Chapter Two #2
At that, he turned to me, his handsome face pale, his eyes rimmed with shadows.
Curse me to hell for bringing him to this place; he’d only just recovered from another bout of illness. His golden-brown hair
was tamed, and he was as immaculately turned out as always in a fine green waistcoat. His cravat was knotted with expert care,
and the silk hat in his hands was too perfect to be anything other than new. But there were signs of his weeks-long recovery.
Even now, his fine coat hung from his shoulders as it would from a peg.
I felt like one of Mr. Toady’s miserable animals, then. Pacing her confines, gazing out at the beautiful people promenading
past, knowing she would never walk alongside them.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I told him. You’ll catch your death.
And then I’d truly be alone in the world.
He seemed annoyed at the suggestion. “And where else should I be? I went to the flower stall today as we’d planned, and Stevens
said you quit days ago. Days. Did you not think to send for me? And I know—I know—that you wish to handle matters on your own, but this is not something you can navigate without a friend, let alone a solicitor.”
I drew back at that—the sudden realization Oliver earnestly believed it was his right to be sent for. I hadn’t even planned
to tell him I was leaving until I was safely in Southpoint.
“I cannot believe it—Fairgate, of all places,” Oliver said softly, taking in the bleak sprawl of crumbling brick. There was
a handkerchief in his gloved hand, as if he was desperately trying to resist the urge to press it against his nose. “Why here?
Why not a jail or magistrate’s office?”
“Fairgate for the fairyborn,” I reminded him. “It’s the law.”
His soft hazel eyes, at the perfect height to meet mine, were a trap I’d nearly fallen into so many times. Even now, the green
flecks begged to be counted like my own private constellation.
“Sod the law,” he swore, in a way that was so unlike him. I drank in the sight of his outrage like a woman dying of thirst.
Staggering emotion poured from him, thickening the perpetual damp of the air. Shock, pity, guilt—if I’d set out to capture
the scent of misery, the accord would be that exact blend.
I swallowed. “Well, I won’t disagree with you there.”
“Is there anything I can retrieve from your room at the boardinghouse?” he asked. “I’ve plied a few of the guards with coins
to bring you a blanket, but—”
“Then you’ve already done too much,” I croaked out, embarrassed by how the thought of a blanket made me want to cry.
There was a wail from down the hall. His eyes darted away, then back to mine as he swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice
gained new urgency. “I will handle everything, I swear it to you. I’ve asked my father for an advance on my inheritance—”
“Oliver, no,” I interrupted, gripping the bars between us in horror.
Mr. Radcliffe was as ruthless as they came, and any request like that would cost Oliver dearly. That was what favors were
in the end—a shackle by another name. It was why I had never accepted the work Oliver had tried to get me at one of his father’s
many apothecaries. I would never allow myself to be beholden to anyone again.
“I’ve asked my father to lobby the home secretary and his friends in Parliament to have you released into our custody,” he
continued breathlessly. “So you can leave this terrible place and prepare for the trial in the safety of our home. And . . .”
Oliver’s three elder brothers carried themselves with such radiant confidence, they gave the impression of belonging to every room they stepped into.
Even after he’d recovered from the brink of death as a child, Oliver had always trailed behind them, lost in their long shadows, the thoughtful question to their bold answers, too shy for charm and too fragile to be taken in hand by his ambitious father.
His father’s apothecaries may have carried the name Radcliffe & Sons, but Oliver had never been included in that tally. Despite
his obvious talent for blending scents, his family feared him too weak to handle any true responsibility. They had never expected
anything from him, and it was as shortsighted as it was infuriating. I wondered if they’d ever seen this side of him before,
so determined.
But this was how I had always known him, from the moment I’d met him at the flower stall and we’d discussed the different
scents of roses.
“And . . .” Oliver continued, drawing in a deep breath.
A cold dread spread through me. I knew what was coming.
“And once you’re released,” Oliver went on, staring at my hands gripping the bars, at the blood and rough scabs on my knuckles,
“we would marry.”
“No.”
The answer drifted sullenly between us. Oliver’s lips parted in shock, his brows lowering.
“But it makes perfect sense,” he pressed with an earnest look. “Marrying into my family will help smooth over the scandal
once you’re found innocent. I can protect you. I can make this right.”
“I told you, I will never marry,” I said softly. “Not ever, Oliver.”
He gave an incredulous laugh. “Must you be so bloody stubborn all the time?”
Somehow, I’d known we’d been headed to this point, with or without Fairgate’s dark intervention. I’d catch him looking at
me sometimes, from across Creed Garden as I worked at the flower stall, or walking through Royal Park, discussing perfumes
he might suggest to his father. He’d helped me so many times, and I’d been foolish, and desperate, and selfish enough to accept
it.
But I wasn’t selfish enough to do this to him.
“And regardless of my own feelings,” I told him, “you know it wouldn’t be as simple as you’ve described. That’s not the way
of the world. And your mother would never speak to you again. As tantalizing as that prospect may sound, I know it would pain
your heart as the years went on.”
He didn’t laugh. God knew Catherine Radcliffe had done everything in her power to foist her family onto the ladder of high society, rising a rung with each donation to the arts, every son she married to lesser nobility, and each lady patroness she added to her vast collection of friends.
But this . . . It was a dream to imagine our marriage would do anything but ruin the Radcliffes. The Patricians would shun them the
moment I became part of their family—if Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe didn’t disown Oliver first. Their position in society was too
fragile. They were still seen in older circles as upstarts, as graceless tradespeople. Worse, his mother’s ancestors were
Gallian. Their name simply wasn’t old or powerful enough to withstand the scandal of bringing fairy blood, never mind a criminal,
into their lineage.
“If you mean to frighten me away because you fear the consequences I might face in making you my wife, I assure you, it won’t
work,” Oliver insisted. “We were always a match, weren’t we? We . . . we fit well together.”
It was strange to know that a heart, already shattered, could be ground down further. Utterly pulverized to dust.
“Ollie . . .” I began again, feeling suddenly weary.
“I respect you and I care about you,” he pressed on. “And I thought . . . well, I thought you cared for me as well?”
“I . . .” What was it I felt? Examining my own heart on the matter had always felt like a temptation into pain. “Of course I care for you. You
are my only friend in the world.”
He drew in a breath, as though absorbing a glancing blow. His mouth twisted in a wry, tense smile. “Yes. Friends. Of course.
Marriages have been built on less, you know.”
“Your life would be ruined,” I told him.
“I wouldn’t care,” Oliver vowed. “You’re being purposefully difficult. Let me set things to right. I can handle whatever sour
words society spins about us, and in time, they will move on, as they always do. Let me help you.”
His hands covered mine on the bars as he stepped closer. I barely felt the scabs on my knuckles open, horrified by the blood
and grime that now coated his fine leather gloves. He would carry that small piece of me away from here, at least.
“Please,” he whispered, lowering his head toward mine. “Let me do this. Let me do something.”
The allure of allowing someone else, for once, to handle everything was stunning. And if not for myself . . . could I agree for him? The thought left me dazed and more confused than I’d ever felt.
I was cold, so very cold, and here he was, the nearness of him its own warmth. He was different, wasn’t he? There was a sweetness
to him. If nothing else in the world felt certain, I knew he would always see to the care and keeping of my heart.
Could I give him this? A moment of pride, of accomplishment? Of showing that I believed him—believed in him—when no one else did?
No.
Even now, memory seeped up from the shadows at our feet, threatening to drown us. And with the next breath, the dream was
at its end. I stepped back. His face fell, and it would have been less painful to take a blade to the heart.
At the end of the hall, the iron door scraped open. Branson’s essence swamped the air.
“Leave,” I grated out, retreating into the shadows of the cell. “Forget about me.”
“Don’t you dare send me away,” Oliver said, his voice swelling with fierce emotion. “I will get you out of here, I swear it.”
He watched me, his breath uneven, his paling skin coated in the thin sheen of perspiration. He’d overdone it, exhausting himself.
It only seemed to prove that he would never survive me.
“Time’s up,” came Branson’s growl. “Be a good lad and shuffle off.”
“Viola,” Oliver said quietly, “think about it.”
I refused to look at him as he departed. The rough wall scraped through my dress and corset as I slid down it, my knees suddenly
too hollow to support my weight.
“High in the instep, ain’t he?” Branson said scathingly. “A right swell o’ the first stare. What’s he care about a whore like
you?”
I set my jaw.
“I’ll make sure he won’t be bothering ye,” Branson said, his voice slithering through the shadows around him. “Not after I’m
finished with ye.”