Page 197 of Immortal Rose

“Why would you ever want to work for the man who had done this to you?” I whispered.

“I wanted him to see me, to know what he had done,” Vernon said. “But, of course, he didn’t recognize me. Why would he? He never saw any of the children. Royals live a life devoid of friction. They have every need cared for, as a child might. They needn’t concern themselves with how something they desire is procured, only that it is handed to them when they will it.”

Vernon’s pained smile broke my heart.

“Did he know?” I asked. “About the sacrifice needed for his perfume?”

“Yes,” Vernon said. “If not from the start, then when Glenmoor confronted him, shortly after becoming home secretary. The King was beside himself. He had no choice but to agree to all the duke’s demands or else be exposed and lose the perfume and its magic.”

My God. The blackmail. This had to be at the root of Glenmoor’s plans for Albion; he had taken this horrific seed and used it to plant the beginning of his garden of terrors.

“His Majesty has been unwell for some time. That was not something I was made aware of until he brought me into his confidence,” Vernon said. “He had gray fever as a child, which weakened his heart. He’s required the perfume ever since. Then the supply of sweetfeather ran out, and William Rosebourne was tasked with finding a new source of it.”

“How many children were affected?” I asked.

He gave a hopeless shrug that chilled me.

“There’s only one part of this I can’t understand,” I began. “How were you able to lie when you were questioned under the Crown of Veracity?”

“The same way I am able to provide such unsavory assistance to the King,” Vernon choked out. “I have not been able to smell anything since that day.”

I couldn’t begin to fathom what that must be like. It would have been like carving out my soul.

“You must understand, the duke told me that I would be given a perfume that would restore me,” Vernon whispered, clutching at his face. “If I applied the poison to the King’s clothing, he said the DeForests could reverse the loss.”

Oh, I thought, anguished. Oh, God.

“If that were possible,” I told him gently, “it would mean someone else had their life stolen from them.”

At that, Vernon finally cracked open, shattering before my eyes. His breath came in deep, heaving sobs, the tears spilling out over his fingers. “I knew, in my heart I knew, that must be the case. I only—it’s so unfair—”

“It is,” I told him, reaching for his arms again. “What was done to you is unforgivable.”

He sagged at the touch as he wept. “My hatred is a poison to my heart, but I cannot kill it. I cannot.”

“You are a good person,” I told him sincerely. “You didn’t deserve this.”

What he’d been subjected to had been punishment enough. A king did not deserve his life more than a young boy deserved his. That was the truth I held on to. The one that settled firmly in my heart.

And I understood, then, the nature of the power at my disposal. Why it had been impossible for generations of Rosebournes to resist, even when faced with such dire choices. The power was the choice itself—becoming an arbiter of fate.

The thought stirred another. “Glenmoor said at least one of the DeForests was working alongside him, someone who still possessed the family’s magic. He even said they were attending the ball. Do you know who supplied the poison for the King?”

“No,” Vernon said. “But I overheard a conversation between him and his secretary, about finding a family here in Albion who are descended from the DeForest line.”

I nodded, absorbing this. “Vernon, I think it may be best for you to disappear, at least until the danger to you passes. With the perfumer and Glenmoor somewhere in the city, they could expose you . . . or worse.”

“Yes . . .” He breathed out, bowing his head. “Yes, you’re right . . . I will tender my resignation to Her Royal Highness . . .”

“Do you have savings?” I asked him. “I could have money sent—”

“No,” he said quickly, “no, I thank you for that kindness, but I have savings.” He forced a tremulous smile on his face. “I live at the palace. I’ve no family left—none who would recognize or accept me. I simply do not have anywhere to go.”

“I know of a place.”

Mrs. Keyes’s voice was measured, carrying to us as she made her way down the stairs, glancing up at the portrait as she passed. It was impossible to tell how much she had heard. All of it, I assumed.

Vernon flew back at her sudden appearance, knocking into the table at the center of the hall. A sheen of sweat broke out on his face as he eased behind me, the way a child might hide behind their mother’s skirts.