Chapter Eighteen
When I woke hours later in the darkness, the heat had broken and so, too, had my megrim.
I opened my eyes to a spill of moonlight, momentarily disoriented to find myself on my back, gazing up at the canopy of the
bed. My head felt like cork as I forced myself to sit up, swallowing to ease my dry mouth and throat. When had I moved from
the chaise to the bed—when had I loosened my corset and dress?
A lone glass of water had been left on the bedside table. I drank it greedily in the darkness, silently thanking whatever
angel had left it for me. Felicity, maybe, looking in on me. My quizzing glass had been left just beside it, and I used it
to read the small clock on the mantel. Nearly eleven.
Damn it all—I’d lost a day of work when we had none to spare. The King had already passed into the gauntlet of the poison’s
second week, and even with the King’s Blend to mollify the worst of its effects, his body would only continue to weaken as his lungs slowly drowned in his rotting blood.
There was no point in going back to sleep now; I was wide-awake, and the Treasury was waiting for me in the study. Hopefully
Cartwell had remembered to bring the supplies into the small still room off the kitchen.
My stomach growled.
And if I happened upon a bit of cheese and bread as I passed through the kitchen, marvelous.
Finding the slippers Felicity had left near the bed, I righted my dress and corset. My scalp, sore from sleeping on hairpins,
ached as I hastily brushed out my hair and braided it over my shoulder.
I relit the candle at the bedside and ventured out into the dark house.
The third-floor hallway was wreathed in shadows and infinitely more mysterious.
Ensconced in my candle’s comforting glow, I felt like a ghost myself, observing a world through a glimmering veil.
The staircase whimpered as I made my way down it carefully, not quite trusting my vision to gauge the distance of each step.
Unable to resist, I made a hasty visit to the unexplored second floor of Foxcourt House only to be wildly disappointed by
the discovery of well-dressed guest rooms, each with an impressive loyalty to a different shade of sunrise.
How curious that unlike Briarwood Palace, the paintings that adorned the walls of the house weren’t portraits of distinguished
ancestors but, instead, landscapes of far-off places in the world. Continents that had existed only in my imagination and
in the black-and-white texts of books. Ancient oceans and devouring storms. Cities so unlike the one I had grown up in.
How very, very big the world was, and how very small my life had been in it.
Several of the art pieces were paired with ceremonial weapons, baskets, masks, pottery, and more, which I suspected had been
gifts from visiting dignitaries or had been collected by the last Earl of Foxcourt in his role as a diplomat.
Again, I found myself lingering on the landing, gazing up at the man’s portrait. The black tulle shroud turned his expression
sphinxlike. He had a genteel face and eyes that were surprisingly kind. A glittering, laughing sort of blue. The artist had
depicted him in front of a window overlooking a garden, rather than in uniform or in the hallowed halls of Parliament. A thin
white flower was pinned to his lapel.
“—come now, you must cease this ridiculous behavior at once.”
Foxcourt. An echo of my earlier remorse stirred.
“It’s nearly midnight, how long will you persist in this?”
A warm shiver passed up my arms. His voice was low and soothing, cajoling even.
Leaning over the banister, I looked either way down the hall. The half that comprised the study, morning room, and dining
room was dark, but a suggestion of light had slipped down the short hallway that led into the kitchen.
I strained my ears for the response from whomever he was meeting with, but none came.
I bent, removing my slippers so they wouldn’t scuff against the floor and give me away. Careful to skip the bottom step—the
only one that shrieked with any weight put on it—I crept forward over the cold tile.
The door into the kitchen was open a sliver, just wide enough to make out Foxcourt’s dark shape. He had dropped into a crouch, addressing someone I couldn’t see past the broad width of his shoulders.
“Fine. ‘Marius and Cassia,’ then?”
And I stood there, dazed, as the earl, with no other warning or preamble, launched into the preeminent tragic fairy ballad
in a warm, smooth baritone:
Come, children, and listen fair,
for spring blooms ever near,
and with it, an old curse awakens
of star-crossed lovers long forsaken.
I edged closer to the door, hugging my slippers to my chest. The house seemed to shiver as the rich velvet of his tone passed
through it.
He had a beautiful speaking voice; it stood to reason that his singing voice might be as well. And it was—as clear as a midsummer
sky, with all the purity of a church bell. It was a voice for God, as the old priest in the Brickbats would have said, rising
heavenward, sweeter for the fact it had been secret. It was a voice I would have followed blindly off a cliff’s edge, lured
only by its sweet promise.
Foxcourt shifted then, dropping one of his knees to the tile. I leaned forward, careful not to disturb the door. At the sight
of him feeding Brigadier another scoop of food from his hand, I had to bite my tongue to keep my laughter from escaping.
The tale is one of mortal woe,
of bargains betrayed long ago.
Man must not heed the world that beckons,
for fate is for fairies and love is for legends . . .
“. . . are you quite finished now?”
Brigadier’s tail swished madly as she devoured the last few morsels of meat he’d offered her. I pressed my fingertips to my
lips, helpless to stop the smile there. A few more verses, and I was ashamed to admit he might have had me eating from the
palm of his hand as well.
“Whether or not you finish is entirely up to you,” Foxcourt told her sternly, rising from his haunches to lean against the staff’s table.
A scattering of candles outlined his profile in gold.
“But I’d rather not sing about a man who drowns himself after a fairy strangles his love, if it’s all the same to you. ”
Brigadier let out a soft whine.
Foxcourt returned it with a stern look.
I was genuinely unsure who would triumph in the battle of wills.
“I will let you sleep in my bed tonight—and only tonight—if you finish eating the rest of this,” Foxcourt said at last.
The dog launched herself at the bowl, loudly devouring the remainder of its contents like a slobbering goblin. My stomach
growled in response, but even that noise was lost to the wet inhalation of food.
I stifled a laugh as I bent to put my slippers back on. It would have been delicious to have barged in then, to let Foxcourt
know without a shadow of a doubt I’d heard it all. But the thought of Mama’s portrait stilled my hand and my tongue. I could
show him mercy.
For now.
I would have to be satisfied with knowing I’d stolen a secret from a master of them. But the longer I stood there, the harder
it became to fully vanquish the hope that he might sing a few more lines. The thought of never hearing his lilting voice again
sent an odd surge of panic through me, as if mourning something that should never have been mine to begin with.
I gave him the gift of a few moments of ambiguity over whether I had heard him. Counting to thirty in my head, I drew in a
deep breath and pushed the door open.
Foxcourt didn’t startle—of course not—but I knew I’d managed to catch him by surprise. It was all in the way he straightened,
his hand instinctively smoothing back the waves of his dark hair. He had the beginning of a night beard, making him look disarmingly
roguish in the low light. The appraising glance he swept over me made my toes curl in my slippers.
“You should be asleep,” he said at last.
“As should you,” I said. Eleven o’clock was only the beginning of a night’s festivities for most toffs, but Foxcourt wasn’t
dressed for his member’s club or a fete.
I peered at him through the darkness. I couldn’t begin to guess what he was dressed for. He wore a shirt dyed black, long black trousers, a black silk cowl around his neck, and boots with such a soft
sole they made nary a whisper of sound as he came toward me.
“And you are”—he stopped before me, his throat working to muster the word—“well?”
With a snort of irritation, Brigadier trotted between us, her nose turned up like a duchess. On her way, no doubt, to warm
Foxcourt’s bed.
“Vi—Lockwood?”
I started, realizing I’d never answered him. “Yes,” I said. “I’m well now. I . . . apologize if I was curt earlier.”
There. I’d said it.
His lips twitched. “I deserved a rap on the knuckles. The heat put me in an abominable mood. I take it the effects were somewhat
worse for you. Was it the smell?”
I nodded. “It brought on a megrim.”
He took another step, passing into the little cocoon of candlelight with me. When he reached for the holder, I let him take
it. Why the deuce did I feel so nervous looking up at him now? I knew how to handle the exasperating, sardonic Foxcourt, not
this softer, shadowed version of himself.
“Does it happen often?” he asked, setting the candle down on Mrs. Silver’s worktable.
“Not as often as it used to,” I said. “I had more as a child. I suppose my nose has become somewhat accustomed to the city
on its worst days.”
He nodded, absorbing this. “And I forced you out into it when Radcliffe could have met us here.”
The surprising note of remorse in his voice turned the hushed world hazy.
“Well . . .” I began, somewhat unevenly. “How would you have known?”
“I should have,” he said quietly. “I ought to have anticipated it.”
As he anticipated and took care of nearly everything else, I realized. This wasn’t merely a man who despised surprises. He
saw them as personal failures. What a cruel way to punish yourself.
He was close enough now to reveal the outline of some hidden chain and pendant beneath his thin shirt. My own hand reached
for Mama’s necklace before I remembered.