Prologue #2
Hugh drew in a humiliatingly sharp breath, as if he, too, could smell it wafting from the folds of his limp waistcoat and
shirtsleeves. All those years he’d spent learning to control every aspect of himself, to tamp down on the simmering anger
in his blood, to ease any hint of feeling from his expression—it was worthless in the face of magic such as this.
His breath came lighter, quicker, as if to match the rising beat of his heart. Bloody hell.
Something else, he ordered himself, focus on something else. He’d kill every feeling in his body before he offered them up to the man on a silver platter. Hugh was the one in control
here. Not Rosebourne.
Not anyone else.
The creak of wheels against stone and the steady clop of hooves pierced the disdain curdling between them. Rosebourne craned
his head, peering down the street, only to settle back with annoyance. It wasn’t his.
“I was acquainted with the last Earl of Foxcourt,” Rosebourne said. “Your great-uncle, wasn’t he?”
Hugh’s throat tightened as the man’s face flashed before his eyes. “He employed your more . . . useful perfumes.”
“As do you,” Rosebourne said, pointedly. “I approve every such order, mind you.”
A warning to cap off his night. Unbelievable. Hugh despised using the perfumes in question, but necessity trumped misgiving
every time.
“I’d expect nothing less,” Hugh said. “I’d only fear what might become of you, should the King no longer avert his gaze from
your use of fairyborn magic.”
Rosebourne barked out a laugh. “And deny himself his own yearly order? Risk the ire of his Patricians, who have grown so very
fond of their scents? Perhaps he should concern himself more with what might happen should the rest of his subjects find out
what they’ve been denied. My business would survive, boy. Would his reign?”
Hugh let his top lip curl. For a man who dabbled with oils, Rosebourne certainly enjoyed courting fire.
“The social order must be preserved,” Rosebourne mocked. “And so, by law, the Patricians may keep their fairy relics and do with them as they please. They may
purchase perfumes their lessers are not even permitted to know exist, as these noble, godly men”—he gestured to the throng of drunk lords—“can be trusted, having bred the tainted pagan fairy blood from their glorious lines. And all the while, fairy relics are ripped away from
commonfolk, who can be sent to Fairgate Prison on the mere suspicion of using fairyborn magic.”
“Where they serve at the King’s pleasure,” Hugh reminded him. “And now, so do you.”
Rosebourne sniffed at the double entendre, dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief. Mint, Hugh noted. Had it been anyone
else, he might have spared him a small measure of pity—or at least not enjoyed the man’s obvious misery quite this much.
But another thought occurred to him. It was a misery, wasn’t it? A perfumer’s nose was their most prized asset, but the Rosebourne nose was something else entirely;
like every strength, it could be made a weakness. Hugh would remember that. He would use it.
“You’ve his way—your great-uncle’s.” Rosebourne tapped his cane impatiently against the ground. “Smiling and smiling as you
sharpen knives behind your back.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said.
“But blades cannot cut through poison, can they?” Rosebourne mused. “Tell me, did the air still reek of licorice when you
found him?”
The familiar, sickening weight coiled in Hugh’s chest. The image painted itself in the shadows gathering at the edges of his vision.
A body, twisted in on itself, forever contorted by the final throes of agony.
The tracks of dried blood streaming from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, and, God, even his ears.
There had been so much of it, pooled on the ground beneath him like ink.
“And yet, the good people of Linden believe he sent himself on to his eternal reward,” Rosebourne continued, “grateful to
have the great, charitable Duke of Glenmoor succeed him as home secretary—why, you must have been thrilled the position stayed
within the family. And to have him named regent in the event of the King’s death . . . surely there’s no greater honor.”
Hugh gritted his teeth with such force he was surprised they did not crack.
“It is fortunate the customer in question did not become acquainted with that particular foreign scent,” Rosebourne finished, just as his rolling abomination came into view. “Or else neither of us would
be in the position of getting what we desire, hmm?”
Hugh shoved down the lingering sting of memory, the humiliation at having been so easily read. Down and down, into the numbing
darkness he’d nurtured in his heart. “Quite.”
The white coach rolled to a stop before them, and a footman, looking rumpled after a day of traipsing through the city, leapt
down from his perch to open the door for his employer.
Rosebourne limped forward, seizing the young man’s arm before he could move to place the steps beneath the door.
“Sir?” the footman asked, eyes widening as Rosebourne took a long, deep inhale.
Not finding whatever it was he’d been looking for, Rosebourne reared back, snapping for the coachman’s attention. “What have
I told you about that blasted polish? Do you mean to suffocate me before we reach the house?”
The coachman blinked owlishly at his employer. “But, sir—”
“Bah!” The old man stifled a sneeze, hauling himself into the dark heart of the coach. He held out a hand, blocking the footman
from closing the door. “An update, Foxcourt. By tomorrow evening. You’ll have your perfume then.”
Hugh gave a sardonic bow. The unmitigated gall to give him an order.
As the man’s craggy face disappeared behind the carriage door, Hugh heaved in a deeper breath, seeking whatever scent had so offended the man.
His brow creased. Linseed oil was hardly an assault to the senses, even for a more powerful nose. But if Rosebourne despised
it . . . well.
Hugh smiled darkly. He’d be more than happy—overjoyed, in fact—to douse himself with the stuff before standing over the perfumer’s shoulder to encourage the man to blend his little
oils faster. And if Rosebourne still resisted, Hugh would personally coat every inch of the man’s house, every blasted piece
of furniture, in the polish until it became an inescapable reminder of the task he was neglecting.
Enjoying the thought immensely, Hugh watched Rosebourne’s coach depart with a snap of the ribbons.
Go after him, he heard Uncle Giles’s voice whisper in his mind. The work is not finished.
But it was, at least for this godforsaken day. Rosebourne lived but a short drive away, and Hugh had already put eyes on Briarwood
Palace. Come morning, he would be the one haunting the man’s doorstep.
Hugh turned, mulling which nearby street presented the best opportunity to find a hack.
“Where are you off to, Foxcourt?” someone called.
Someone—who? He couldn’t recall now. Because in that moment, between one breath and the next, between the ask and the answer, the
world turned to fire.
The heat found him first, scalding the air and his vision molten gold. A tidal wave of pressure roared behind him, tossing
him to the ground with bone-crushing force.
No, there had been a smaller explosion first, hadn’t there? A crack like thunder. Or had that only been his skull slamming
against the cobblestones?
When Hugh came to, the sky was on fire, and somehow, impossibly, he was not dead.
His consciousness rose like the whorls of dark smoke around him. A sharp ache at his temple made itself known with a piercing
intensity that was almost blinding. Ash caressed his face like the hands of a worried mother.
Hugh’s eyes stung, watering as he forced them open, his throat aching with an unfinished cry. Smoldering debris was scattered
around him. Hugh stared, not comprehending, not recognizing any of it.
Not until he saw the golden rose still burning in the nearby gutter.
The blasted ringing in his ears was unbearable as Hugh hauled himself upright. The world lurched violently as he staggered through the heavy veil of smoke and ash.
Too late—
He pressed a trembling hand to the back of his mouth to keep from retching. The ungodly stench of burnt hair and flesh overcame
him as he made his way to the fiery heart of the street.
To the remains of a coach engulfed in flames so hot they burned blue.
Too late—
Bile heaved up his throat as Hugh dropped back to his knees. Hands reached for him. Voices muted by the screaming in his ears
spoke, their lips forming frantic shapes. Faces he ought to have recognized, distorted by terror.
Too late—
They lifted him, dragging him away. He let them, willing the darkness back to him. But even behind his eyelids, the fires
burned, inescapable.
Always too late.