Page 164 of Immortal Rose

“The ink is invisible to the human eye,” I explained to him, “unless, of course, you’re impervious to magic.”

Fizzy leaned back. “If that’s all . . . ?”

“God, I hope it is,” Reddy said, then signed to Tommy, “Do we have fairy ink?”

“We do,” Tommy confirmed. “Should I copy it exactly, down to the number?”

Reddy mulled it over. “Yes. We don’t know how Ardent’s numbered the invites. The safest bet would be for Fox to pose as Dover at the door. I’ll find a way to keep Dover occupied to buy him an hour or two.”

Tommy nodded, setting off to begin his work. And after finishing my last bite of toast and the rest of my tea, I helped the others clear the breakfast table and began mine.

The next few hours were the most peaceful I’d known in some time. As my hands worked, my thoughts emptied, surrendering to the simple pleasure of perfumery.

The makings of Immortal Rose sat in a brown apothecary bottle before me, releasing its golden flowering scent as I pulled out its stopper and returned it to the vessel I was using to mix it. I added one drop of Rosebourne’s jasmine oil, then another. Relishing the way the notes harmonized with one another, I wondered if this was how a composer felt, arranging symphonies in their mind, layering notes only they could hear, the singular joy of it belonging solely to them for that short while.

The Treasury, open on the counter behind me, seemed to purr in shared appreciation.

I would add the perfumer’s alcohol once I had the nectar, and, of course, the magic once everything was blended. As frustrating as it was, this was all I could do for now.

I drew in a deep breath, steeling myself against the thought. Having finished my primary distraction, I reached for the list Felicity had assembled of Mama’s perfumes, skimming through it for any that were unfamiliar. Most were the perfumes that she had taught me to make, carefully outlining their formulations in her journal, but there was one I didn’t recognize, A Dance of Delight, which, per the Treasury, filled one with an almost effervescent joy, at the cost of either the fairy plant sunleaf or a measure of your own happiness.

“Is that all?” I muttered. It struck me again how cruel these bargains were, as if the magic itself were punishing us for having lost the gift of the flora the fairies had left us.

I turned through the pages, idly skimming the formulations, magic and otherwise, until one took my notice. A blaze of excitement lit through me, vaulting my heart to my throat. I reached for a clean apothecary bottle and began to search the shelves for the necessary ingredients.

I finished blending it just as the sunlight deepened its golden hue, heralding the arrival of late afternoon. As I cleaned up, a playful yelp from outside the window drew me over to its warm glow.

There, scrambling up and over a garden bench, were two fox kits. They seemed to bask in the day’s sunshine, their chocolate coats gleaming with the hint of red they would grow into. One pounced on the other, rolling them off the stone seat and into a bed of dahlias. Two more darted out of the ivy, joining the yipping tangle.

I became aware of him slowly, the way one rouses from a deep sleep to find it’s morning. I reached up, toying with my quizzing glass, unable to bring myself to turn. After last night, and what had almost occurred between us, excitement and nerves had blended themselves into an accord of shyness—a word I never would have associated with myself before.

His reflection darkened the glass as he came forward, placing something—a cup of tea—on the worktable. I knew by the smell it would be exactly as I liked it: nutmeg brown with the added milk, and only a dash of sugar. My heart swelled painfully at the realization of how closely he’d been paying attention, even at breakfast.

“I thought you might need this,” he said, coming around to stand beside me at the window. As he looked through the diamond panes, I stole a glimpse of him. Despite his obvious exhaustion, a small smile curled his lips at the sight of the kits.

“Four this year,” he said softly. “Any names yet?”

“Not yet,” I answered. “Titania is a leading choice for one.”

His gaze found mine. “How appropriate.”

The Queen’s connection to my fairy ancestor, and the first creation of Immortal Rose, had struck me, too.

“Is it true?” I asked him. “About Eleanor and . . .”

I couldn’t bring myself to say the rodent’s name.

Hugh dragged a hand over his face. “Yes. The Instrument of Consent is real, and a handful of the Privy Council witnessed His Majesty sign and put his seal to it.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. “How can he have that power over the King?”

We had come back around to the initial question that had plagued Hugh.

“He must have discovered something after he became home secretary,” Hugh said, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the counter. “Some deeply embarrassing secret the King refuses to bring to light.”

I picked up the cup of tea and took a grateful sip. Perfect.

“Glenmoor has taken over preparations for the palace’s Midsummer Ball tomorrow evening,” Hugh said. “I hadn’t planned on attending, but it may be my last opportunity to expose him before the King is fully incapacitated.”