Page 128 of Immortal Rose

Hugh shook his head. “No one else was affected. Only you.”

I mulled that over, dread slipping along my skin like cold silk. “So either it was made specifically for me, using my blood, or it had faded enough that only I could detect the scent. I think it must be the latter. Unless . . .”

“Unless your blood was taken at Fairgate,” Hugh finished in a wooden tone. “When they struck you.”

Ah. Right. One of the beatings had broken the skin, and some excuse for a prison physician had come to half-heartedly dab at our wounds. Glenmoor might have bribed him for the bloodied cloth and passed it on to the DeForests. That was a bit more far-fetched, but not beyond possibility.

Hugh looked exhausted again, pale and shadowed.

“I didn’t see my uncle end his life, but after witnessing its effects on you, I understand it. My God, your screams . . .” he whispered, his eyes going remote. “It was as if your very soul was on fire. You kept asking me to . . .”

Kill me. Had I really said it aloud?

The desolate look on his face gave me my answer.

My hand rose, toying with the ribbon edging my night rail, the thought slow to rise through my exhaustion.

“What is it?” he asked softly. “Are you well? Do you need something?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’m . . . I’m all right. It’s only . . . you said Glenmoor used the same perfume on your uncle as he did on your mother.”

His expression was carefully blank. “Yes.”

“But it’s not the same perfume as the one used on the King,” I said. “They have similar base notes, with that licorice scent, but they’re not the same.”

“I’d wondered about that myself,” Hugh said, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “I believe Glenmoor needed the King to have a longer decline than this poison would allow, which can only mean he still hasn’t gotten everything he needs from His Majesty.”

“I’ll look at the Treasury to see if there’s anything I may have missed about the Gravekeeper,” I whispered, feeling myself start to slip back into exhaustion. I eased down, resting my head on the pillow and breathing in the scent of him again. “I can work today, if you give me . . . just a few moments . . .”

“It’s a quarter past midnight,” he said sternly. “You’ll be doing nothing but resting. The King is not in immediate danger.”

“Tyrant,” I murmured. “Can’t . . . smell you. Why?”

“A fairy charm,” he admitted.

I forced my eyes open, forced my mind to pull away from the sleep it craved. “Why?”

“I can’t . . .” He turned his face toward the ceiling. “I can’t give you everything.”

“Why?” I hated the plaintive note in my voice, but I couldn’t understand this, couldn’t understand why he always held a piece of himself back.

“Because you make me forget,” he murmured. “And I cannot forget.”

Forget what, exactly? Himself? His need to control his life? His purpose?

“Glenmoor,” I began. “He has one, too. He wears it as a pin.”

There was a pause. “I thought that might be the case. More reason to wear mine.”

My legs stirred against the soft sheets until they bumped against his. I angled, trying to kick his shin.

“God, your feet are like ice. Why didn’t you say?” He started to rise, but I stubbornly hooked my ankle over his, as if I could pin him there.

“I’m going to get a brick and flannel for you,” he told me. “I’ll return in just a moment.”

Whether it was a moment or more, I wasn’t sure. I woke again to the feeling of a glowing heat near my feet and sighed, contented, as my toes began to thaw against the warm, wrapped brick.

“Thank you,” I murmured.