Chapter Thirty-One #3
Hugh took the note, unfolding it with care. His brow furrowed as he read, then his gaze shot up to meet mine.
“Dobbin—for Robert?” he asked.
I nodded, swallowing. “I had no idea she called him that, I swear.”
“Who is Dobbin?” Mrs. Keyes asked, her essence doused in the nuttiness of confusion.
“A man we believe may have the nectar we need to finish Immortal Rose,” Hugh said. “He’s a known collector of fairy plants
and oils.”
Hugh looked as though he had swallowed one of Mrs. Silver’s poisons.
The knot formed in my throat, aching. Well, it certainly wasn’t every day you found yourself married to the daughter of the
Butcher of Linden.
I pulled away from him and opened the commonplace book, scouring its pages for mentions of the name.
“He had no idea you existed,” Hugh began. “Not until your mother’s journal was stolen.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Were you able to get it back?” Mrs. Keyes asked.
“No,” he said, his hands curling against his knees. “Someone had already broken into the newspaper’s offices and stolen it.”
Hugh reached out, catching my hip and my attention. “What does she mean in her note about Rosebourne creating a nightmare?”
“I have no idea,” I said helplessly. “Earlier, Hornsby told me that my mother hadn’t been cast out, she’d chosen to leave, but that runs contrary to everything she’s ever told me.”
And if she had lied . . . why?
“May I see it?” Hugh asked, gesturing to the journal. I handed it to him, feeling hollow at my center. He went straight to
the commonplace book’s final pages, moving through them in reverse order. He breathed in sharply, then turned it around so
I could read it. With my quizzing glass on the bedside table, I closed my one eye.
Dobbin finder’s fee for contract to be drawn:
Up front: Nectar of the Afallach tree—oil; heatherbore—oil; moonflower—oil; silverbranch—oil
Upon completion: Widow’s Veil—oil or raw; morningleaf—dried
“Why in the world would he go to Greystone for anything?” I asked. “And why would Greystone agree to help him find something,
for that matter?”
Realization dawned on Hugh’s face as some unknown threads knotted together.
“Not something,” Hugh said softly. “Someone.”
I paled.
“He went to Greystone thinking he would be motivated to find you,” Hugh said.
Meaning Greystone had known of my existence—or at least the existence of a living child—before the newspaper had revealed it. I could take some pride in the fact that he apparently hadn’t learned my
identity. Or maybe he hadn’t looked at all and simply bilked the old man of valuable oils. It was what I would have done.
“We don’t know that,” I began.
“I do,” Hugh said, almost contrite. “Rosebourne was looking for you before his death. He asked me to find you a day before
he died, in exchange for creating Immortal Rose—perhaps not realizing he’d already traded away the most vital ingredient.”
I stared at him, feeling as if the room’s shadows were circling around me. The theory had already existed somewhere in his
mind if he leapt to it this quickly. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”
“I . . .” he began, a bit weakly. “There wasn’t an opportune moment.”
“Is there anything else about my life you’ve kept from me?” I asked.
“The way you kept your true father’s identity from me?” he shot back. “The way it never occurred to you to mention why those
men tried to take you?”
“These situations are nothing alike,” I protested.
“You’re right,” he said. “Can you honestly say knowing Rosebourne wanted to find you would have made a difference to any of
the choices that have led us here? Because if I’d known Greystone would take interest in you—”
“You’d have locked me in the house?” I finished. “Made me a prisoner in truth?”
He drew back at that. “That’s not what I meant, damn it!”
“Tonight and the”—my stomach turned at the memory—“the delivery of Madame Audette’s hands were his way of showing he could
reach me anywhere, including here.”
Hugh was furious now. “You knew he was the one to send them, not Glenmoor, and you said nothing?”
“I realize now I put everyone here at risk,” I began raggedly. “And I’m sorry for it.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Keyes interrupted, “we might table this discussion for after we’ve rested, when clearer heads and cooler tempers
will prevail?”
Mrs. Silver’s essence carried down the hall, along with the sound of her soft, padding footsteps. “Come with me now, ma chère—no,
no leave that there,” she added, when I moved to take the porcelain basin. “I’ve brought more water up, and there’s a fresh
night rail awaiting you.”
“All right,” I said, craving her gentle smile of encouragement. She wore her sympathy heavily over her essence, adding a peat-like
note.
I cast one last look at Hugh as we left the room, feeling more fraught and unraveled than ever before.
One thing, however, was certain. I knew it by the terror that coursed through me, but the resolve, too. I had spent years
looking back over my shoulder, fearing every shadow. If I didn’t do this now, I would never be truly free to step into the
future I was making for myself.
It was time to stop running.