Page 205 of Immortal Rose

Without air, my vision was crowding with a deeper, more frightening darkness. I shoved at him, cutting my own hand to jam the broken perfume flacon harder into his shoulder. He pulled back with a yelp of pain, and air flooded into my lungs. But the scent of his glove lingered, nagging at my awareness. Sweat, leather, and . . .

Licorice.

Heat gathered in my blood, fizzing like sparkling wine. I knew at once what it was. Magic.

“You,” I gasped, scrambling back around the statue. “It was you—you saw the poison in Mama’s journal, you—”

“I knew from the moment I met you at the flower stand,” Oliver said. “I knew you were like me. The way you spoke about scents, about being able to smell how someone felt . . . My whole life, I had been the only one. My father thought I was mad. I learned not to speak of it. Not until he came to find me.”

“Glenmoor,” I choked out.

He nodded. “I told you my mother’s family was Gallian, didn’t I? The DeForests were sure the talent had died out in the bloodline, thanks to your grandfather. They have given me everything I needed to see this through, including the acid. I thought that a nice touch of irony.”

I balked.

“But you were the one to truly teach me. I learned so very much from listening to you, watching you, reading your mother’s journal . . .”

He rose, following my frantic path with a look of contempt.

“You’ve rather muddled our plans, you know,” Oliver said. “We had everything in place to create an endless array of perfumes: the House of Rosebourne’s materials and manufacturing, Glenmoor’s control of the country, countless unwanted children in the orphanages he built, teeming rookeries waiting to be reclaimed. We could have created new perfumes, more powerful perfumes.”

I stared at him in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Ah, there it is,” Oliver said with a cold laugh. “You always thought me weak. Everyone did. Do you know what that’s like? To have your family see you as pathetic . . . hopeless . . . soft . . .” He spat each word. “I tried to be good. To be nice. I was so bloody nice to you. And none of it mattered.”

I couldn’t think. “Oliver . . .”

“I knew there was something great in me, and I thought you would recognize it,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for Glenmoor bringing the DeForests into my life, I would have dawdled after you forever, accepting what meager scraps you offered. We could have achieved so much together, but instead you opened your legs like a whore to the first titled lord who gave you a second glance.” He shook his head, revulsion and disbelief pouring from him. “Even now, you pity me. You pity me. I wanted you more than anything, more than anyone, and you pitied me, like I was the gutter-born one.”

My nails clawed at the floor as I scrambled back, trying to put more distance between us. “Why did you go through with it? Glenmoor has been exposed. You won’t get the House of Rosebourne no matter what becomes of me.”

“The best way to prove a man’s innocence is to demonstrate another’s guilt,” Oliver said, with another terrible smile. “If you had just said yes to me at Fairgate, none of this would have happened. Now that you’ve killed the King and proved all the nasty newspaper stories true, Glenmoor can step back into the good graces of society and rule as regent.”

I tried to stand, only for my ankle to collapse beneath me. I dragged myself back, away from him, until I bumped into the statue of a saint at the center of the room.

Using every ounce of my boiling anger, I dragged myself up along its holy form. “He will never rule.”

“Then I’ll deploy my perfumes on the new regent,” Oliver said, “and bend him to my will until I have everything I desire.” His eyes drifted over me. “Well. Nearly everything.”

“What are you—” I began.

“Viola,” he interrupted, “come here.”

The trickle of warmth I’d felt before roared with sudden heat, blazing through my blood. My skull, already aching, flared as if ringed with fire. It was haunting to feel my body move without my willing it to. To feel my very soul seem to recede, burning away in those golden shimmering flames.

The glove. Magic. The words broke apart, scattering. My body limped toward him, teetering as my balance failed me. With a grunt of annoyance, Oliver met me halfway, coming to stand so close, I could pick up the trace of the perfume he’d dabbed onto his glove.

Using the arm I hadn’t wounded, he cupped my cheek. “Stay still.”

The magic clamped me in its flaming jaws as he brought his face in line with mine.

“If I have to sacrifice you to have everything I want, I can at least have this.”

His pupils were enormous, drowning out the other colors in his eyes. Dread coiled in me. I knew what was coming next.

“Don’t fight,” he murmured. His fingers tightened so painfully in my hair I cried out, only to be silenced by the insistent press of his lips.

My vision tinted black with the force of my panic. I lifted a hand to shove him away, only for my fingers to feebly graze his silk waistcoat. I wanted to vomit, to scream, as every soft memory I had of him was shredded.