Chapter Forty
Life was so rarely kind, it at least ought to have been fair.
I’d lived the truth of that my whole life, and still—still—that single, shimmering drop of nectar sliding across the bottom of the bottle felt like its greatest betrayal. Because in
my hand was salvation for one man and doom for another. It was a reckoning.
My heart or my inheritance.
I closed my eyes, drawing the lip of the bottle up to rest beneath my nose, as if it might whisper the right path.
For so long, I’d believed the only safety for a woman was wealth and freedom—hadn’t Mama proven as much? Losing the first
had cost her the second, and her only way to regain it had been through desperation. Death.
The injustice burned in me for years, and there had been no way to unleash it onto the man who had deserved that ire most,
and so it had burned straight through my heart. And to know, too late, that William Rosebourne had been searching for me—that
he had wanted to find me after twenty-five years . . . That had to mean something, didn’t it?
The House of Rosebourne was meant for me. I knew it down to the marrow of my bones. Mama hadn’t wanted to walk away from it,
she’d been forced to, and she’d left a piece of herself with it that she had never been able to recover.
The thought of walking away now, abandoning her there after I’d already failed to save her—after she had died for me—it left me feeling like the world itself was burying me alive. I could scarcely breathe.
Feelings . . . love . . . they could change, couldn’t they? Hardening like deadwood. There was no security there, but that
risk was the proving ground for love.
My thoughts raced, dizzying. If we laid them side by side and I opened the perfume flacon between them . . . no. Unlike the
other magic scents, including the Crown of Veracity, every healing perfume in the Treasury required the wearer’s blood, to give the magic someone to bind to.
Would it dilute the potency of the magic to include both of their blood, or to add in none at all?
Would it be a matter of which of them breathed it in first?
Adjusting the formulation for how little of the nectar I had . . . it would hardly be a single dab. Would the scent even last
long enough to heal him? With the others I had made before, the magic had lingered in the heart notes of the perfume, after
the lighter top notes had lifted. But there was no telling how long the magic would have to work before it faded altogether
into the base notes.
My inexperience infuriated me. There was no one left to ask, and there simply wasn’t enough nectar to risk testing any of
these theories. There were only terrible choices.
I could use the nectar for one man and be forced to claim an innocent life to make a second batch to save the other, as the
Treasury stated.
I could save Hugh and keep what I had gained here at Foxcourt House, or I could save the King and claim my inheritance, accepting
all the risk that entailed—not just to my heart, but to the household.
If Hugh died, what would happen to them? They would never forgive me, just as Hugh would never forgive me for choosing him
over the King, over the good of the country, and over Eleanor, who would find herself beneath the thumb of a different regent.
In either case, I was consigning at least one person to death.
I don’t know what to do, I thought, the rush of horror and fear crashing over me.
I had been Viola Lockwood, struggling to survive. A man I despised would have me be Viola Greystone, an heiress to limitless
greed and power. But the paths I would choose—Viola Rosebourne, Countess of Foxcourt—could not exist in tandem.
I don’t know what to do, I thought, my head aching, my eyes burning. Help me, Mama, please . . .
Was there another perfume—one that might at least alleviate suffering or give one or both more time? Give me more time to procure additional nectar?
My thoughts raced as I picked up the quizzing glass I had left on the table earlier, when I’d retrieved the working blend
of Immortal Rose.
Could I give Hugh the King’s Blend and hope the fairy charms worked to nullify enough of the poison—would that be enough?
I didn’t know which of the poison perfumes had been used on him. The rain had washed away much of the scent, save that terrible
licorice base note.
I flipped the heavy mass of Treasury pages back to the start and began to quickly thumb through them.
There was a loose order to the pages: the guide began with formulations for scents without magic, before progressing into perfumes to change appearances, enhancements for emotions and good fortune, those that affected the minds and the hearts of the scenters, and, finally, cures, ailments, and poisons.
I straightened, blowing out a hard breath. It was worth a try. The notes of the King’s Blend were simple enough: mint, bergamot,
ginger. It was the magical element that posed the problem.
Sweetfeather.
That name again. It had been one of the missing oils, hadn’t it? But then Greystone had spoken of it, claiming William Rosebourne
had wanted his help in finding it. So did that mean Rosebourne had simply run through his supply?
I was so certain you were here to discuss sweetfeather. If only.
I stared at the pages spread open before me. There had to be a sacrifice that could be made in place of sweetfeather noted somewhere in the godforsaken Treasury.
From what I’d learned, each fairy plant had some specific magic quality, meaning the replacement sacrifices were usually of
a kind, if not more specific to the perfume’s purpose. The King’s Blend had no sacrifice listed, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t
experiment with one, the way my Rosebourne ancestors clearly had as their supply of fairy flora withered.
Sweetfeather seemed to have some sort of renewal effect, depending on how it was applied. It could clear the skin of hives
and rashes in small doses, restore lost confidence, and, as the old song went—cinnamon, sweetfeather, and thyme, to make the fairy wings shine—it seemed to naturally enhance the beauty of a fairy.
There was Youth Elixir, which shared all the same notes as the King’s Blend save for the inclusion of lavender. William Rosebourne’s familiar, slanted hand had crossed both it and sweetfeather out and
written in . . .
I straightened, pulling back from the Treasury as if it had snapped shut on my fingers. I stared at it—stared and stared.
Mama’s letter had scarred itself into my memory, but the wound reopened now, bleeding freely. I cannot abide, nor forget, what you’ve done, and I want none of it.
My heart slammed in my chest, making me feel dizzy.
Only one of our souls is bound for hell.
I had the strangest sense of distance from my own body as I returned to the Treasury, as if I couldn’t bear to be close to
the truth slowly unveiling itself in all its monstrous glory. I needed to see it again—the entry. I needed to prove to myself
I hadn’t imagined it.
I hadn’t.
I will not bring a child into this dark nightmare you have erected.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling the noise of shock. Of anguish.
That was how Tommy found me, only a few moments later, locked in that moment of horror. “What’s the matter?”
“I . . .” I couldn’t bear to say it.
“Is there something you need?” he pressed. I hadn’t realized I was swaying until he gripped my arms, steadying me.
Finally, I looked at him and heard myself say, “I need someone to bring a message to the palace.”
They made remarkable time returning to Foxcourt House—so remarkable that I hadn’t quite worked out precisely what I wanted
to say. I was still sitting on the staircase, my thoughts streaked with a succession of horrors, when they came in through
the front door.
“Oh, my lady,” Vernon said, dropping into a bow as he saw me there. “I was so sorry to hear about what happened to Lord Foxcourt.
How is he?”
“Not well, unfortunately,” I said carefully.
I looked at him then, really looked at him. He was a small man, in both stature and presence, and bore all of aging’s harshest markers: parchment-thin skin that
revealed knots of blue veins, a face that sagged with the weariness of decades, shocking white hair, rheumy eyes that had
softened with genuine concern.
Tommy inclined his head in silent question. I nodded to him. He drifted back into the study. Near enough, but still granting
the courtier a measure of privacy.
“I’ve brought His Majesty’s blood,” Vernon began, his gaze as uncertain as the last time he had come to visit. “As you requested.”
“Thank you,” I told him, rising to take it from him. Slipping the small bottle into the pocket of my apron, I clasped a hand
on his arm. “I would like to ask another favor of you, if I may?”
“Of course,” he said instantly.
I steeled myself. “Thank you. If you’ll wait right here?”
At his confused nod, I climbed the steps to the landing. The movement rustled the tulle hanging over Lord Foxcourt’s portrait.
With a deep breath, I twisted the coarse fabric in my grip and tugged.
The mourning shroud drifted to the ground silently, falling like a shadow at my feet.
And all the while, I watched Vernon. Watched as the blood left his face and the terror set in. His body tensed, as if preparing
to bolt back to the door.
“I—” he began. “I don’t understand—this—”
I picked up Rosebourne’s commonplace book where I had left it balanced on the table beneath the portrait, opening it to the
page I had marked.
“‘Radcliffe Apothecary,’” I read. “‘Encounter with hostile man—ask Lord F about placement—if man is related to DeForests?’”
Vernon jumped as I shut the book and left it behind on the landing. I descended the steps, and he drew back, his shoulders
curling in as he hunched at the waist.
“Vernon,” I began softly, “how old are you?”
“I’m—sixty-seven,” he choked out. “I’m sixty-seven.”
“How old are you in truth?” This was a nightmare. It had to be. “How old would you be if you had never encountered the man
in the portrait?”
He was silent save for his heavy breathing. Until: “Twenty-seven.”