Chapter Eleven
As a child navigating the Riverside docks or the winding lanes of the Brickbats, I had used my nose as much as my eyes to
guide me, marking turns and locations by the scents that clung to the air the way one might add notations to a map.
All of Foxcourt House, however, carried the same lovely bouquet of wild roses, candle wax, starched linen, and sweet pastries,
with warm traces of fire smoke.
That was the thing about an old house like this one, of course. Like Felicity had said, it had a soul of its own, an essence
comprising all the generations that had lived beneath its roof.
I had only a shadowy memory of the various halls and stairs, and the house was rather rambling, its sections feeling cobbled
together with what felt like a child’s whims. But really, how difficult could it be to find the morning room? I’d only need
to follow the scent of fresh bread and jellies.
Felicity had murmured an excuse about needing to speak to the cook, Mrs. Silver, leaving me to gather my courage in the bedchamber.
Alone for the first time since leaving Fairgate, I seized the opportunity to explore the house at my own pace, without being
surveilled by Foxcourt’s watchful eyes. And if I happened to delay our unhappy reunion, all the better.
I moved through the third-floor hall at an unhurried pace. The elegant array of decor and art had a pleasantly cluttered feel
to it, as if the family’s belongings had been gathered over several lifetimes.
On a green marble table was a sculpture of Summerland Palace, one that appeared to have been constructed entirely out of wooden . . .
toothpicks? I leaned closer, marveling at the detail. The friezes on each of the three wings of the palace had been painted
on, but it was a near likeness. Catching a bright glimpse of color at the edge of my vision, my gaze drifted up from the model
to the dramatic painting hanging above it.
The scene was of a ship—I’d been inside enough of them with the man who’d raised me to recognize a captain’s quarters.
A man with bronze hair clutched at the front of his sapphire uniform, blood spilling from the weapon lodged in his neck.
His body was falling, one hand desperately gripping the table before him to stay upright.
There was something in his gaze that unsettled me, unlocking some terrified human instinct. The terror of mortality. And there,
across the vast expanse of the map-strewn table, was death itself: the famous assassin, the Black Needle, little more than
a shadow as he retreated into the cannon smoke filtering through the portholes.
He had killed his way up the ranks of Gallia’s army until finally reaching Auguste during a decisive battle near the isle
of Rocheblanche in the Narrow Sea, cutting off the general’s plan to invade and seize the isle, as well as his ascent to ultimate
power. That single death had ended the Gallian Revolutionary Wars, ultimately restoring the overthrown Gallian monarchy and
no doubt sparing tens of thousands of lives from years of battles and conquests.
“The Death of General Auguste by Bernard Cullings.”
I leapt like a spooked cat at the sound of Mrs. Keyes’s voice, my hip bumping painfully into the table. The toothpick palace
gave a violent jolt that rattled its fragile foundations. Panicked, I reached out to steady it, but the housekeeper was quicker,
halting its swan dive to the floor with two outstretched fingers.
“My God,” I said, pressing a hand to my hammering heart. “I was so lost in my own thoughts I didn’t notice you there.”
Mrs. Keyes gave a pleasant smile, but the look in her eyes was as sharp as it had been when we’d met on the house’s steps.
“Are you an art lover, Miss Lockwood?”
“I don’t know nearly enough about it to claim that title, I’m afraid,” I said. “Though I appreciate it.”
“Then perhaps you might ask Tommy for a tour,” Mrs. Keyes suggested lightly. “His knowledge of the house’s artwork is quite
extensive, being something of an artist himself.”
I gave her a tight smile. “I wouldn’t want to trouble him.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” she assured me. “Unless you’re worried about his hearing?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I only meant it’s not necessary. I’m sure he has many other things to occupy his time.”
“None that he would enjoy quite this much,” she said.
“And as for his hearing, he is not entirely deaf, though he lost much of it after an illness as a child. He reads lips quite expertly.” Mrs. Keyes swept her gaze over the painting one last time before turning to me. “Shall I take you down to breakfast?”
Biting back a sigh, I nodded.
Through the meandering halls, Foxcourt House came into full bloom around me. There was no other way to describe it. Moving
deeper into the house gave one the feeling that they were passing through a garden. What walls weren’t painted a pastel shade
were papered with a riot of floral patterns. The rugs covering the floor had to have been woven centuries before any of the
house’s occupants were born, but they were still as bright as the walls.
It was only here and there that the house’s exuberance was dimmed by evidence of mourning. A small altar of remembrance had
been placed near the front door, with a fresh stick of sacred incense burning below a marble carving of God’s Wheel, the symbol
of a faith that had crushed the ancient one beneath it. And there was the portrait of the last Lord Foxcourt on the landing
of the stairs, still veiled in black tulle.
I glanced up at it as we went by, trying to peer through the shroud to see the man hidden beneath. But the King’s rumored
spymaster remained veiled in mystery.
This is what I knew for certain about the late Lord Foxcourt: he’d never married nor had children of his own. Beyond one overlarge,
spoilt ward and a small, spoilt spaniel, of course. He’d been a collector of intriguing pieces of history and art, certainly.
A savant of whimsy, surprisingly.
I turned in a full circle as we reached the dark wood entrance hall, trying to drink in the sight of everything. It was the
lovely, comfortable home of a man willing to sing to a dog to encourage her to eat, not one who stalked the halls of power
and entertained royalty, politicians, and masters of the business realm alike. Or, maybe, he’d simply felt he had nothing
left to prove to any of them.
“This way, Miss Lockwood,” Mrs. Keyes said from a few doors ahead. “His lordship prefers to take breakfast in the drawing
room, where the light is best.”
I nodded distractedly. All the essences drifting through the house were recognizable save two. One I suspected to be Mrs.
Silver, but the second . . .
The sweet scent of puff pastries had intensified to such a degree that I could all but imagine a river of sparkling sugar leading from the kitchen to the breakfast table.
It was a worthy distraction from the mysterious second essence, and the deep voice that carried from the open doors just to the right of the entry.
I smoothed my hands down over my skirt, only to catch myself. My appearance hardly mattered to Foxcourt, and his opinion of
it mattered to me not at all.
“—ought to have responded,” an unfamiliar voice carried down the hall. “He is too skilled at turning situations to his advantage,
and you gave him the perfect avenue to do so.”
Awareness sparked in me. He—the poisoner?
“I realize that,” came Foxcourt’s terse reply. “But I cannot let it distract me.”
My stomach rumbled with anticipation. The air grew sweeter still as Mrs. Keyes showed me into the elegant drawing room.
The room was the soft, muted blue of a robin’s egg, and everything inside of it looked to be about as fragile as one. The
walls were covered in swirling vines of white plaster that instantly recalled the delicate icing piped on the cakes in the
windows of Bridle Street’s bakeries. But the ceiling—that was covered in a florid mural of fairies dancing about a maypole, gaily wrapping ribbons and golden threads of magic around
one another.
I glanced down at my arms, just to be certain there were absolutely no traces of filth left on them. I had never felt so awed
and utterly diminished by a space in my life. Standing on the threshold left me feeling like the street urchin called in to
clear the chimney.
Felicity’s voice drifted back to me. We will that character into being, and in that way, we write our own narrative.
The woman who would inherit the House of Rosebourne Perfumery belonged in spaces such as this—she owned spaces such as this. I pushed my shoulders back, mimicking Mama’s flawless posture, and assessed the two figures at the table.
Seated in front of one of the tall windows was the source of the second essence: a young man who looked to be about Foxcourt’s
age, amusing himself by tossing a scone up and catching it as he considered a document on the table in front of him.
Full-bodied cheroot smoke clung to his essence.
Unusual spices, given the kingdom’s proud preference for bland food, warmed my nose: cumin, turmeric, coriander.
Sweet, grassy lanolin oil lay just beyond that, as did ash and soot, brandy-soaked linen, the musk of old books, and something heavy, thunderous . . . a secret that refused to be known.
The young man’s clothing was finer than even Foxcourt’s, immaculately cut with a flourish of color in the paisley pattern
of his waistcoat. The tight curls of his hair were cropped close to his scalp, and he’d grown a dark beard that most gentlemen
would consider unfashionably short but suited the strong planes of his face. His warm brown skin was a welcome change from
the usual Patrician palette, which consisted of varying shades of milk.
I tensed at the sight of Foxcourt’s dark head bent over a freshly ironed newspaper, but he was wholly absorbed in whatever
he was reading.
Mrs. Keyes cleared her throat meaningfully.
Both men looked up in surprise and promptly stood. With only the most fleeting glance to acknowledge my existence, Foxcourt