t take long for the others to understand that she was no threat to their position or standing. For an Empire that “the sun never set on,” England’s people had a very narrow viewpoint.

  She walked down the path toward the Pagoda, and took the long sweep toward her beds. Then she gasped.

  The peonies were blighted. Not only would they not make a proud display for the coronation, they might not survive at all. Nor was it just the new bed. The old beds were suffering, too.

  She didn’t understand. Flowers responded to her touch, if not her presence. That was her Talent. She’d had her hands on them only two days before, but now they were wilting into a wrinkled, stained, soggy mess.

  “Oh, no!” she cried, and ran forward.

  “Miss!” Burkill shouted.

  Mei stopped and turned.

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but the Director said you should stay back.”

  “Why is that?”

  Reluctantly he answered. “They’re saying you did it, miss—the Chinese diplomats. They’re saying that you’re out to get revenge because of your mother’s exile from the Imperial Court.”

  “Mr. Burkill—Isaac, do you truly believe that I would kill my mother’s legacy?” In her desperation, Mei broke both protocol and propriety. “These peonies are the only gift I have from her.”

  “I know, miss, but I don’t know what else to do. I have to obey the Director.”

  Mei-Hua Walsingham drew herself up with dignity. “Yes, but I know who the Director has to obey.”

  It was time to make a telephone call.

  • • •

  “I don’t know who you contacted, miss, but the Director didn’t half act as if he had seen a ghost.” There was certainly a hint of both glee and astonishment in Burkill’s voice.

  “You’ll have a chance to meet him. He’s meeting us here to have a look at the peonies. I’m afraid that there is more going on than meets the eye, and he sees deeper than most. Even if he spends most of his time in that silly Men’s Club of his.” That last comment was voiced tartly enough that Isaac raised an eyebrow and yet held his peace.

  Mei and Mr. Burkill didn’t have long to wait. Shortly, they saw a very dapperly dressed man with a shock of white hair, almost like a lion’s mane, walking toward them along the path. He plied his walking cane briskly and was within speaking distance after only a few minutes’ wait.

  “Miss Walsingham,” he said courteously.

  “Lord Alderscroft, this is Mr. Burkill. He is in charge of the Herbarium and this section of the Gardens.” With a twinkle in her eye, Mei went on to say, “He’s a Cambridge-trained botanist, and sure to achieve Director himself someday.”

  “I don’t know about that, miss.” Mr. Burkill held out his hand to shake Lord Alderscroft’s. “I’m just a simple gardener,” he said a little stiffly.

  “I’m a Cambridge man myself, you know.” And with that mysterious alchemy of attending the same college, even if in a different discipline, the ice was broken; Mr. Burkill beamed. “I recall we met once or twice in school,” Alderscroft said, “and your credentials prove you are no simple gardener.”

  After a few moments’ courtesy talk, Alderscroft excused himself and walked slowly among the peony beds, leaning over to examine several. He spent quite a few minutes wandering around, and the frown on his face deepened.

  Eventually, his travels brought him back to Mei.

  Mei looked questioningly at Alderscroft. They had discussed the possibility of Elemental interference on the phone when she had asked for his help. Alderscroft shook his head; there was nothing he could detect.

  “No?” she asked aloud.

  “I find no signs of any foul play,” he said.

  Her heart sank. She couldn’t have done anything to harm them. She hadn’t. All was as it should be. Except they were dying.

  “Please let me look for myself?”

  With Lord Alderscroft standing as surety for her conduct, Mei was allowed to approach the wilting beds. She knew that she should feel insulted by the need to have him here for that purpose, but she was too intent on the task before her. The conversation of the two men occasionally penetrated her concentration.

  “. . . they’re making a lot of fuss over having the daughter of an exiled and disgraced Chinese high-caste family in charge of an Imperial treasure, by which they mean the peonies . . .”

  Mei felt the ground; it was sufficiently damp, but it clumped oddly.

  “. . . there’s a lot of people who don’t have anything better to do than spread around what I put on the beds . . .”

  She stroked the leaves and stalks. Tell me what is wrong, she asked the peony. It responded slowly, as if through a fog, that it didn’t know.

  “. . . the Director’s not the only one listening. I hope she can solve this, or there may be an Incident . . .”

  The peony couldn’t tell her, but Earth and Air could. There was a vague smell that was neither peony nor rot. Something had been added to the soil around the plants.

  It was either poison or some kind of magical equivalent. Certainly the other side was eager to suppress the peonies and their healing agency. But was this attack on them via Elemental intervention, or by simple contamination?

  “It is either a poison, or something has been added to the soil,” she announced.

  “You don’t think it is a common blight?”

  “There is an easy way to tell,” she said. “We plant an unrelated species and see how it responds.”

  Alderscroft said, “We have less than a month until the Coronation. There isn’t time.” He emphasized the last word to remind her that they needed live peonies at the Palace within days.

  “There is time enough for me. But I must be left in peace. I need a rose.”

  Alderscroft gestured. At a nod, one of the gardeners, Mr. Higgs, came over to consult, then strode briskly to the greenhouse. For fifteen minutes, Alderscroft and she waited silently. He pretended to observe the garden. She used her hand to dig a small planting hole.

  Mr. Higgs returned with a rose cane, its root in a burlap wrap.

  “Thank you, Mr. Higgs,” Mei said politely, then turned and placed it in the ground.

&nb
sp; Shifting her long skirt, she sat on her knees in front of the rose, whispering to and caressing it. It visibly grew as she coaxed it. She moved from sitting to squatting and back, keeping as comfortable as she could on the damp earth. Lord Alderscroft was nearby, she knew, checking on her every few minutes. She paid no attention. The plants needed her. Mr. Burkill kept a more discreet distance.

  When the rose was only an hour old, it was already a foot high with a tiny bud blushing through sepals.

  However, the bud was dark-tinged and oozing.

  Poison. That was what had happened. Nothing magical was involved, which was why no amount of Elemental effort had found anything.

  Lord Alderscroft cleared his throat. “Is that grotesque color what you refer to?”

  “It is,” she said. “Now I need a lot of roses.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what you need.”

  Mr. Burkill came over, worry on his face. What he’d seen wasn’t natural, and he clearly knew that.

  Alderscroft still wasn’t convinced, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt.

  “How many is a lot?” Mr. Burkill asked, less skeptically than Lord Alderscroft. He could see the effects of the poison for himself.

  “Probably all we have. Have the planters run them in a line along the edges, right against the bricks. Then we’ll need to run a hose and pump from the pond.”

  She expected to be told it was impossible, but Mr. Burkill stood, stiffened, and took off at a smart walk, almost an ungentlemanly run.

  Twenty minutes later, five gardeners Mei didn’t recognize trundled over barrows containing a half gross of roses.

  “Here, miss?” one of them asked.

  “There. All the way along, please. Just a handbreadth in will be fine.”

  They produced trowels and started digging.

  “The water should be pumped slowly, just to keep the barest puddle on top,” she said.

  Another team of men arrived with a hose and pump on a cart, and unrolled it toward the water.

  Mei felt guilty at what she was to do. The poor roses were a sacrifice. As they drew more water, they would draw out the poison, and she’d force them to strain unto death to do so. People told jokes about flowers feeling pain. They weren’t jokes to her. But the peonies were wards of the Royals, and the roses were the soldiers she intended to use to protect them in turn.