Chapter Fifteen #4
around her had been rendered with staggering detail. The swiveling loop at the base, where the chain was attached, was etched
with roses.
My mind went utterly blank at the sight of it.
“Do I mind what?” Foxcourt prompted, amused.
I only half heard him; I stared at the glinting object in rank astonishment. My hand rose of its own accord, as if enchanted.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a quizzing glass before.” Foxcourt lifted the chain out of my reach, forcing me to look at
him.
“Of course I have,” I said.
All the fashionable ladies wore them, whether they needed the visual aid or not. I had simply never seen one so beautiful
or delicately made in my life. The ones the Radcliffe either
I didn’t use it, and I proved him correct that I refused to ask for help, or I did use it, and I had to suffer knowing it
had come from him and that he had seen me struggle and pitied me.
With a sigh of surrender, I lifted the lens to my left eye. The words on the page sharpened as if by magic. It was the final
insult that Foxcourt had, of course, somehow given me the exact strength of magnification I needed.
The words swam in my vision. I gritted my teeth, swallowing until the lump in my throat eased away. I would not thank him.
“I will take care of it and return it upon completion of the perfume,” I heard myself say, letting the formality of my tone
rebuild whatever distance we’d lost this evening.
He did not look up from his work. “I would rather know who struck you.”
My thumb stilled where it had been stroking the wreath of roses around the lens. “No one.”
The older the lie, the easier it slipped off the tongue. I turned the pages of the Treasury again, wishing I could vanish
into them. A flicker of temper stirred. Was it not enough that he knew about my vision? Did he have to have this, too?
“You have a scar just beneath it,” Foxcourt pressed, “and your vision in your other eye seems adequate.”
The next page fell open.
“Who was it?” Foxcourt demanded.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I answered, sitting back against my chair. I quickly scanned the page, defeat rising in me like a
spring tide.
He looked infuriated. “Of course it matters—”
“No,” I interrupted. “It doesn’t. The man is dead, and we have a far bigger problem.”
Foxcourt went still. Some part of him, I think, already knew.
“‘The magic of Immortal Rose must be derived from the divine nectar of the flowering Afallach tree,’” I read, “‘for there
is no other with its capacity to cure the deadly kiss of poison and the cruel sting of venom. It grows in the garden of the
Summer Queen in the eternal lands and must be stolen, for she jealously guards it and will accept no price.’”
Foxcourt rubbed a hand over his mouth, saying nothing. His eyes were wary. Guarded.
“I’m telling you the truth,” I insisted.
My hold on the quizzing glass relaxed as Foxcourt’s expression turned rueful.
“No, I was only thinking,” he said, “it would be something as impossible as a quest to a mythical land.”
He believes me. Some part of me had expected it would be a fight, as everything else was between us.
“There might be an oil of it in the archive,” Foxcourt pointed out. “Rosebourne seemed to believe beyond a shadow of a doubt he’d be able to make it.”
“Then let’s hope so,” I said, “because otherwise, there’s a single alternative left to us.”
Whether it was that small show of faith or my desperation to hold on to the dream of the Rosebourne inheritance, I knew I
had to read the final line inscribed in a more recent hand.
“‘If the nectar cannot be retrieved, there is but one terrible bargain to be made,’” I said, my voice scarcely a whisper.
“‘For the price of saving a life can only be the loss of another of equal worth.’”