Page 12 of Immortal Rose

Who cared for me in a way he shouldn’t have.

Oliver waited until Branson had moved down the hall to speak.

“I . . . would have come sooner, but . . .” he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper as he looked anywhere but my face. “It took some time to discover what had happened and where you were being held.”

“Well, you’ve found me,” I rasped. “Exactly where you always said I’d end up if I kept selling at the market.”

At that, he turned to me, his handsome face pale, his eyes rimmed with shadows.

Curse me to hell for bringing him to this place; he’d only just recovered from another bout of illness. His golden-brown hair was tamed, and he was as immaculately turned out as always in a fine green waistcoat. His cravat was knotted with expert care, and the silk hat in his hands was too perfect to be anything other than new. But there were signs of his weeks-long recovery. Even now, his fine coat hung from his shoulders as it would from a peg.

I felt like one of Mr. Toady’s miserable animals, then. Pacing her confines, gazing out at the beautiful people promenading past, knowing she would never walk alongside them.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I told him. You’ll catch your death.

And then I’d truly be alone in the world.

He seemed annoyed at the suggestion. “And where else should I be? I went to the flower stall today as we’d planned, and Stevens said you quit days ago. Days. Did you not think to send for me? And I know—I know—that you wish to handle matters on your own, but this is not something you can navigate without a friend, let alone a solicitor.”

I drew back at that—the sudden realization Oliver earnestly believed it was his right to be sent for. I hadn’t even planned to tell him I was leaving until I was safely in Southpoint.

“I cannot believe it—Fairgate, of all places,” Oliver said softly, taking in the bleak sprawl of crumbling brick. There was a handkerchief in his gloved hand, as if he was desperately trying to resist the urge to press it against his nose. “Why here? Why not a jail or magistrate’s office?”

“Fairgate for the fairyborn,” I reminded him. “It’s the law.”

His soft hazel eyes, at the perfect height to meet mine, were a trap I’d nearly fallen into so many times. Even now, the green flecks begged to be counted like my own private constellation.

“Sod the law,” he swore, in a way that was so unlike him. I drank in the sight of his outrage like a woman dying of thirst. Staggering emotion poured from him, thickening the perpetual damp of the air. Shock, pity, guilt—if I’d set out to capture the scent of misery, the accord would be that exact blend.

I swallowed. “Well, I won’t disagree with you there.”

“Is there anything I can retrieve from your room at the boardinghouse?” he asked. “I’ve plied a few of the guards with coins to bring you a blanket, but—”

“Then you’ve already done too much,” I croaked out, embarrassed by how the thought of a blanket made me want to cry.

There was a wail from down the hall. His eyes darted away, then back to mine as he swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice gained new urgency. “I will handle everything, I swear it to you. I’ve asked my father for an advance on my inheritance—”

“Oliver, no,” I interrupted, gripping the bars between us in horror.

Mr. Radcliffe was as ruthless as they came, and any request like that would cost Oliver dearly. That was what favors were in the end—a shackle by another name. It was why I had never accepted the work Oliver had tried to get me at one of his father’s many apothecaries. I would never allow myself to be beholden to anyone again.

“I’ve asked my father to lobby the home secretary and his friends in Parliament to have you released into our custody,” he continued breathlessly. “So you can leave this terrible place and prepare for the trial in the safety of our home. And . . .”

Oliver’s three elder brothers carried themselves with such radiant confidence, they gave the impression of belonging to every room they stepped into. Even after he’d recovered from the brink of death as a child, Oliver had always trailed behind them, lost in their long shadows, the thoughtful question to their bold answers, too shy for charm and too fragile to be taken in hand by his ambitious father.

His father’s apothecaries may have carried the name Radcliffe & Sons, but Oliver had never been included in that tally. Despite his obvious talent for blending scents, his family feared him too weak to handle any true responsibility. They had never expected anything from him, and it was as shortsighted as it was infuriating. I wondered if they’d ever seen this side of him before, so determined.

But this was how I had always known him, from the moment I’d met him at the flower stall and we’d discussed the different scents of roses.

“And . . .” Oliver continued, drawing in a deep breath.

A cold dread spread through me. I knew what was coming.

“And once you’re released,” Oliver went on, staring at my hands gripping the bars, at the blood and rough scabs on my knuckles, “we would marry.”

“No.”

The answer drifted sullenly between us. Oliver’s lips parted in shock, his brows lowering.