Page 60 of Immortal Rose

One by one, Foxcourt picked up the few remaining items that hadn’t been knocked off Rosebourne’s massive oak desk, studying each in turn. A crystal paperweight. A half-full teacup, the liquid long gone gray with curdled milk. A pipe spilling out unspent tobacco.

Marks of a life abbreviated unexpectedly.

William Rosebourne’s essence hung over the dark space like a fearsome specter—the smoked wood note that clung to the entire study, with its hint of jammy rose that was found at the base of most House of Rosebourne perfumes. And was that metallic pride, or merely the abundance of marks he carried on his person? The rusted metal of guilt.

I met Foxcourt at the desk, running my fingers over a tray of silver buttons with their flower emblems. I’d forgotten—in addition to scented gloves, handkerchiefs, lockets, rings, and combs, the House of Rosebourne had recently begun offering scented buttons, which featured a backing of cloth where perfume could be applied.

Foxcourt lifted the tobacco pipe. “Don’t get any ideas.”

I rolled my eyes, reaching around him to feel beneath the desk’s central door, hunting for the hint of metal I smelled there. “There should be a . . .”

The hidden compartment slid open under my finger’s urging, and the key’s slight weight dropped into it. Just as Mama had told me it would, in that singsong way she had of telling stories: A little snick does the trick.

Facing the fireplace directly across from the desk, I counted three bookcases to the left and three shelves down. For fortune favors thee, and six is twice the luck of three.

The rhyme was almost unnecessary; the smell of the brass keyhole subtly placed on the underside of the shelf was like a candle in the dark. If the thief was one of the DeForests, if they truly had the same abilities as the Rosebournes, it was odd that they had missed it—then again, there were any number of brass objects scattered over the shelves.

The key slid in and turned with a satisfying click. Foxcourt let out a hum of gratification that resonated with the smug swell of pride in my chest. There was a single beat of silence where our gazes caught and held. His eyes gleamed like a wolf’s sighting its next meal, and I knew I had to be wearing a similar expression for his lips to curl into such a wicked smile.

If it were anyone else . . . anyone but him . . . I might have acknowledged the thrill of excitement that passed between us.

Gripping the shelf, I gave it a hard yank. While the bookshelf jolted, it slammed shut again with the force of its immense weight.

I jerked as my back met the solid wall of Foxcourt’s chest again. His arms bracketed mine, gripping the shelf just above my hands. Our bodies collided as he dragged it open.

“What the devil is this made of?” he said, reaching a leg around me to toe a stopper down, holding the door open.

“Iron,” I said, peering into the darkness. A narrow set of stairs led down into the shadows awaiting us below. The scent of magic shimmered up, pouring over me like golden honey. Cold iron to hide the way and to lead the fairies astray. “It blocks the scent and sensation of magic from escaping the family archive.”

Foxcourt was handy, at least, quickly finding a candle to light.

“Magic doesn’t have a scent,” he said as he struck the flint to ignite the wick.

“And how would you know?” I asked pertly.

He gave me a dubious look. “Because it’s absurd.”

“More or less absurd than scenting someone’s feelings or their life’s story?” I tried to take the candlestick holder from him, my nose wrinkling at the smell of tallow. For all his wealth and the refinement of his nose, William Rosebourne had apparently been a miserly old bastard.

Foxcourt resisted my grip. “I go first.”

I stepped back, hands rising in surrender. “Be my guest. It’ll make it easier to kick you down the steps.”

He started through the passage, only to stop, blocking the way forward with his arm. “I’ll allow you to go first—”

“Allow me?” I echoed, scathing.

“—if you tell me what the scent of magic is.”

I shook my head in amazement. This man truly could not stand a single secret to be out of his reach, even as he jealously guarded his own. “Like if sunlight were a sparkling wine.”

He only looked more annoyed. “Sunlight doesn’t have a scent, either.”

“Are you always this literal?” I asked, plucking the candle from his hand and ducking beneath his arm. By his disgruntled expression, yes. Yes, he was.

Within the first few steps, I almost regretted not allowing Foxcourt to go first. With the poor sight in my left eye, it made my vision in the dark an altogether more uncertain prospect. I muddled on, the candle flame trembling in my hand as I used my other to feel along the curve of the wall as the steps twisted down and down.

The air took on a noticeable chill, deepening the sense that we were passing out of our world and into ancient memory. That we had stumbled upon a fairy mound said to lead to their otherland.