Page 26 of Immortal Rose

And that was the danger of it. We were not friends. She worked for—and was loyal only to—the man who had made himself my jailer.

“I am writing a novel, you see,” Felicity began, sitting down on the stool beside the tub. “I’m not very far into the story, of course. I can’t seem to stop rewriting what I’ve already written, which is a very silly way to never finish it, I know, but . . .”

The rest of the thought either escaped her or she’d become lost in it. Her expression was so dreamy, it made me regret that I couldn’t peer into her mind to see it, too.

I carefully worked a cloth over my hands. The scabs on my knuckles looked angrier against the pale skin I revealed. I scrubbed at my arms until I realized the dark splotches there weren’t dirt but handprint-shaped bruises. The world turned indistinct around me.

“Miss Lockwood?” Felicity began, a note of worry in her voice.

“I—yes, you’re . . .” I searched for something to say, wondering at my instinct to ease her. “You’re right about the scent. It’s a soliflore.”

“A vase?” she asked, confused.

“Yes,” I said. “But in perfumery, there’s another meaning—it’s a scent that captures the perfumer’s interpretation of a single flower. It does tell a story. All perfume does. I think you’re right that this is meant to be sun-warmed lavender, rather than, say, lavender after rain, or lavender at dawn . . .”

Mama had said to me once that essences were like soliflore scents, capturing a glimpse of a single life in the way a soliflore was meant to mark a moment in time. I wondered who had created this particular scent—had it been William Rosebourne himself or one of the perfumers he trained and employed?

“That is marvelous,” Felicity said, propping her chin up on her hand with a dreamy sigh. “Imagine a scent of an iris given to a secret lover, or a carpet of bluebells in an ancient forest . . .”

I could, all of them. The notes were arranging themselves in my mind, layering in the way a painter added depth and light and texture with each new stroke.

Felicity’s smile was encouraging. “What a lovely gift you have.”

My gaze fell back onto my bruised knees. There was that word again. Gift. Another needling reminder that no one in this house knew me, and never would.

“Is something the matter?” Felicity asked.

I looked up sharply—not at her soft question, but, rather, with sudden realization. My eyes narrowed in a way that made hers flare in alarm.

“Whatever is it?” Felicity asked with a nervous laugh. “Goodness, your expression.”

I drew closer to her, not caring how strange it must have seemed. Yes—I was right.

Felicity smelled of warm skin and sunshine, of the lye used to clean garments, and of the House of Rosebourne’s honey soap. Lavender oil stained her fingers. But beneath that, there was no essence. No hint of her emotion. Her presence had brought to mind ginger and citrus zest, but it hadn’t brought the actual scents to my nose.

I stared at her, water dripping down the cooling skin of my back. With Foxcourt, there had been no scent at all—not even the scent of his skin. This was different, and yet . . .

The scent of blood filled the bedchamber, announcing the arrival of Mrs. Keyes in the doorway. I closed one eye, trying to peer through a gap in the silk screen that had been placed between the tubs and the rest of the room. Another shadow moved beside hers, and there was a murmur of voices.

“—must you—”

“—necessary—”

The second voice was a low rumble, but I recognized Foxcourt’s tenor all the same. My hands curled into fists beneath the water again.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Felicity said, rising. She quickly replaced the screen after her, leaving me staring at the dancing fairies lavishly embroidered onto the silk panels.

I strained my ears, trying to hear what Felicity was whispering so fiercely. The floorboards squeaked as she made her way back over, muttering beneath her breath. She took a moment to gather herself and fix a smile on her face before she appeared at the screen again.

“Willie and Tommy will be up in a moment to begin removing the tubs, if that’s all right?” Felicity asked gently. “And Mrs. Keyes would like to come in, unless you wish to be alone.”

She lingered at the end of the tub, her once clean apron splotched with dirty water. Waiting. It was a long moment before I realized she had given me a choice and was expecting an answer. I looked down at the tub again and sighed. I’d never have another bath as fine as this one, and I was reluctant to step out of the warm water.

“Yes,” I said, “that would be fine. Is there a shift or wrapper I could borrow . . . ?”

She fetched both, leaving me bundled in a pristine white shift that made me nervous to look at it. The thought of ruining it in some way, of being made to replace it, made my heart sick.

The feeling was only deepened by the realization that lawn fabric could be as soft as this one was—that, at least for some ladies, this was the only sort of intimate fabric that brushed their skin. And the wrapper, embroidered with tiny rosebuds—how long had it taken a woman to sew every one, and so perfectly?