Page 82 of Immortal Rose

“I believe that is considered stealing in most civilized countries,” I said pointedly.

A droplet of sweat slid down to kiss the curve of his faint smile. “They were requisitioned in the name of His Majesty the King.”

“I’m not sure why Rosebourne would sell such a rare, valuable oil,” I said, stifling an unwelcome smile. “It seems more likely he used the last of it.”

“That could be,” Foxcourt conceded. “There was nothing about the oil in the ledgers and other records we took yesterday afternoon. I’ve already made some inquiries.”

There was still a chance then, however small, that the second, unfathomable option to infuse Immortal Rose with magic would not come to pass.

“What about the Midnight Market?” Foxcourt asked suddenly. “Are there any vendors there who might be able to procure it?”

“No,” I said. “There were certainly some fairy relics being sold there, but all the herbalists claiming to have fairy flowers were frauds.” And the next market wouldn’t be for another two weeks.

“I see,” he said.

“I may have some names,” I said cagily. All of which were listed at the back of Mama’s journal. “But I’ll ask Oliver first. He’s in and out of markets, pawnshops, and florists to source rare oils and medicines for his father’s apothecaries.”

My stomach heaved as the carriage slowed and lurched forward again, battling through the congested streets. The stench of humanity and horse sweat festered in my nose.

“Who is Oliver Radcliffe to you?”

I startled at the question. Foxcourt seemed pensive as he lowered the letter into his lap, as if he’d confused himself by asking.

“Oliver is a trusted friend,” I said. “As I told you.”

“Oliver, is it?” Foxcourt interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut glass, and just as sardonic. “Rather familiar, don’t you think?”

“He is a friend. One I’d hoped might simply deliver the supplies to Foxcourt House.” I dabbed at my face with a handkerchief. “Why do we have to engage in this subterfuge?”

“Because Glenmoor has police watching the house to report on all comings and goings from it,” Foxcourt said, plucking up a letter from the stack beside him and making a show of returning his attention to it. “And because I do not invite strangers to my home.”

“I am a stranger,” I reminded him.

“You are the exception,” he said curtly. “To my every rule.”

My lips parted. I drew in a sharp breath and regretted it. We were passing through a street of butchers and tanners.

“Oliver is as trustworthy as they come,” I told him. “If you could show him a measure of respect, I would appreciate it.”

His eyes flashed. “Do you ever refer to him as Mr. Radcliffe?”

“In polite company, yes,” I said, feeling my temper prickle dangerously at his implication. “But he has been my friend for years. Does that not grant me the privilege of using his given name?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, mocking. “Your dearest friend.”

The words knocked me back against my seat. For a moment, I forgot even the vile stenches percolating around us.

The letter had crimped under the force of his grip. He appeared to be reading, though his eyes were fixed on the very center of the page.

“Are you . . . jealous?” I asked in disbelief.

He turned the letter over with enough force to tear the page, fuming, “You flatter yourself to think so.”

That was not a no, was it? I looked at him in astonishment.

“What a mood you’re in this morning,” I said. “You’re acting like a petulant child.”

“Petulant child!” He tossed down the letter, as if to call me out.