Page 25 of Immortal Rose

“I’ve asked him to bring up the second slipper tub,” Foxcourt explained to the housekeeper.

Mrs. Keyes gave me another assessing look. “Yes. I think that wise.”

Foxcourt ghosted a hand over the small of my back again, gesturing toward the slumbering house. I stepped away from him, but as I brushed past Mrs. Keyes, the hairs on the back of my neck rose like needlepoints.

All the staff had essences that spoke, in part, to their occupations—polish, silver platters, wine, dust, and woodsmoke—but there were surprising notes, too. For Fleming, it was a distinct scent that I’d learned years ago was cat gut used to string violins, as well as something that could only be defined as “dog.” Thomas smelled wonderfully of oil paints and the bristles of brushes.

But Mrs. Keyes . . .

She smelled only of blood.

Chapter Five

I finally understood the need for two tubs when I sat down in the first and the water turned the same shade of fermented brown as the River Temese.

As ridiculous as I’d felt standing back and watching the poor footmen bring up can after steaming can of hot water, even I could admit that a quick sponging off or rinse in a hip bath simply wouldn’t cut through the crust of dirt and other unmentionable substances on my skin.

“There. That’s a bit better, isn’t it?” came Felicity’s soothing voice. “Tilt your head back for me, Miss Lockwood—oh, marvelous, not a flea to be seen!”

Marvelous, indeed. With a sigh, I closed my eyes, and the maid used a cup of water from the clean tub to rinse my heavy curtain of hair.

“You can call me Viola,” I said for the fourth time.

“Of course, Miss Lockwood,” came her sweet reply.

Felicity was an unusually tall young woman, with a bright eagerness that radiated from her like a midday sun. I felt warmed just being in her presence, letting her happy chatter wash over me like orange blossom toilette water. Even better, it meant that I’d barely had to say a word.

A smattering of pale freckles dusted over Felicity’s nose and cheeks, and she had lovely jade-green eyes that twinkled, as the fairy stories liked to claim. I didn’t have to guess to pin an age on her; she gladly told me she was four months shy of eighteen during a story. The overall effect of her was like a ginger note in a perfume: bright and invigorating to take in.

In fact, the only moment that disposition had slipped was when Felicity had helped me out of my ruined dress and corset. I’d stiffened, mortified, as the fabric had all but crumbled in her hands, but her sharp inhalation was worse, and her sweet attempt to disguise it with a cough all the more humiliating.

Somehow, I’d let myself relax enough under her careful ministrations that I’d forgotten the sorry state of my back, bruised like an apple and crisscrossed with old and new scars.

My hands curled and flexed again beneath the opaque surface of the water, remembering the gritty feel of the cell’s bars as I’d held on to them, bearing each strike of the truncheon with only a whimper.

“Shall we move to the other tub?” Felicity asked. “I’ve some lovely oils and cakes of soap for you to choose from—lavender, rose, honey?”

“Yes . . . all right,” I managed.

I’d recognized the scent of the House of Rosebourne’s offerings the moment I’d stepped into the bedroom. I was used to catching the ghosts of Rosebourne scents chasing me throughout Linden. It was said that at least one Rosebourne product, whether it was a comb or perfumed gloves, was found in every home from the Brickbats to Summerland Palace.

But to see the milled soap and gold-capped flacons laid out on a silver tray like the delicacies they were . . . it filled me with a painful swell of emotion. Merely looking at them felt like a betrayal to Mama, but I wasn’t about to send Felicity away to retrieve something else to wash with. I wasn’t nearly so ridiculous.

“Lavender, please,” I said hoarsely. It would be the strongest of the scents, and I would give my eyeteeth to drown out the remnants of Fairgate that clung to me.

Felicity came into view again. One strand of her brown hair had escaped her frilly white cap with the effort it had taken to gently comb the snarls and knots from my hair. She offered both hands to me, helping me step from the tub onto a towel laid out on the carpet and then into the tub beside it.

I had the distant thought I should be embarrassed, or at least abashed, to be completely nude in front of a stranger, but years of frequenting the public baths had dulled me to it, and I was simply too tired to care.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out as the hot water turned the welt around my ankle to pure, flaming agony again. Tears pricked my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall, wouldn’t upset Felicity with the sight of them. Drawing in a deep breath, I let the lavender-scented steam rising from the water fill my chest, holding it there until I was forced to release it.

“I’ve always been partial to this one,” Felicity said, handing me a bar of soap and a fresh towel. Her gaze grew distant, as if her mind had left the room ahead of her. “It smells of strolling through a garden in the late afternoon and stopping beside lavender to watch the many busy bees fluttering about it.”

I paused mid-lather on my arms, looking up at her in astonishment.

“Oh, bosh, I’m sorry, I get carried away at times,” Felicity said, tapping her temple. “I’ve been dreaming up stories since I was a girl, and the others have encouraged me to start writing them. Can I tell you a secret, Miss Lockwood?”

I hesitated. Nothing good would come of this. Felicity had a way of making you lower your guard without realizing it. With anyone else, I would have been wary of it being an act, a careful manipulation, but there was no guile at all in her bright gaze.