Page 4 of Immortal Rose

Someone—who? He couldn’t recall now. Because in that moment, between one breath and the next, between the ask and the answer, the world turned to fire.

The heat found him first, scalding the air and his vision molten gold. A tidal wave of pressure roared behind him, tossing him to the ground with bone-crushing force.

No, there had been a smaller explosion first, hadn’t there? A crack like thunder. Or had that only been his skull slamming against the cobblestones?

When Hugh came to, the sky was on fire, and somehow, impossibly, he was not dead.

His consciousness rose like the whorls of dark smoke around him. A sharp ache at his temple made itself known with a piercing intensity that was almost blinding. Ash caressed his face like the hands of a worried mother.

Hugh’s eyes stung, watering as he forced them open, his throat aching with an unfinished cry. Smoldering debris was scattered around him. Hugh stared, not comprehending, not recognizing any of it.

Not until he saw the golden rose still burning in the nearby gutter.

The blasted ringing in his ears was unbearable as Hugh hauled himself upright. The world lurched violently as he staggered through the heavy veil of smoke and ash.

Too late—

He pressed a trembling hand to the back of his mouth to keep from retching. The ungodly stench of burnt hair and flesh overcame him as he made his way to the fiery heart of the street.

To the remains of a coach engulfed in flames so hot they burned blue.

Too late—

Bile heaved up his throat as Hugh dropped back to his knees. Hands reached for him. Voices muted by the screaming in his ears spoke, their lips forming frantic shapes. Faces he ought to have recognized, distorted by terror.

Too late—

They lifted him, dragging him away. He let them, willing the darkness back to him. But even behind his eyelids, the fires burned, inescapable.

Always too late.

Part One

Soliflore

Chapter One

If moonlight had a scent, it would surely be something like this: Airy white flowers—jasmine, night-blooming and lush, or even luminous tuberose. The cool, powdery kiss of orris, so very different from the golden warmth of the sun. And . . . perhaps the faintest hint of incense, for when the moon had gazed down upon a world ancient and wild.

Now that the moon’s face had risen above the church steeple looming behind us, the dark air had turned into a silver satin ribbon and the rain-slick cobblestones into lovely dark pearls. On most nights, the bright, ethereal glow of a full moon was a gift.

But to a Midnight Market, it was a betrayal.

“Three silvers!” the man scoffed, slamming the small bottle back down.

The plank we’d balanced over two barrels wobbled precariously, the whole endeavor on the verge of collapse. Beside me, Arabella sucked in a sharp breath as the perfume flacons chattered against one another like teeth.

“Three silvers,” I confirmed. One for the cost of the bottle, another to pay back Oliver for the lavender oil, and the third for the seat on the mail coach that would carry me far, far away from here.

“Do I look like a goosecap to you?” he demanded, his face flushing beneath his hood.

No, I thought, keeping that bland smile etched onto my face. But you, sir, reek of solicitor.

While he’d donned the simple, coarse clothing of a common tradesman, his essence gave away the game. I’d taken it all in with a single breath: the dry woodiness of parchment, wig powder, ink, and a certain pride that carried a metallic tang not unlike the heavy pouch of coins hidden beneath his cloak. He lived near the lilac-draped homes of the storied Feygrove Square, but not within it.

So, not a toff—even the second son of a lord wouldn’t survive the shame of employment—but a man who aspired to join the ranks of the Patricians all the same.

And, God, one of his yellow teeth was rotting at the root. If it wasn’t giving him something to complain about, it would soon. In the meantime, the soul-curdling stink of it, braided into the burnt parchment scent of his growing annoyance, was a test to my stomach’s fortitude.