Chapter Fifteen #3
“And you are upset because the King sacrifices nothing of himself for his blend, and he has access to such a rare fairy flower
when so many do not.”
“Yes—no.” I pressed a hand to my brow, rubbing at it.
“Which is it?” he asked.
The pressure at my back eased as he stepped off to the side, resting a hand against the table to lean over and examine the
Treasury. A wicked little pleasure curled in me as he let out a noise of irritation, seeing nothing but blank pages.
“Yes and no,” I clarified. “I am upset about that, of course. But I am also . . .”
It felt like a betrayal to think it, never mind put voice to it. And to him of all people. But in a week’s time, God willing, I would never see this man again. What did it matter?
“I’m frustrated that my mother’s kind heart refused to ask that of anyone she made these perfumes for.” The words tumbled
out of me. “That she saw her own life as somehow less valuable than theirs. That she never told me of this, as if she expected
me to feel the same.” My gaze traced the long seam of his jacket sleeve up to his thoughtful face. “And I don’t.”
Foxcourt let out a soft hum as he pulled back. “Good.”
“Good?” I echoed, twisting around in my seat to watch him stroll around the edges of the room, examining the shelves. “This
from the man who asked why I couldn’t simply make the perfume for the good of the kingdom?”
“For the kingdom, not a vain peer trying to steal someone’s affections.” His feet slowed, his body tensing. Whatever emotion he might have
felt was struck away by sheer force of will. “In any case, it would seem that Immortal Rose might only require a fairy flower.”
“That only creates a different problem,” I reminded him, “seeing as many such flowers have gone extinct without the fairies
to cultivate them.”
“I suppose that’s bound to happen when a new faith arrives and deems one a demon,” Foxcourt said.
“The attempted massacre by the new mortal King rather decided it for them,” I agreed. “Thankfully our society has moved on to merely imprisoning their descendants for something entirely outside of their control.”
Foxcourt’s hand closed around a volume on the nearest shelf, and he yanked it out with a touch too much force. “Indeed.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock, and I was too tired to play out the same argument between us again. Instead, I gestured to the
portrait on the wall in front of me.
“Speaking of murderous expressions,” I began, “I can barely focus with you and Reddy glaring down at me. You look as if you
want nothing more than to strangle each other—was that the case, or did you simply irritate the artist?”
“Both.”
I risked a glance toward Foxcourt, only to find he was already watching me. That attention was like nothing I’d ever known,
complete in a way that made me too aware of myself, of the way a glimmer of heat chased the chill over my skin.
The painting depicted the two young men, their faces fuller versions of themselves, seated on either side of the settee in
this very room. Both wore their haughty disdain as confidently as their silk waistcoats.
“We were not fond of each other,” Foxcourt clarified, returning to his pointless perusal of the books. “More specifically,
it was utter loathing broken up only by brief periods of muted malice, usually through peace treaties brokered by Mrs. Silver.”
I let out a startled laugh. “Surely you jest.”
“Not in the slightest,” he said, his mouth twisting with amusement. “I resented him for dividing my uncle’s attention, and
he resented me for having gotten a head start on learning my uncle’s unusual work.”
“So,” I began, considering the portrait again, “in a word, you were competitive. Why didn’t your uncle put a stop to it?”
“Why would he?” Foxcourt asked, shrugging. “He always believed two blades sharpened each other.”
“But clearly something did change between the two of you—or is all the brotherly ribbing merely an act?”
“It’s not an act,” he said, idly swapping the position of two books. “It changed our second year at Rexford, owing to the
Night We Do Not Speak Of.”
I laughed again, only to realize he was serious. “What happened?”
“The only decree of the Night We Do Not Speak Of,” Foxcourt said, without a hint of remorse in his smile, “is that we do not speak of it.”
With a roll of the eyes, I pointedly returned to the Treasury. The time was beginning to catch up to me, and I wanted to compile
the list of additional oils I’d need to begin work in the morning. It would give me an excuse to return to my flat for my
oils and Mama’s necklace—or write to Oliver, asking him to retrieve them for me.
The thought of Oliver was a hard kick of guilt to the chest. God, I hadn’t even told him I’d been released from Fairgate.
For all he knew, I was still locked in my cell.
“Is it necessary to have this many volumes and field guides on plants?” Foxcourt grumbled.
“If his garden is any indication, yes,” I said. “Though I suppose they were also useful in his—how did you put it? His unusual work?”
Foxcourt scoffed. “Such as sending coded messages through the language of flowers?”
“Maybe,” I said slowly, seizing the opportunity as it presented itself. “But there are any number of poisonous plants he could
have deployed as a means to an end.” My fingers wove together tightly in my lap. I fought to keep my voice neutral. “Nightshade,
for example.”
My heart seized in the beat of silence that followed, but he didn’t take the bait. Of course not.
“My uncle didn’t like poisons, perfume or otherwise,” Foxcourt said slowly. “He always felt that if you were going to take
a man’s life, it was important to leave no doubt in his mind who had stolen his last breath.”
And yet he had died of one. The irony was cruel, but when was it not?
“Not all poisonous plants are deadly,” I pointed out. “There are a number of them that simply cause rashes. Others, like lily
of the valley, can cause upset stomach and vomiting if consumed.”
I paused, remembering suddenly that I was meant to be practicing a more ladylike sensibility.
Foxcourt chuckled softly. “Is that why you worked for a florist? To learn how to poison your enemies and get away with it?
If so, I know of someone who might be able to help you with that.”
I gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “Don’t tempt me.”
The bloody man. That had been a shrewd ploy to get information about me if I’d ever heard one. But it unsettled me, again, to find that he hadn’t been far from the mark—that he knew me well enough after only a few days to guess I’d never do something to simply do it.
There had been a purpose in taking that work beyond the pay and floral castoffs. It had allowed me to handle and understand
the scent profiles of any number of plants and flowers, including more exotic varieties. A few years in the flower stall had
refined my nose and the scent catalog of my memory to what they were today.
We retreated again into silence. I flipped through the fragile pages as quickly as I dared, keeping my left eye shut to read
the smaller inscriptions and faded ink. I drew the candle nearer to me, but even the addition of that light wasn’t enough
to sharpen the words on the page. It would have to wait until the better light of morning.
But I didn’t want to have to wait until morning. I wanted to be done with this, to hand him his bloody perfume and be on my way. Done with
him, and the way I felt him drawing nearer, his body and his mind.
The floorboard creaked as he took a step toward me, but I knew by the subtle shift of pressure, by the deeply unfair way his
presence had of quickening my pulse. Mastering it like a conductor would an orchestra. A step closer, and my heartstrings
began to trill. Another step, and the drumming began in my ears, at my throat, my wrists.
The uncertainty of what he might do lingered like a soft breath between us. I glared at the passing pages of the Treasury,
but it was a pointless rebellion. Every other part of me was engrossed in tracking him as he came closer, the delicious warmth
of his body at my back again, stirring a flutter low in my belly, lighting my nerve endings like wicks.
My chair creaked as one of his hands gripped it, his knuckles brushing my shoulder.
“Do you mind—” I began.
A small gold object flashed at my right. I pivoted, instinctively seeking out its irresistible glimmer.
Dangling from Foxcourt’s hand was a gold chain, and from that, a small glass lens encased in a gold frame. The handle was
exquisitely shaped with the goddess Venia’s luxuriant form; the drape of her one-shouldered gown and the vines and flowers