Page 102 of Immortal Rose

I only shook my head, my gaze drifting idly around the pub. The rain had eased, and, really, we needed to leave. But that loose-limbed feeling was still with me, and I felt calm now for the first time in days. I was loath to spoil it.

Something in the way Foxcourt shifted, lowering his foot back to the ground, made me glance at him again.

“My uncle once told me that he thought of their scent as quite melancholy, as it reminded him of twilight, just before night comes,” Foxcourt said after a moment, looking a bit tortured. Clearly it had been an effort to dig that treasure up from his memory and offer it to me freely. “But he thought that scent was all the more precious because it rarely lasted as long as the sky held that final hint of color.”

“That’s a perfect description of it,” I said. “It’s a cool, powdery scent—I’ve always felt that coolness is what made it feel despondent. Sadness, especially grief, smells of snow.”

I’d always wondered if that was the true reason my mother named me Viola.

Foxcourt stilled, his eyes turning wary, as if I’d stumbled upon something not meant for me. “Snow.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering at his reaction. “Your uncle was a remarkable person.”

“You would have enjoyed each other immensely,” Foxcourt admitted after a moment, rasping a hand over his jaw. “I used to find it all very trying when he spouted on about the vibrancy of eglantines and the grace of larkspur, but it’s remarkable what you miss when you’re faced with the prospect of never having it again.”

The truth of his words resonated in me, echoing painfully. Each day since Mama’s death had brought with it some new reminder of what I had lost, adding another crack in my heart.

“You realize you’ve only proven my point,” I said, trying for a light tone. “Scent does evoke strong emotion in you, whether you acknowledge it or not. It revives memory and returns the dead to us, if only for a moment.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” he said. “I miss being able to discuss matters with him. He had a knack for looking at a situation from a thousand different angles.”

“Ah,” I said, “and so the hardened stoicism returns.”

Foxcourt swallowed. I had the most absurd feeling of protectiveness as I watched his face then, the way he seemed almost flustered by what he was about to say. I didn’t need to scent his feelings to know he was arguing with himself; I’d learned to watch for the way he idly toyed with his thumb, the way his gaze slid to the side, as if needing the space to think.

“Viola,” he said at last, almost too softly to hear, “there is one scent I miss.”

I didn’t dare to so much as draw a breath.

“My mother wore a perfume—blackberries and lemon, with a bit of tea,” he said. “Every dress, every handkerchief, every cloak smelled of it. I searched for it, for a time, but I’ve never been able to find it.”

And now she’s gone. The unsaid words were there, not needing to be heard when they were felt so deeply. I knew by his inability to meet my eyes, the way the red crept into the tips of his ears, that he had likely never told anyone this before.

“It sounds beautiful,” I said sincerely.

“It was.”

The old ache in those two words stirred my own. My hand moved, almost of its own accord, loosely covering his bigger one. His gaze flicked up from the table to meet mine, and the moment shivered between us.

Anything might have happened then, had the dank pub air not suddenly turned acrid with the smokiness of burnt parchment. A sickly thread of sulfur wove through it, the scent trail slipping like an adder around the heels of the crowd. Impatience, redolent with malice.

My hand tightened around Foxcourt’s, but he was so attuned to even the subtlest changes in my expression, he had already leaned forward. My heart sped, kicking painfully against my ribs.

I was careful not to turn, inclining my head ever so slightly in the direction it seemed to be emanating from. My eyes skated right, where a man in a limp, large-brimmed hat had edged into the crowded pub, leaving the door ajar behind him. He scanned the room.

It felt like a tragedy to watch Foxcourt’s relaxed demeanor change, the muscles of his body tensing, his expression shuttering. His free hand slid down to his waist, where he felt for something—a weapon, no doubt. I remembered my earlier assessment of him then. The underworld god had returned. The hard line of his mouth stirred my pulse, quickening it further.

And then the candlelight caught the spiked silver knuckles the man wore, and a little hush fell over the nearby men who noticed.

Word had spread about the rich widow in the pub until it had finally reached the ear of an ambitious Stone Slogger—or perhaps Greystone himself.

Now it was truly time to go.

My hand released his as we both slowly slid our chairs back. Somehow, without a word needing to be spoken, I read exactly what he wanted me to do. I cleaved myself to his side, grasping his arm, pretending to drunkenly stumble. Foxcourt’s eyes flashed with a glimmer of amusement, and his free hand lifted my cloak’s hood again.

The stench of the Slogger trailed behind us as we wove through the bodies between us and toward the door behind the bar.

Two cup-shot men swayed at the edge of the bar, looking ready to lock horns had they had them. As the taller, crimson-faced one jerked his tankard forward, emphasizing each spluttering word with a slosh of ale, Foxcourt’s foot caught his ankle, sending the man falling into the other. And among the sparks that had been flying all evening, one finally caught.