Page 115 of Immortal Rose

“Celine,” Mrs. Keyes said again, an edge of warning in her tone.

The paper blurred before me. It was unbearable. All of it.

Mrs. Keyes clucked her tongue, trying a different tactic. “Allow yourself this pity, Miss Lockwood, but don’t forget your strength. You will need it more than ever in the days ahead.”

“There is no overcoming this,” I said. “Even if I were to take control of the House of Rosebourne now, Glenmoor has ensured my reputation is destroyed. I would only taint the name and destroy the business.”

“My dear girl, when others cannot control you, they will seek to control how you are perceived,” Mrs. Keyes said. “You must take back your story. You must fight for what you desire. There is power to notoriety. In time, you may find you like it.”

“And it is good for men to be a little afraid of you,” Mrs. Silver said, with a Gallian shrug. “It will only make you more irresistible.”

I picked up the dram of whisky, gulping at it. The burning did nothing to ease the misery swirling in my chest.

“Allow me to share a little wisdom passed to me many years ago by the woman who raised me,” Mrs. Keyes said, tearing her gaze away from Mrs. Silver. “Carry a fire within your soul and the darkness will learn to fear you. Because there is no darkness in this world so deep that it cannot be cut through by a single flame.”

Mrs. Keyes ducked her head, meeting my uncertain gaze.

“This anger you feel now,” the woman said, “let it burn away the helplessness. And if that should still feel too difficult, you need only to remind yourself, as I have reminded myself many times, that you have survived too many shadows to deny yourself the light of hope.”

One day they would be strangers to me again, and it would be gutting. But not today. Not this afternoon.

“Thank you,” I told them both.

The sound of footsteps on the garden’s gravel path made the three of us pivot to the door. My heart gave a painful leap as Foxcourt’s dark shape blew through it like a storm. Behind him, Willie and Tommy stayed back with the others in the garden.

His eyes, rimmed with shadows, sought mine immediately, and that little composure I’d managed to grasp unraveled. The silver had softened to a gloomy gray. Not with pity, but uncertainty.

He bowed in greeting, saying, somewhat ironically, “Good afternoon.”

“Good God,” Mrs. Keyes said mildly. “You went out looking like that?”

He still wore his black garments from the night before, but what had been a hint of beard was now making a tremendous showing. His thick locks of hair looked as though he’d spent the morning tearing at them in frustration.

“I would like to speak to Miss Lockwood alone, if I may,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Mrs. Silver and Mrs. Keyes looked to me, waiting for my nod before rising.

“I will leave this for you,” Mrs. Silver said, sliding her untouched dram of whisky toward him. “I suspect you need it more than I do, mon chou.”

They made a show of leaving the kitchen, though I was certain Foxcourt noticed, as I had, the shadows of their feet lingering just on the other side of the door.

Even then, as the silence stretched between us, Foxcourt held himself back, looking to all the world like a man about to walk the plank.

“There’s no need to tell me the bad news,” I said with forced lightness. “Glenmoor came to deliver it personally.”

Foxcourt straightened, his eyes raging with a fury I’d never seen in him before as he fixated on my bruised arm. His voice went low. Murderous. “Did he do that to you?”

I held up a soothing hand. “Yes, but I wasn’t the intended target. He came to make an offer.”

Foxcourt lowered himself into the chair Mrs. Keyes had abandoned with a harsh breath. “What offer?”

“That I could come use my talents for him,” I said tonelessly, “or waste away in Fairgate.”

I knew how deep his exhaustion ran then; he seemed entirely unaware of how far his usual mask had slipped. His expression opened to me like a book, emotion fluttering like pages: guilt, fury, regret, desolation.

I picked up my whisky, letting it burn my throat before setting it down hard in front of me. The bottom of the glass distorted the broadsheet beneath it, rendering the words King Poisoned in monstrous proportions.

Nerveless, my fingers slipped off the table, but Foxcourt seized my hand before it could fall into my lap. His skin was shockingly warm against the cold that had overtaken my soul.