Chapter Seven
One thinks, after years of mentally rehearsing any number of impassioned speeches about the equal rights of all men, one might
be prepared to seize the moment when the opportunity finally presented itself to say such things. To say anything, really,
other than a soft, stupid “Oh.”
Foxcourt was the one to shut the door, leaving me standing there like a fool, my heart beating out a terrible rhythm in my
chest.
King Alfred III, sovereign ruler of Albion and the greater isles, supreme defender of the faith, lay before me, withered to
a husk of a man. And the god-awful reek of him. His essence was one of metallic pride, sweet wine, velvet, gold, and something unusually bright—bergamot and mint,
warmed with the spice of ginger—but there was only the faintest hint of it beneath the stench of decay and his notoriously
rotten teeth.
Foxcourt was suddenly beside me again, his eyes meeting Eleanor’s for the briefest moment before executing another bow. I
hated myself for it, but I bobbed a quick curtsy out of self-preservation.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” Foxcourt began, and there, for a moment, was a triumphant glimmer in his eyes. “May I
present Viola Lockwood?”
The King feebly struggled to sit up against the swell of pillows. “Took your time with it, Foxcourt. Hoping I’d die in the
interim, were you?”
“Uncle,” Eleanor admonished gently. Foxcourt started toward the bed, only to be called off by a discreet wave of her hand.
“Ah, Elly,” the King wheezed, almost chastened, “it’s only this infernal sickness that’s making me so bad-tempered.”
By the expressions on Foxcourt’s and Eleanor’s faces, that did not seem likely, especially when weighed against the many,
many satirical cartoons depicting him as a toad wearing an ermine cloak and crown.
To my utter amazement, the heir to the throne—not a servant—moved to assist the King, propping his frail body up with the addition of two more pillows. As much as I wanted to despise him, the sight of the King made my stomach clench with unwelcome pity.
I cast another look around the room, already suspecting the truth of it. We were alone, in a servants’ quarter in some forgotten
hall of a sprawling palace. Not even a guard stood at the door. There was only us and Eleanor, who now dabbed at her uncle’s
brow with a tenderness the old nob almost certainly did not deserve.
No one was meant to know the King was here—that he was in this condition, where only a month ago he’d been in robust enough health to launch a new warship on the coast.
“You’re certain you’ve plucked the right girl out of Fairgate, Fox?” the King began, sweeping a scornful look over me. “Would’ve
expected Rosebourne’s leavings to be a bit sharper.”
Outrage curled like flames in my belly. Leavings. What a perfect encapsulation of what we had been to William Rosebourne. Discarded waste.
I drew in a breath, but Foxcourt was quicker, smoother, in his reply. “Believe me, Your Majesty, she’s sharp enough to flay
a man.”
Eleanor’s gaze found his again, disapproving. I was both surprised and amused to find that look was enough to wear away some
of Foxcourt’s usual sardonic polish as he added, far more mildly, “This is her. I’m certain of it.”
In different circumstances, I would have laughed at the set-down the sixteen-year-old girl had given a lord over a decade
her senior, but there was nothing funny about any of this.
A drop of perspiration slipped down my spine as the heat of the room grew intolerable, stewing the stench of illness. I regretted
that I hadn’t thought to ask for a handkerchief before we’d left Foxcourt House—anything to dull the poisonous scent of yarrow
and angelica swamping the boiling air.
If we didn’t get on with it, I’d sweat through my dress or cast up my accounts all over His Majesty.
“Sharp enough, certainly, to understand I have been brought here to fulfill a request,” I said at last, summoning every diction
lesson Mama had drilled into me until there wasn’t a trace of east city left in my accent. I wouldn’t give those present another
reason to judge me if I could help it. “I would very much like to hear how I may be of assistance to you, Your Majesty.”
“A proper miss, are you?” The King’s dark eyes narrowed. “I thought you said she’d been knocking about the rookery, Fox.”
“Uncle,” Eleanor interjected with that same serene countenance, “the hour is late and you need your rest. Shall I explain
the situation to Miss Lockwood on your behalf? I know how tiresome you find such details.”
The King’s expression turned petulant. “I can—” The words choked off with wet hacking coughs. Blood splattered from the King’s
lips onto the coverlet—rancid black blood.
Foxcourt pushed off the wall he’d leaned against, alarmed. I drew back another step, but Eleanor only rushed forward again.
In her hand was a silver perfume flacon, and she moved quickly to pull out its stopper and douse one of a number of folded
handkerchiefs on the bedside table with it.
Mint, bergamot, and ginger swirled around me, tickling my nose, unleashing a warm murmur of magic in my veins. Foxcourt moved
to my side then, splaying his large hand over the small of my back to prevent any escape.
Eleanor pressed the cloth to her uncle’s nose and mouth. He choked in several shuddering gasps, and within moments, the rhythm
of that breath eased and evened. As she drew the handkerchief away, Eleanor’s dark eyes studied him. “There. That’s put some
color back into your cheeks.”
It had. Whatever magic had been blended into the perfume had an immediate restorative effect on the man. His gaze focused
as it found mine.
“King’s Blend,” he crowed at me. “Your grandsire’s work, of course. It invigorates me.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I said, earning a reproachful nudge from Foxcourt’s hand. I stepped closer to the King, away from the
distracting touch. “Is this the perfume you would like me to create?”
The King flicked his skeletal fingers at his niece, but she had already gone to the fireplace mantel to retrieve a small,
nondescript wood box. “The . . . Yes, that’s it.”
The princess unlatched the box, and its contents flashed with firelight. The faintest suggestion of rose both intrigued and
startled me; it was heady and pure, but unlike any I’d known.
I took the small crystal bottle when Eleanor held it out to me.
The crystal flacon was cold and empty, but it had a surprising weight to it.
It had to be real gold on the vessel, caging the clear glass in a lavish pattern of vines and thorns.
I stroked the edges of the rose crowning the stopper, so lifelike in full bloom that I had to remind myself it would be impossible to dip flowers in molten gold.
That rose—that sweet rose. I brought the flacon closer, inhaling the scent, begging it to reveal its secret. It was honeyed,
almost like a centifolia rose, and yet there was an indescribable effervescence to it.
In my mind’s eye, a primeval garden spread before me, the golden outline of a woman rising from the tangles of rosebushes
unscathed, as delicate and beautiful as any of the blossoms around her. Not a woman, an ancient goddess—Venia, mother of the
fairies, who saw to love, beauty, and healing.
As if in answer, a lingering pulse of warmth spread across the glass, absorbing into my skin with a sharp tingling sensation.
Magic.
“Five days ago, my dear uncle was poisoned,” Eleanor explained, careful to measure the King’s response before continuing.
“We believe it was inadvertently administered by a valet, as he assisted the King with dressing.”
“Bloody Gallia,” the King huffed, visibly provoked. “Couldn’t send me to my reward in the war and haven’t ceased trying since.
Compliments of the deuced DeForests, no doubt. No antidote will take. It’s magic, I know it.”
“The DeForests have the same ability as the Rosebournes?” I asked, unable to mask my shock. That would certainly explain William
Rosebourne’s particular ire for them.
Destroyed felt too light a word for what Rosebourne had done to the Gallian perfumers, burning their warehouses and flower fields,
hiring privateers to seize their shipping vessels, and—if the scandal sheets were to be believed—adding a corrosive acid to
one of their few remaining batches of perfume.
The DeForest perfumes, known for their bold, woody notes, had been a secret indulgence of many Patricians, who paid to have
them smuggled into the country at eye-watering sums. Almost overnight, the unloyal Patricians had been exposed, burned by
the acid-laced perfume like a mark of shame. “The Rose-Kissed,” the scandal sheets called them.
I drew the bottle away from me, alarmed, but Foxcourt interjected. “The perfume in question was destroyed and the valet dressing him thoroughly questioned. It was delivered to the palace in a Rosebourne flacon.”
Oh, God. My heart sank as I took in the full horror of the King’s condition. The missing clumps of hair, the sallow and drooping
skin, and that stench, yarrow and angelica, on every breath. And then there was the man’s blackened fingernails, as if he
had dipped each in ink . . .
A chill skittered through my soul. I wasn’t mistaken. This wasn’t the first time I had encountered this poison perfume.
“How do you know Rosebourne wasn’t behind it?” I asked carefully.
Not carefully enough, clearly. Foxcourt’s intent gaze fell on me again, as if he could peel away my skin and bone. “Why do
you ask?”
I was proud of how quickly my feint came to me. “I’m only wondering why the obvious culprit has been dismissed.”
The King snorted, only to choke on the very same breath.
“Rosebourne’s business thrived with the King’s patronage,” Eleanor said diplomatically, smoothing over the crude sound.
“Only through the King’s patronage,” Foxcourt added, meaningfully. A thoughtful furrow deepened between his brows. “It is a rather
elegant play on the DeForests’ part to best Rosebourne at his own game and frame him for such an act.”
He sounded almost appreciative.