Page 195 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.