Page 71 of Immortal Rose

“That only creates a different problem,” I reminded him, “seeing as many such flowers have gone extinct without the fairies to cultivate them.”

“I suppose that’s bound to happen when a new faith arrives and deems one a demon,” Foxcourt said.

“The attempted massacre by the new mortal King rather decided it for them,” I agreed. “Thankfully our society has moved on to merely imprisoning their descendants for something entirely outside of their control.”

Foxcourt’s hand closed around a volume on the nearest shelf, and he yanked it out with a touch too much force. “Indeed.”

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and I was too tired to play out the same argument between us again. Instead, I gestured to the portrait on the wall in front of me.

“Speaking of murderous expressions,” I began, “I can barely focus with you and Reddy glaring down at me. You look as if you want nothing more than to strangle each other—was that the case, or did you simply irritate the artist?”

“Both.”

I risked a glance toward Foxcourt, only to find he was already watching me. That attention was like nothing I’d ever known, complete in a way that made me too aware of myself, of the way a glimmer of heat chased the chill over my skin.

The painting depicted the two young men, their faces fuller versions of themselves, seated on either side of the settee in this very room. Both wore their haughty disdain as confidently as their silk waistcoats.

“We were not fond of each other,” Foxcourt clarified, returning to his pointless perusal of the books. “More specifically, it was utter loathing broken up only by brief periods of muted malice, usually through peace treaties brokered by Mrs. Silver.”

I let out a startled laugh. “Surely you jest.”

“Not in the slightest,” he said, his mouth twisting with amusement. “I resented him for dividing my uncle’s attention, and he resented me for having gotten a head start on learning my uncle’s unusual work.”

“So,” I began, considering the portrait again, “in a word, you were competitive. Why didn’t your uncle put a stop to it?”

“Why would he?” Foxcourt asked, shrugging. “He always believed two blades sharpened each other.”

“But clearly something did change between the two of you—or is all the brotherly ribbing merely an act?”

“It’s not an act,” he said, idly swapping the position of two books. “It changed our second year at Rexford, owing to the Night We Do Not Speak Of.”

I laughed again, only to realize he was serious. “What happened?”

“The only decree of the Night We Do Not Speak Of,” Foxcourt said, without a hint of remorse in his smile, “is that we do not speak of it.”

With a roll of the eyes, I pointedly returned to the Treasury. The time was beginning to catch up to me, and I wanted to compile the list of additional oils I’d need to begin work in the morning. It would give me an excuse to return to my flat for my oils and Mama’s necklace—or write to Oliver, asking him to retrieve them for me.

The thought of Oliver was a hard kick of guilt to the chest. God, I hadn’t even told him I’d been released from Fairgate. For all he knew, I was still locked in my cell.

“Is it necessary to have this many volumes and field guides on plants?” Foxcourt grumbled.

“If his garden is any indication, yes,” I said. “Though I suppose they were also useful in his—how did you put it? His unusual work?”

Foxcourt scoffed. “Such as sending coded messages through the language of flowers?”

“Maybe,” I said slowly, seizing the opportunity as it presented itself. “But there are any number of poisonous plants he could have deployed as a means to an end.” My fingers wove together tightly in my lap. I fought to keep my voice neutral. “Nightshade, for example.”

My heart seized in the beat of silence that followed, but he didn’t take the bait. Of course not.

“My uncle didn’t like poisons, perfume or otherwise,” Foxcourt said slowly. “He always felt that if you were going to take a man’s life, it was important to leave no doubt in his mind who had stolen his last breath.”

And yet he had died of one. The irony was cruel, but when was it not?

“Not all poisonous plants are deadly,” I pointed out. “There are a number of them that simply cause rashes. Others, like lily of the valley, can cause upset stomach and vomiting if consumed.”

I paused, remembering suddenly that I was meant to be practicing a more ladylike sensibility.

Foxcourt chuckled softly. “Is that why you worked for a florist? To learn how to poison your enemies and get away with it? If so, I know of someone who might be able to help you with that.”