Page 73 of Immortal Rose

My thumb stilled where it had been stroking the wreath of roses around the lens. “No one.”

The older the lie, the easier it slipped off the tongue. I turned the pages of the Treasury again, wishing I could vanish into them. A flicker of temper stirred. Was it not enough that he knew about my vision? Did he have to have this, too?

“You have a scar just beneath it,” Foxcourt pressed, “and your vision in your other eye seems adequate.”

The next page fell open.

“Who was it?” Foxcourt demanded.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I answered, sitting back against my chair. I quickly scanned the page, defeat rising in me like a spring tide.

He looked infuriated. “Of course it matters—”

“No,” I interrupted. “It doesn’t. The man is dead, and we have a far bigger problem.”

Foxcourt went still. Some part of him, I think, already knew.

“‘The magic of Immortal Rose must be derived from the divine nectar of the flowering Afallach tree,’” I read, “‘for there is no other with its capacity to cure the deadly kiss of poison and the cruel sting of venom. It grows in the garden of the Summer Queen in the eternal lands and must be stolen, for she jealously guards it and will accept no price.’”

Foxcourt rubbed a hand over his mouth, saying nothing. His eyes were wary. Guarded.

“I’m telling you the truth,” I insisted.

My hold on the quizzing glass relaxed as Foxcourt’s expression turned rueful.

“No, I was only thinking,” he said, “it would be something as impossible as a quest to a mythical land.”

He believes me. Some part of me had expected it would be a fight, as everything else was between us.

“There might be an oil of it in the archive,” Foxcourt pointed out. “Rosebourne seemed to believe beyond a shadow of a doubt he’d be able to make it.”

“Then let’s hope so,” I said, “because otherwise, there’s a single alternative left to us.”

Whether it was that small show of faith or my desperation to hold on to the dream of the Rosebourne inheritance, I knew I had to read the final line inscribed in a more recent hand.

“‘If the nectar cannot be retrieved, there is but one terrible bargain to be made,’” I said, my voice scarcely a whisper. “‘For the price of saving a life can only be the loss of another of equal worth.’”

Chapter Sixteen

It took Hugh the lengths of two streets to realize he was being followed, and a third to do something about it.

There was a subtle art to tailing someone, of rendering yourself so completely inconspicuous, you ceased to be anything other than a shadow in the periphery. It was nearly impossible to avoid triggering a person’s primal instinct that they were being hunted; the trick of it was to make them doubt their own mind.

Like a fine blade, the skill had to be sharpened slowly, over time. It had taken Hugh years of practice to become halfway decent at it, enough that his uncle and Reddy wouldn’t immediately mark him. His unusual height had made the challenge that much more frustrating, until he’d learned how to use that to his advantage, too.

His pursuer was doing little to hide the scuff of their light steps. Hugh strained his ears, judging the closing distance between them by the sound of their flapping cloak.

Amateur. Glenmoor must be getting desperate, to hire a street thug to do his despicable business. Good.

Hugh fought a smirk as he left the tony streets of Feygrove Square and slithered into the curving crescent lanes of Old Temple.

The borough had risen from the ashes of a rather suspicious fire and been reborn with brick terraced homes built by new-money merchants. Though the title for the city’s worst slum had been unceremoniously passed to the Brickbats, this area had once been known as the Thieves’ Den, owing to the alleyways and blind turns created by the unusual arrangement of streets radiating from the ruins of the temple to the fairy sun god Solarius. It was to his advantage now.

The moon was in its waning phase but still too bright for his liking. Slowly, subtly, Hugh increased his speed to lengthen the gap between him and his pursuer. He stepped right into the first alley and flattened his back against the sheltering curve of the wall. Flicking his right hand, he unsheathed the knife hidden in the grip of his walking stick and palmed it.

The steps hurried toward him—closer—closer still—

His blood was hot, his mind narrowed on that single instinct to survive. He played through all the scenarios: how the man might grab him, how he would shift his strategy if the man had a gun, the soft points on the assailant’s body unprotected by the thick cloak.