Page 49 of Immortal Rose

“I expect I’ll have more white hairs by the end of this,” I told her. At her confusion, I explained the bargaining nature of the magic.

Felicity was torn between fascination and outrage. “The beautifying one? You give up a part of yourself for it?”

“Far be it for me to deny the brimstone-eyed society matrons of a youthful flush.” Seeing Felicity wince at the description, I added, contritely, “I may need to borrow Miss Mannerly’s . . . It’s been quite a while since I was taught anything about etiquette and society.”

Felicity grinned. “I will be your tutor then. We can go through Miss Mannerly’s each morning, and in exchange”—she glanced toward the door, as if to ensure no one was on the verge of bursting through it—“will you tell me everything about the explosion? The tremendous sound of it, how very scalding it must have been—erm, if it’s not too terrible to recall, of course. I’m rather hoping to include one in my novel, you see.”

I let out my first real laugh in an age.

At last, a bargain I was glad to agree to.

Chapter Eleven

As a child navigating the Riverside docks or the winding lanes of the Brickbats, I had used my nose as much as my eyes to guide me, marking turns and locations by the scents that clung to the air the way one might add notations to a map.

All of Foxcourt House, however, carried the same lovely bouquet of wild roses, candle wax, starched linen, and sweet pastries, with warm traces of fire smoke.

That was the thing about an old house like this one, of course. Like Felicity had said, it had a soul of its own, an essence comprising all the generations that had lived beneath its roof.

I had only a shadowy memory of the various halls and stairs, and the house was rather rambling, its sections feeling cobbled together with what felt like a child’s whims. But really, how difficult could it be to find the morning room? I’d only need to follow the scent of fresh bread and jellies.

Felicity had murmured an excuse about needing to speak to the cook, Mrs. Silver, leaving me to gather my courage in the bedchamber. Alone for the first time since leaving Fairgate, I seized the opportunity to explore the house at my own pace, without being surveilled by Foxcourt’s watchful eyes. And if I happened to delay our unhappy reunion, all the better.

I moved through the third-floor hall at an unhurried pace. The elegant array of decor and art had a pleasantly cluttered feel to it, as if the family’s belongings had been gathered over several lifetimes.

On a green marble table was a sculpture of Summerland Palace, one that appeared to have been constructed entirely out of wooden . . . toothpicks? I leaned closer, marveling at the detail. The friezes on each of the three wings of the palace had been painted on, but it was a near likeness. Catching a bright glimpse of color at the edge of my vision, my gaze drifted up from the model to the dramatic painting hanging above it.

The scene was of a ship—I’d been inside enough of them with the man who’d raised me to recognize a captain’s quarters. A man with bronze hair clutched at the front of his sapphire uniform, blood spilling from the weapon lodged in his neck. His body was falling, one hand desperately gripping the table before him to stay upright.

There was something in his gaze that unsettled me, unlocking some terrified human instinct. The terror of mortality. And there, across the vast expanse of the map-strewn table, was death itself: the famous assassin, the Black Needle, little more than a shadow as he retreated into the cannon smoke filtering through the portholes.

He had killed his way up the ranks of Gallia’s army until finally reaching Auguste during a decisive battle near the isle of Rocheblanche in the Narrow Sea, cutting off the general’s plan to invade and seize the isle, as well as his ascent to ultimate power. That single death had ended the Gallian Revolutionary Wars, ultimately restoring the overthrown Gallian monarchy and no doubt sparing tens of thousands of lives from years of battles and conquests.

“The Death of General Auguste by Bernard Cullings.”

I leapt like a spooked cat at the sound of Mrs. Keyes’s voice, my hip bumping painfully into the table. The toothpick palace gave a violent jolt that rattled its fragile foundations. Panicked, I reached out to steady it, but the housekeeper was quicker, halting its swan dive to the floor with two outstretched fingers.

“My God,” I said, pressing a hand to my hammering heart. “I was so lost in my own thoughts I didn’t notice you there.”

Mrs. Keyes gave a pleasant smile, but the look in her eyes was as sharp as it had been when we’d met on the house’s steps. “Are you an art lover, Miss Lockwood?”

“I don’t know nearly enough about it to claim that title, I’m afraid,” I said. “Though I appreciate it.”

“Then perhaps you might ask Tommy for a tour,” Mrs. Keyes suggested lightly. “His knowledge of the house’s artwork is quite extensive, being something of an artist himself.”

I gave her a tight smile. “I wouldn’t want to trouble him.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” she assured me. “Unless you’re worried about his hearing?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I only meant it’s not necessary. I’m sure he has many other things to occupy his time.”

“None that he would enjoy quite this much,” she said. “And as for his hearing, he is not entirely deaf, though he lost much of it after an illness as a child. He reads lips quite expertly.” Mrs. Keyes swept her gaze over the painting one last time before turning to me. “Shall I take you down to breakfast?”

Biting back a sigh, I nodded.

Through the meandering halls, Foxcourt House came into full bloom around me. There was no other way to describe it. Moving deeper into the house gave one the feeling that they were passing through a garden. What walls weren’t painted a pastel shade were papered with a riot of floral patterns. The rugs covering the floor had to have been woven centuries before any of the house’s occupants were born, but they were still as bright as the walls.

It was only here and there that the house’s exuberance was dimmed by evidence of mourning. A small altar of remembrance had been placed near the front door, with a fresh stick of sacred incense burning below a marble carving of God’s Wheel, the symbol of a faith that had crushed the ancient one beneath it. And there was the portrait of the last Lord Foxcourt on the landing of the stairs, still veiled in black tulle.