Page 70 of Immortal Rose

His brow creased. “From the old ballad?”

Cinnamon, sweetfeather, and thyme, to make the fairy wings shine . . .

“Yes,” I said, picking up one of the reference books on fairy lore I’d been consulting—a journal of a half-mad man who claimed to have once visited the fairy realm. “Sweetfeather has healing and invigorating properties, though it’s generally accepted to be extinct in our world.”

Naturally, if anyone were to have access to it, it would be the King and the King alone.

“Then how in God’s name was Rosebourne making it for him?” Foxcourt asked.

“There were a number of rare oils in the archive.” My bitterness was sour on my tongue. “And because sweetfeather contains magic, there is no bargain required of the perfumer or the intended recipient. A bargain could substitute for it, I expect, but there’s none listed here—unlike many other entries.”

All the bargains had been written in an entirely different hand from the one that had transcribed the formulations. Given the darker ink, it had been years, if not centuries, later. Meaning . . . what, precisely? That they had been devised only after the fairies had left Albion and their floras had withered to dust and memory?

It felt like a strange, cruel corruption of the art, blending pain and loss into the formulation as surely as the distilled oils.

The flare of anger lit in my chest again. After so many years of lessons from Mama, after reading her journal countless times, there had never been any indication there was another way to create the perfumes outside of that sacrificial exchange.

“And that is a problem how?” Foxcourt pressed, unable, ever, to leave something alone.

“Because until I read the entries in this book, I had no idea that these fairy plants were the original source of magic for the perfumes,” I said, my throat tight, “nor did I know that the bargain could be made with the customer rather than myself.”

That I needn’t have carved off pieces of myself for people who did not deserve them.

Foxcourt rose from the desk and drew closer. “I don’t understand—bargain? You referenced a cost to the King, but I thought you were speaking of the materials needed.”

I let out a bitter laugh, the pages of the Treasury blurring before me. “Magic is not an infinite well to be drawn from. It is a transaction—alchemy. A perfumer might distill these fairy plants, and if I’m understanding this correctly, the resulting oil would infuse the perfume with the plants’ inherent magic.”

“All right, I’m following,” he said.

“But I was raised to believe the perfumer must offer the source of this magic something of equal value to draw upon it, to shape the magic. For example, if I was asked to create a perfume to attract the love of someone, I would need to offer the magic my own love or attraction for someone, or someone else’s love or attraction to me.”

Foxcourt absorbed this silently for a moment. “Or the customer would.”

“Yes,” I said, tasting that bitterness again. “Though I suppose they’d pay to avoid that.”

“Or if you wanted to create a perfume that enhanced the wearer’s beauty . . .” Foxcourt continued, his presence lingering behind me. A ghost of sensation brushed one of the loose curls at the nape of my neck. “. . . a perfumer might offer something of their own beauty to their magic.”

I took a steadying breath, tucking one of the loose white curls behind my ear.

“And you are upset because the King sacrifices nothing of himself for his blend, and he has access to such a rare fairy flower when so many do not.”

“Yes—no.” I pressed a hand to my brow, rubbing at it.

“Which is it?” he asked.

The pressure at my back eased as he stepped off to the side, resting a hand against the table to lean over and examine the Treasury. A wicked little pleasure curled in me as he let out a noise of irritation, seeing nothing but blank pages.

“Yes and no,” I clarified. “I am upset about that, of course. But I am also . . .”

It felt like a betrayal to think it, never mind put voice to it. And to him of all people. But in a week’s time, God willing, I would never see this man again. What did it matter?

“I’m frustrated that my mother’s kind heart refused to ask that of anyone she made these perfumes for.” The words tumbled out of me. “That she saw her own life as somehow less valuable than theirs. That she never told me of this, as if she expected me to feel the same.” My gaze traced the long seam of his jacket sleeve up to his thoughtful face. “And I don’t.”

Foxcourt let out a soft hum as he pulled back. “Good.”

“Good?” I echoed, twisting around in my seat to watch him stroll around the edges of the room, examining the shelves. “This from the man who asked why I couldn’t simply make the perfume for the good of the kingdom?”

“For the kingdom, not a vain peer trying to steal someone’s affections.” His feet slowed, his body tensing. Whatever emotion he might have felt was struck away by sheer force of will. “In any case, it would seem that Immortal Rose might only require a fairy flower.”