Chapter Forty #2
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to smother the dagger-sharp pain that pierced it. “And when you were taken by a snatcher?”
“Seven.”
I bit my lip, trying to control my own emotions as his unraveled. I saw the boy in his face then, how very frightened he was.
It reminded me so much of Theo, I nearly wept.
“How did you know?” he whispered. “I was careful . . . I was so careful. I never revealed it. Not even His Majesty knew. Only
the perfumer. Only that man.”
The perfumer. My grandfather. My stomach twisted viciously.
“He wrote about the required sacrifice of youth to create a perfume, adjusting it to the King’s tastes in the book of perfume
formulations,” I forced myself to say. “It replaced another ingredient called sweetfeather.”
Vernon flinched again at the name.
“That was the alias Lord Foxcourt used when he hired men to steal children from the Brickbats, wasn’t it? Children few people
would care to look for or miss,” I whispered. “To take their youth and vitality for the King’s perfume.”
A perfume that he claimed revitalized him, that had somehow warded off even poison for a time. Now I knew why.
“A monster can wear a smile and an orchid on his lapel,” I said, repeating his words back to him. “He wore them often, didn’t he? That was why he was depicted with one.”
The white orchid on Lord Foxcourt’s painted lapel was bright despite the house’s evening gloom. My soul raged at it. A symbol
of purity. Of innocence.
“You were so nervous when you came to see me, and then you mentioned the statue in the back garden’s pond, as if you had been
here before,” I continued. “I asked the others, and the statue you recalled broke nearly twenty years ago.”
Just around the time Vernon had his youth ripped away from him.
“He . . . he placed me in service, after,” Vernon said hoarsely. “As a consolation. Can you credit that?”
“Oliver’s grandparents,” I said. “I remember.”
“It was fine . . . I was fine . . . until we came to live with the Radcliffes and I was surrounded by young boys,” Vernon said. “It was a mockery,
a punishment. Every day I felt more like an atrocity, neither adult nor boy. A wasted, withered freak.”
“No—” I began.
He held up his hand, silencing my protest. “Oliver knew nothing of my past, but he sensed my pain. That was why he helped
me gain employment at the palace. The old Foxcourt had no idea until I had already ingratiated myself with the King.”
“Why would you ever want to work for the man who had done this to you?” I whispered.
“I wanted him to see me, to know what he had done,” Vernon said. “But, of course, he didn’t recognize me. Why would he? He
never saw any of the children. Royals live a life devoid of friction. They have every need cared for, as a child might. They
needn’t concern themselves with how something they desire is procured, only that it is handed to them when they will it.”
Vernon’s pained smile broke my heart.
“Did he know?” I asked. “About the sacrifice needed for his perfume?”
“Yes,” Vernon said. “If not from the start, then when Glenmoor confronted him, shortly after becoming home secretary. The
King was beside himself. He had no choice but to agree to all the duke’s demands or else be exposed and lose the perfume and
its magic.”
My God. The blackmail. This had to be at the root of Glenmoor’s plans for Albion; he had taken this horrific seed and used
it to plant the beginning of his garden of terrors.
“His Majesty has been unwell for some time. That was not something I was made aware of until he brought me into his confidence,”
Vernon said. “He had gray fever as a child, which weakened his heart. He’s required the perfume ever since. Then the supply
of sweetfeather ran out, and William Rosebourne was tasked with finding a new source of it.”
“How many children were affected?” I asked.
He gave a hopeless shrug that chilled me.
“There’s only one part of this I can’t understand,” I began. “How were you able to lie when you were questioned under the
Crown of Veracity?”
“The same way I am able to provide such unsavory assistance to the King,” Vernon choked out. “I have not been able to smell
anything since that day.”
I couldn’t begin to fathom what that must be like. It would have been like carving out my soul.
“You must understand, the duke told me that I would be given a perfume that would restore me,” Vernon whispered, clutching
at his face. “If I applied the poison to the King’s clothing, he said the DeForests could reverse the loss.”
Oh, I thought, anguished. Oh, God.
“If that were possible,” I told him gently, “it would mean someone else had their life stolen from them.”
At that, Vernon finally cracked open, shattering before my eyes. His breath came in deep, heaving sobs, the tears spilling
out over his fingers. “I knew, in my heart I knew, that must be the case. I only—it’s so unfair—”
“It is,” I told him, reaching for his arms again. “What was done to you is unforgivable.”
He sagged at the touch as he wept. “My hatred is a poison to my heart, but I cannot kill it. I cannot.”
“You are a good person,” I told him sincerely. “You didn’t deserve this.”
What he’d been subjected to had been punishment enough. A king did not deserve his life more than a young boy deserved his.
That was the truth I held on to. The one that settled firmly in my heart.
And I understood, then, the nature of the power at my disposal. Why it had been impossible for generations of Rosebournes
to resist, even when faced with such dire choices. The power was the choice itself—becoming an arbiter of fate.
The thought stirred another. “Glenmoor said at least one of the DeForests was working alongside him, someone who still possessed
the family’s magic. He even said they were attending the ball. Do you know who supplied the poison for the King?”
“No,” Vernon said. “But I overheard a conversation between him and his secretary, about finding a family here in Albion who
are descended from the DeForest line.”
I nodded, absorbing this. “Vernon, I think it may be best for you to disappear, at least until the danger to you passes. With
the perfumer and Glenmoor somewhere in the city, they could expose you . . . or worse.”
“Yes . . .” He breathed out, bowing his head. “Yes, you’re right . . . I will tender my resignation to Her Royal Highness . . .”
“Do you have savings?” I asked him. “I could have money sent—”
“No,” he said quickly, “no, I thank you for that kindness, but I have savings.” He forced a tremulous smile on his face. “I
live at the palace. I’ve no family left—none who would recognize or accept me. I simply do not have anywhere to go.”
“I know of a place.”
Mrs. Keyes’s voice was measured, carrying to us as she made her way down the stairs, glancing up at the portrait as she passed.
It was impossible to tell how much she had heard. All of it, I assumed.
Vernon flew back at her sudden appearance, knocking into the table at the center of the hall. A sheen of sweat broke out on
his face as he eased behind me, the way a child might hide behind their mother’s skirts.
“You recognize me,” Mrs. Keyes said quietly.
Vernon swallowed. Nodded.
A stark pain tightened her expression. “You were one of the children he would bring here from time to time, to be cleaned
and fed.”
Vernon could only nod again.
Mrs. Keyes’s posture was terrifyingly rigid as the full weight of the deception bore down on her. “He told us he would find
work for you all. He never gave us reason to believe otherwise. I am very sorry, and I would like to help you, as I said.”
“Where would he go?” I asked.
“An academy for orphaned girls, in Caledonia,” Mrs. Keyes said. “Girls with unusual stories. They are always in need of staff,
and it is quite picturesque, though I cannot recommend swimming in the loch. It is freezing, even at the height of summer.”
I’d read a story once, about a man who could charm snakes with his instrument, drawing them into a mesmerized dance with nothing
but a song and the fluid movement of his hands.
Mrs. Keyes’s words seemed to have a similar soothing effect, luring Vernon out from behind me. He swept his hand over his
face, settling himself as he’d no doubt been called to do time and time again, from too young of an age.
“Come now,” Mrs. Keyes said, her hawk eyes softening. “I’ll tell you more of it as we prepare you for the journey north.”
She took his arm then, supporting his first few unsteady steps. Before they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Keyes met my gaze in
a long, pained look.
They hadn’t known, either. Of course not. And knowing now . . . I couldn’t begin to imagine what it might do to them. What
it would do to Hugh, who’d molded himself after the man who had raised him. Who had saved him, even as he had destroyed the lives of other children.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling a scream.
This is what I stood to inherit with the House of Rosebourne. This hideous truth and countless others that remained buried.
Rosebourne had built his empire on suffering, shrouded in a veil of beautiful perfume. It did not deserve to carry on. Let
it die, like the monster who had built it.
The King had already taken too much, quilting the youth and vigor of innocents onto his life to unnaturally extend it. I would
not throw that man another line to save him from death.
Vernon’s pained words haunted me. I simply do not have anywhere to go.
I had a place here, didn’t I? The house, with all its florals and pastels, felt like the worst sort of disguise to me, as if the last Foxcourt had tried to paper over the shameful rot at its heart.
Its ghosts hovered around me now, as silent as secrets. They were traces of the lives, of the emotions, of the ancient family
line that had walked its halls. All the pain, joy, excitement, frustration, and shame.
And from the landing of the stairs, the spymaster watched as I made my choice.