Page 38 of Immortal Rose

“I’m aware,” Foxcourt said. “But it was the only way to verify their accounts. They eagerly volunteered to be subjected to what they believed to be an old fairy perfume to prove their innocence.”

Ah, but of course. The House of Rosebourne’s magic perfumes were not to be revealed to lowly maids and other attendants. They were only allowed to suffer its ill effects.

Vernon gave a weak noise of agreement, looking as if he might dispute that account.

“When you inspected the clothing the night before the poisoning,” I said, turning my attention back to the poor man, “did you detect any unusual scents?”

“No,” Vernon began slowly. “Though I’m afraid to say such scents were not wholly unusual—that is . . .” He cast an anxious glance toward Eleanor.

She held up her hand, gesturing for him to continue. “I appreciate your instinct to protect his privacy, but we are past the need for it now. Please speak freely.”

Still, he hesitated.

“Was the odor sweet in the way of rotting fruit?” I asked, and felt Foxcourt’s eyes flick to me once more. “Or sweet and sour as a candied lemon might be?”

Vernon thought for a moment before answering, “Neither.”

“A perfume changes as it’s worn,” I explained. “The top notes disappear first, then the heart notes, and as the hours wear on, usually only the deeper base notes are present. I’m trying to confirm my suspicion about the perfume, but I caught a mere hint of what I believe to be the top note.”

Vernon nodded, considering this. “Milton described it as being like the licorice tea his mother drank.”

I sat back at that, trying to recall the odor wafting off the King. There had been a sickly-sweet note like licorice in the air, but it was sometimes difficult to parse from what was merely decay. In perfume, that licorice note was usually anise—but there was no star anise oil in the poison. Not that I could recall.

Foxcourt inhaled sharply. “You’re sure?”

“Why?” I asked. “Do you recognize it?”

His gaze slid toward me. “Yes. There are several DeForest perfumes that carry a licorice-like scent.”

Until that moment, I hadn’t considered similarities between the old DeForest fragrances and the Rosebourne scents to be anything other than two rival perfume houses attempting to best each other. But knowing the truth of the DeForests now, it was remarkable there weren’t more commonalities between their offerings.

These perfumes had been passed down through the descendants of fairies. Many of the formulations likely stretched back thousands of years in the fairy realm, as shared knowledge. While each family may have perfected or toyed with the original formulations, both were likely working from a shared trove of scents.

The Rosebourne perfumes always had the barest hint of rose woven into their base, the way a painter would sign their masterpieces. Perhaps anise was used by the DeForests in the same way.

“And you weren’t affected by the poison?” I asked, my gaze falling to the hands folded in his lap, to his well-manicured fingernails.

“Not at all. I cannot make sense of it,” Vernon said. “I would give anything to change places with him, to have been struck down by the scent before it had the chance to affect him.”

Sadly, I didn’t doubt that. But Vernon’s life was just as important to me as the King’s. “I believe you.”

“Could such a perfume be tailored to affect only one person?” Eleanor asked.

“Yes, but to do so, you’d need a drop of that person’s blood,” I explained. “Even still, the magic can affect others to a lesser extent. The only person completely immune to its effects is the perfumer who made it.”

“Really?” Foxcourt asked, intrigued.

“Then it wouldn’t rule out one of the DeForests as the culprit who applied the perfume,” Eleanor said with a swiftness that impressed me. “But then how would they have gotten inside the palace? How would they have gotten the King’s blood? Only someone close to him could have managed that.”

“Was he cut while one of his valets shaved him?” Foxcourt asked. “Or perhaps he broke a wineglass?”

“No.” Vernon paused, then straightened. “But he did cut his hand while hunting this past week.”

Eleanor and Foxcourt shared a look.

“What?” I asked, exasperated by the silent communication. Foxcourt only waved an infuriatingly dismissive hand.

“You’re certain you’re all right?” Eleanor asked the valet, her expression tight with worry. “It truly didn’t affect you?”