Page 101 of Immortal Rose

“Clever chit,” he answered good-naturedly.

That was exactly what we were, having stripped ourselves of the expectations and rigorous, inane rules of society. The fact that those rules were now starting to make an alarming amount of sense only made me resent him more.

A woman could be told a thousand times that God and man alike measured her value in the purity of her body and heart, and forget every instance when faced with a charming smile. I understood now why courting built in a protective distance; with your body burning with desire, it was nearly impossible to remember the consequences of drawing dangerously closer, of giving in to temptation.

A handsome man was a temptation. A handsome man with a sly smile and a ruthless edge was an enemy to virtue.

Virtue is nothing but another way for men to leash a woman, Mama’s voice rose in my mind.

I had never once desired to be kept, having seen what happened when a woman surrendered her autonomy for the supposed protection of marriage. Society was a garden in which no unruly flowers would be allowed to grow. But to be wanted . . . to be seen . . . to be known . . .

That was something else entirely, wasn’t it?

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of the Black Needle killing his way across Gallia and the Narrow Sea, the fiddler collapsed into a seat to rapturous applause and calls for an encore.

It occurred to me that one of us should have suggested venturing out, given the late hour and the way the occupants of the pub were growing restless, each small jostle and slurring word a spark that threatened to explode. But neither of us did.

The music spun up again at a thumping, stomping pace, and empty tankards were replaced with fresh offerings, and the loamy dark ale spilled forth to stain shirts and the already sticky floor.

“What does happiness smell of?” Foxcourt asked suddenly.

“Are you asking out of genuine curiosity or to find a new line of mocking?” I asked.

He gave a wry smile. “Call it professional interest.”

“As an avid collector of secrets?” I finished for him. Some of the defensive tightness in my chest eased.

Foxcourt didn’t protest that characterization. If anything, he seemed to have taken it as a compliment.

This was far safer ground for us to dwell on, at least.

“Like honeysuckle,” I said, “or sun-warmed grass. It’s lovely.”

His expression softened. “I meant to you. I seem to recall a lady giving me a rather impassioned, if not slightly nauseated, speech about the connection between scent and memory.”

And just like that, the safe ground crumbled beneath my feet.

“Violets,” I heard myself say. “It smells of violets. They were growing in the window box of the boarding room I took. It felt like a sign from Mama it was meant to be mine. And it was.”

“But you don’t wear that scent as a perfume,” Foxcourt said, his brows drawing together. “In fact, you don’t wear perfume at all.”

“Noticed that, did you?” I said, trying and failing to capture his arrogant tone from earlier.

Noticed. He noticed.

“I’ll use coffee grounds or a mask or even a small posy like this one as a temporary measure to help with overpowering scents,” I said, softly touching the flowers. “But wearing perfume, even a strongly scented soap, can inhibit the purity of other scents while I’m working. It also can interfere with my ability to pick up on what others are feeling.”

He nodded. “Entirely reasonable.”

“Even if I wanted to wear it, a violet is what you might call a ‘silent’ flower,” I added. “It cannot be distilled into an oil by current methods, it can only be replicated using a blend of other flowers. And yes, I acknowledge the irony of my mother naming me after a mute flower.”

“Perhaps she was thinking of its other traits,” Foxcourt said, leaning back against his chair as he regarded me. “They’re resilient things, violets. As persistent in growing up through the cracks of a street as they are in woodlands and gardens. They survive even the harshest winters.”

A flush rose from my chest at his words. I tried to dispel it with a sardonic reply. “Don’t forget they also symbolize modesty, innocence, and faithfulness. But to most, they’re just bothersome weeds, impossible to drive out.”

It had felt imperative I make the joke before he could, as if it might somehow sting less. I had spent my childhood unwanted, and that feeling had never entirely left me.

“They are rather difficult to kill,” Foxcourt noted. “I approve.”