Chapter Thirteen
“Foxcourt,” I gasped out, pushing back against the immense weight curled around me. “Foxcourt—he’s gone.”
His breathing stirred the loose curls near my ears, and, for a moment, I was caught by the sensation. Shaking myself, I drove
my elbow back into his gut, earning a grunt.
Bloody enormous man. I’d barely jostled him.
It took several moments of silence before Foxcourt finally relented and released me.
Air flooded back into my lungs, cooling the heat in my cheeks. He stood and crossed the room in three long strides, leaning
out the window. It seemed God had a sense of humor, or at least poor timing; a policeman chose that moment to stroll by, whistling
as he went about his patrol.
Foxcourt flung the window shut in disgust. “Did you get a look at the thief?”
“Not a good one. They were wearing a mask,” I said. “Average height and build, I’d say. No scent.”
That made three people I couldn’t detect a scent from—it was utterly provoking.
Foxcourt looked thoughtful as he tossed his walking stick onto one of the leather chairs, surveying the chaos around us. Hundreds
of books had been tossed carelessly to the ground, many resting on warped pages. Entire shelves had been cleared, as if the
thief had been looking for something.
Or one book in particular.
“It’ll be nearly impossible to tell if they took anything,” Foxcourt said, crouching to pick up a volume. He turned it over
in his hands, his brow furrowed in thought.
“They left empty-handed,” I said. I was all but sure of it.
I made my way to where the thief had been hiding, drawn by a tantalizing ribbon of scents. Flowers, herbs, and resins . . .
it could only be one thing.
A small cabinet built into the bookshelf was ajar, a brass key tucked into its lock.
Inside, Rosebourne had assembled dozens of small brown apothecary bottles in tidy rows, like regimental soldiers.
All were unlabeled—and why wouldn’t they be?
He could have distinguished each with a simple breath, as I could.
“Lockwood?”
I glanced back, realizing belatedly Foxcourt had said something to me. Seeing he had my attention, he repeated his question.
“You’re certain?”
“As far as I could see and smell, yes,” I said, turning my attention back to the bottles. Nothing seemed to be missing. “But
given the focus of their search . . .”
“They were after the only book in a rival perfumer’s study worth finding,” he finished, tossing the book back into the pile.
Reaching into the depths of the cabinet, toward the heavier scents, I plucked a reeking bottle of civet musk from its line,
marveling at the amount that swirled around inside the glass. When it came time to set it back down, I hesitated, my fingers
curling tighter around the bottle’s neck . . . because, really, what use did Rosebourne have for it now?
I turned a greedy eye back onto the oils again, assembling a small collection of them at the shelf’s edge. Jasmine grandiflorum,
tuberose absolute, orris root, and ambergris . . . God, the cost of the ambergris alone would be in the hundreds of gold marks.
Almost faint with giddiness, my mind calculated the sum of the bottles as I retrieved the satchel I’d dropped and began carefully
placing them inside it.
“I believe that is considered stealing in most civilized countries,” Foxcourt said dryly. “The state of the study will be
hard enough to explain without them noticing they’ve been robbed.”
“They are being requisitioned in the name of His Majesty the King,” I said tartly.
He snorted, amused. “Then by all means, proceed.”
Remembering the scent of Immortal Rose that had lingered in the flacon, I took the centifolia rose oil for good measure, hastily
rearranging the bottles to fill the gaps.
“If you’re quite finished with your larceny, I’d like to retrieve what we actually came for.”
One by one, Foxcourt picked up the few remaining items that hadn’t been knocked off Rosebourne’s massive oak desk, studying each in turn. A crystal paperweight. A half-full teacup, the liquid long gone gray with curdled milk. A pipe spilling out unspent tobacco.
Marks of a life abbreviated unexpectedly.
William Rosebourne’s essence hung over the dark space like a fearsome specter—the smoked wood note that clung to the entire
study, with its hint of jammy rose that was found at the base of most House of Rosebourne perfumes. And was that metallic
pride, or merely the abundance of marks he carried on his person? The rusted metal of guilt.
I met Foxcourt at the desk, running my fingers over a tray of silver buttons with their flower emblems. I’d forgotten—in addition
to scented gloves, handkerchiefs, lockets, rings, and combs, the House of Rosebourne had recently begun offering scented buttons,
which featured a backing of cloth where perfume could be applied.
Foxcourt lifted the tobacco pipe. “Don’t get any ideas.”
I rolled my eyes, reaching around him to feel beneath the desk’s central door, hunting for the hint of metal I smelled there.
“There should be a . . .”
The hidden compartment slid open under my finger’s urging, and the key’s slight weight dropped into it. Just as Mama had told
me it would, in that singsong way she had of telling stories: A little snick does the trick.
Facing the fireplace directly across from the desk, I counted three bookcases to the left and three shelves down. For fortune favors thee, and six is twice the luck of three.
The rhyme was almost unnecessary; the smell of the brass keyhole subtly placed on the underside of the shelf was like a candle
in the dark. If the thief was one of the DeForests, if they truly had the same abilities as the Rosebournes, it was odd that
they had missed it—then again, there were any number of brass objects scattered over the shelves.
The key slid in and turned with a satisfying click. Foxcourt let out a hum of gratification that resonated with the smug swell
of pride in my chest. There was a single beat of silence where our gazes caught and held. His eyes gleamed like a wolf’s sighting
its next meal, and I knew I had to be wearing a similar expression for his lips to curl into such a wicked smile.
If it were anyone else . . . anyone but him . . . I might have acknowledged the thrill of excitement that passed between us.
Gripping the shelf, I gave it a hard yank. While the bookshelf jolted, it slammed shut again with the force of its immense
weight.
I jerked as my back met the solid wall of Foxcourt’s chest again. His arms bracketed mine, gripping the shelf just above my
hands. Our bodies collided as he dragged it open.
“What the devil is this made of?” he said, reaching a leg around me to toe a stopper down, holding the door open.
“Iron,” I said, peering into the darkness. A narrow set of stairs led down into the shadows awaiting us below. The scent of
magic shimmered up, pouring over me like golden honey. Cold iron to hide the way and to lead the fairies astray. “It blocks the scent and sensation of magic from escaping the family archive.”
Foxcourt was handy, at least, quickly finding a candle to light.
“Magic doesn’t have a scent,” he said as he struck the flint to ignite the wick.
“And how would you know?” I asked pertly.
He gave me a dubious look. “Because it’s absurd.”
“More or less absurd than scenting someone’s feelings or their life’s story?” I tried to take the candlestick holder from
him, my nose wrinkling at the smell of tallow. For all his wealth and the refinement of his nose, William Rosebourne had apparently
been a miserly old bastard.
Foxcourt resisted my grip. “I go first.”
I stepped back, hands rising in surrender. “Be my guest. It’ll make it easier to kick you down the steps.”
He started through the passage, only to stop, blocking the way forward with his arm. “I’ll allow you to go first—”
“Allow me?” I echoed, scathing.
“—if you tell me what the scent of magic is.”
I shook my head in amazement. This man truly could not stand a single secret to be out of his reach, even as he jealously
guarded his own. “Like if sunlight were a sparkling wine.”
He only looked more annoyed. “Sunlight doesn’t have a scent, either.”
“Are you always this literal?” I asked, plucking the candle from his hand and ducking beneath his arm. By his disgruntled
expression, yes. Yes, he was.
Within the first few steps, I almost regretted not allowing Foxcourt to go first. With the poor sight in my left eye, it made my vision in the dark an altogether more uncertain prospect.
I muddled on, the candle flame trembling in my hand as I used my other to feel along the curve of the wall as the steps twisted down and down.
The air took on a noticeable chill, deepening the sense that we were passing out of our world and into ancient memory. That
we had stumbled upon a fairy mound said to lead to their otherland.
But no, that was ridiculous. The darkness and cold air were by design. As I leaned out over the last curve of the spiraling
steps, the reason became plain: shelves of perfume flacons lined the walls of the small chamber below.
I slowed as I came off the last step, lifting the candle to better illuminate both the bottles and their shelves’ labels.
Many were empty, having finally evaporated or been used to the last drop. Even then, their bottles arrested me. An artisan
had blown the glass into unusual, willowy shapes and into flowers I both did and didn’t recognize. Their glass turned pearlescent
under the caress of the candlelight.
For there you’ll find a treasure below of legends past and truths you’ve yet to know.
Their scents murmured faintly, dimmed by time and the wax sealing their stoppers. Each was a whisper, a glimpse of a life
I hadn’t lived: secrets in the shadows, eternal days in the sun, the memories of trees. I could scarcely wrap my mind around
it.
This was my inheritance. Not the palace above us or the tens of thousands of pounds hidden away in bank vaults. This. I would spend hours—days—down here as soon as I was able.
Foxcourt tapped one empty space we passed. I doubled back, standing on my toes to read the inscription pinned to the wood.
Immortal Rose.
“That would have been too easy,” I muttered.
There was a small table and a single chair positioned at the center of the chamber. And there, spread open like an invitation,
was an immense leather-bound volume.
I stopped before it, carefully setting the candle down.
“This is it, I presume?” came Foxcourt’s distant voice.
The pages breathed out warm magic, illuminating every part of my soul as it melded with the scent of ink and old blood. Exactly
how Mama had described, but somehow, inconceivable.
I leaned forward, daring to stroke a light finger down the purple flower that had been painted onto the open pages in vibrant metallic inks.
Its long stem was woven through lines of elegant, spidery penmanship.
A flutter low in my stomach, of some unknowing recognition between myself and that writing, made the hair on my arms rise.
This was the hand of the fairy who had brought the magic of perfume into our world. Into the Rosebourne bloodline.
To capture the scent of the violet flower, I read, gather the following . . .
Of course—of course. Setting aside magic, the allure of the Rosebourne perfumes for today’s society came principally from William Rosebourne’s
vision of layered scents, the balance and interplay of musk and flowers and fruit achieved by no other perfumery. He’d understood,
long before his peers, the experience of perfume also included the aesthetic of its vessel—that he could convey a story through
it, make it desirable and collectible, rather than force his customers to buy their perfume in simple apothecary bottles and
transfer them to flasks at home.
But what the House of Rosebourne had originally been known for was its ability to capture the scent of mute flowers. Those
delicate lovelies like violets, lilacs, and lilies of the valley that either refused to give up their natural scents or were
too delicate to go through the extraction process necessary to distill them into oil.
I’d always thought that, perhaps, the Rosebournes had used magic to extract those fragrances, but no—if this precise formulation
was any indication, they did what other perfumers attempted to do: re-create the scent of one flower using a precise blend
of others. Fascinating.
“Lockwood?” Foxcourt began, rudely shattering my trance. The magic dancing along my skin quelled, as if sensing we were not
alone in each other’s company. “Are you quite all right?”
“More than all right, I’d say.”
The pages were so very delicate, yellowed and brittle by the centuries. Hesitating, I turned to a random page, voraciously
poring over the entry for a perfume to soothe nightmares. A drop of lavender oil best drawn at morning. Another, different hand—who?—had carefully added beneath it, years later, Lavandula x heterophylla is sweetest. A night’s sleep in exchange.
Never one for maudlin moods, I was surprised at how deeply the sight of it touched me. It often took hundreds of flowers to
create a mere ounce of oil. And here, the knowledge of hundreds of years, distilled into a single volume.
It’s ours now, Mama, I thought. At last. A day hadn’t gone by where she hadn’t thought of or mentioned the Treasury, wishing she had spent more time with it.
Some unacknowledged tension deep within my chest diminished, because I knew for certain now that none of this was a dream.
That the next hand to write a notation within these pages would be mine and mine alone. I was a Rosebourne.
His patience stretched to its limit, Foxcourt leaned over my shoulder to see for himself. I smiled at his noise of disbelief.
“But . . . it’s blank,” he said, sounding dumbfounded.
He reached for the book, only to draw his hand back. Foxcourt was no fool, I’d give him that. One never knew what might happen
when you touched a fairy relic not meant for your taking.
“No,” I said, my eyes drinking in the midnight ink. “It’s most definitely not.”
“There’s nothing there,” he insisted. It came to him then; realization lit his eyes. “Unless . . .”
“It’s written with fairy ink,” I finished, heaving the heavy book shut. And our family’s blood, so that only we may read it, Mama’s voice whispered in my mind. And that begged another question, one that sent a shiver of unease through me.
Whoever had tried to steal it, whether it was the DeForests or some other enterprising thief, knew of the Treasury’s existence
but hadn’t known that secret.
I was the only one left who did.
“Now,” I began, struggling to lift the massive tome into my arms. “How are we going to get this out of the house unnoticed?”