Page 21 of Immortal Rose

He shrugged. “Neither of us will get what we desire. I must say, I didn’t expect such hesitation.”

“Was I meant to fall at your feet and weep with gratitude?” I replied, struggling to tamp down my temper.

“By all means,” he said, sweeping a hand toward his polished boots. “A little groveling would only help your cause.”

This was . . . My thoughts raced, fragmenting with each hard thud of my heartbeat. I turned toward the fire again, begging the flames for a third way out of this. But there was only truth: If I refused him, there would be my cell. Branson. A trial I would not live to see.

Oliver’s words rose again in my mind. Must you be so bloody stubborn all the time?

“You’ve hardly given me a choice,” I said. “I would be trading one prison for another.”

“At least my prison will be gilded,” he said, mildly offended by the comparison.

“And lorded over by the very man responsible for my arrest,” I spat.

“And now for getting you out.” He hummed. “There’s a nice symmetry to it, wouldn’t you say?”

I had quite a bit I could say to that, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. It was as if I’d found myself on some dark precipice, and stepping forward would reveal if it was the threshold into a new start, as he’d promised, or a trap I’d never escape. Either way, I’d be transformed.

Foxcourt held out the document, daring me. I approached slowly, refusing to tear my gaze away from his as I took it.

“I will make your life as miserable as you’ve made mine,” I warned.

He held the document firm, forcing me to tug it free. “I look forward to seeing you try.”

With a final huff, I made my way over to the governor’s desk. Taking a quill, I drew the feather against my lips as I closed my eye and quickly read through the document one last time. Foxcourt’s eyes fell on me like the warmth of a second fire.

It’s only a perfume, I told myself. It would cost me, to be certain—it was costing me that very moment, knowing this man would control my every act until I saw the task through. But if I could tolerate it, just for that long, I would be free. I could go anywhere. Start again.

The black leather records book caught my eye from where it had been tossed aside by Foxcourt. I reached for it, ignoring the man’s sound of exasperation, and quickly flipped through to the most recent entries. Satisfied Arabella’s name wasn’t there, I slammed the book shut and took up the quill again.

The scent of the parchment and ink curled in me, a signature of its own. I wondered if the scent would forever remind me of this moment—when I had made either the best choice of my life or my greatest mistake.

And so, I signed my name, and my fate.

Chapter Four

Oliver had told me once that Linden’s stench had a proper name—effluvia, which struck me as a very poetic word for what could be a soul-curdling miasma.

In winter, it was overwhelmed by the smoke from burning coal and fireplaces. The summer, however, served a generous helping of it: sunbaked rotten food, bodily odors, and excrement of every kind caught in streets that never fully drained.

But as I stepped out through Fairgate’s doors, there were few things I knew I’d cherish more in life than Branson’s puckered face as he was informed I was leaving and that first deep breath of effluvia.

A coach waited nearby, blacker than the night air. Foxcourt’s presence loomed behind me, his hand ghosting over the small of my back for an instant before he pulled it away. He didn’t offer his arm or help me down the small stack of steps to the street, which suited the both of us.

At our sudden appearance, the coachman looked up from the book he’d angled toward the lantern beside him, then returned to the pages—only for his gaze to jerk back up. He started to scramble down from his seat, but Foxcourt lifted a hand, staying him.

“I’ll see to it, Cartwell,” he said. “This is Miss Lockwood. She’ll be staying at Foxcourt House for the time being.”

The coachman absorbed the pitiful sight of me with remarkable aplomb. I liked his essence immediately, a soothing blend of horses, leather reins, hay, and a flowering, sun-warmed grass that spoke of a happy disposition.

Cartwell braced his boot against the footboard and smiled. “A pleasure, Miss Lockwood.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” I said, summoning the words from dusty memory.

Foxcourt smirked at the primness of my tone, but I wouldn’t embarrass Mama with poor manners or elocution. Despite the current appearance to the contrary, I wasn’t some feral hoyden.

“Any trouble?” Foxcourt asked, opening the coach door himself. There was no crest emblazoned on the black lacquer, which was polished to such a degree I nearly leapt out of my skin when I saw my reflection in it.