Chapter Forty-One #2
The weight of the perfume flacon tugged at my cloak, until that slight pressure pulled its collar like a noose.
Rather than return to the inner courtyard where they had found Hugh, Cartwell brought the coach around to the wing that overlooked
Queen’s Park—the royal family’s private apartments. Even in the low light, I could just make out the shadowed impression of
Briarwood Palace through the screen of oaks.
The entry was protected by two guards. Clearly, they’d been expecting us, opening the gate at once to reveal another, smaller
porte cochere.
My pulse heightened to a painful degree as Cartwell brought the coach to a halt beneath it and climbed down to assist me.
Both Willie and Tommy had gone out to help Reddy track down Glenmoor, and just then, I missed their reassuring presence.
“Would you like me to accompany you?” Cartwell asked gently.
I nearly said yes. When had I become such a coward?
“I’ll be all right,” I assured him, clasping his arm as I stepped down.
“I’ll be just here, waiting for you,” he promised. “And—”
“Viola!”
A familiar voice made me wheel around toward the gate.
“Oliver?” I called, half in disbelief. But there he was, restrained by one of the guards, even as he gripped the gate’s bars.
“It’s all right,” I told the soldier. “You can let him through.”
They did, reluctantly. Oliver hurried toward me, looking far more rumpled than he had earlier in the night. His essence was
drenched in wine and ratafia, but he seemed sober enough as he looked me over.
“My God, I thought that was your coach—I was just heading to Foxcourt House—” Oliver paused to catch his breath. “I heard
about what happened to the earl—is he—?”
I drew him into the palace, where another guard was posted.
“Lady Foxcourt,” that one started to say, “I’m to accompany you—”
I held up my free hand. “I know the way, thank you.”
Oliver gave me a bewildered, searching look as the guard fell back with a nod. A musky wariness followed in our wake as I
guided us farther down the darkened corridor, away from prying ears.
“Is it true?” Oliver whispered. “Was he poisoned?”
It wasn’t hope in his face—not exactly. Something about the wildness in his eyes reminded me of a glass balanced on a table’s
edge.
“He was,” I said quietly. “Glenmoor’s gone to ground. He could be anywhere by now.”
“I’m so sorry,” Oliver said, taking that in with a pale face. His expression softened as he gave me a closer look. “Why are
you here? Why did you come back?”
“I’m here to deliver the perfume that was commissioned,” I forced myself to say.
“You look like you’re walking to the gallows,” he said, clasping my hand between his. The hallway’s chandeliers drew out the
whimsical leaves and roses embroidered onto his jacket with emerald thread. “It couldn’t have waited until after you’d had
some rest?”
“It can’t wait.” I breathed out, wishing desperately I could embrace him, anyone, to drive out the chill from my blood. My
exhaustion felt so complete just then that I couldn’t bring the sight of him into focus. “Will you come with me?” I whispered.
The thought of returning to the servants’ wing alone, finding those traces of Hugh’s essence fouled by the poison . . .
“Of course,” he said, gently tucking my hand in the crook of his arm. “Which way?”
We walked in silence until we reached the central wing. The palace’s staff had busied themselves with the needs of the remaining
guests and had begun to gather the wilting flowers. No one paid us any mind as we ascended the grand staircase and made our
way to the upper floor. There, we crossed into the servants’ wing.
Oliver’s essence shifted, sweetening to mint as the stress and tension of the moment took hold of him. There was a lick of
pepper through the heart of it that might otherwise be excitement in any other scenario. Here, it indicated only nerves.
He refrained from any further questions until we were a few doors away from the King’s sickroom.
“I think it would be best if you waited here,” I said softly, my throat aching.
God, I didn’t want to do this. No matter what the King deserved, I didn’t want to have to be the one holding his life in my
hands.
“Oh, right,” Oliver said. “Your cloak—here, let me.”
It felt strangely intimate for any man besides Hugh to be fussing with the fastening of my clothing, even a cloak. I stood,
my body tensed like a mouse in the jaws of a cat, until he’d finished tucking the fabric over his arm.
“I’ll be just here,” he said, turning back toward the window.
I swallowed. Nodded. Took a step. Then another.
“Wait, Vi,” Oliver said. “Goodness, you are tired.”
I glanced back, only to find him holding the flacon out to me. I released a shuddering breath.
“Thank you,” I told him, pressing an embarrassed hand to my face. “This shouldn’t take long.”
I wouldn’t stay. I would give Eleanor the perfume to apply and tell her to wait a few hours. And when the King finally shuffled
off to his eternal reward, I’d lie and say that the perfume had come too late. I would say that I was sorry, even though I
was not.
I raised my hand. Knocked. The moments fractured around me into crystal-bright shards:
Eleanor’s “Enter.” The dawn-lit faces awaiting me inside. The roaring, unbearable heat of the fireplace. The King’s shriveled,
unconscious form in that massive bed, as brittle as kindling.
Eleanor was still in her fine gown, and at her look of relief I wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Were you able to get . . . ?”
“The nectar?” I breathed out. “Yes—”
The sight of two unfamiliar men brought me up short.
“This is Brighten, the captain of my guard,” Eleanor said, gesturing to the red-haired man. He had posted himself beside the
window, his large form braced against it. “And this is the royal physician, Lord Chatford,” Eleanor said, gesturing to him.
“Lord Chatford, this is Lady Foxcourt.”
While Brighten had greeted me with a bow, the physician eyed me with rank suspicion. He wore a fine suit, having clearly been
invited to the ball himself, and that was possibly the only nice thing I could say about him.
His essence cut through me like a scalpel, as wretched as the disdainful look on his face. There was blood there, yes, but
there was also the scent of marrow, herbs, bittersweet medicines, a jagged metallic odor like a saw. Within moments, it had
even stained the lovely perfume in my hand, tinging the rose with a sickly decay that nearly brought me to my knees.
“I do not see how your family’s infernal fairy magic will be of use,” he spat out. “I cannot believe I am being made to witness
this. It degrades the art of healing.”
“My lord,” Eleanor said sharply, “I’ll not have you speak to my friend in such a way. She’s here to help as much as you are.”
My friend. Guilt flooded my mouth with bile. After tonight, I doubted she’d claim me as such.
The physician flushed with the same molten hatred as his essence, curdling like hot wine. “Indeed.”
“I’ll just apply it and leave you to your art, then,” I said faintly.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Chatford growled, snatching the bottle out of my hand. “Tell me how it is meant to be applied and
be off.”