Page 88 of Immortal Rose

I edged closer to the door, hugging my slippers to my chest. The house seemed to shiver as the rich velvet of his tone passed through it.

He had a beautiful speaking voice; it stood to reason that his singing voice might be as well. And it was—as clear as a midsummer sky, with all the purity of a church bell. It was a voice for God, as the old priest in the Brickbats would have said, rising heavenward, sweeter for the fact it had been secret. It was a voice I would have followed blindly off a cliff’s edge, lured only by its sweet promise.

Foxcourt shifted then, dropping one of his knees to the tile. I leaned forward, careful not to disturb the door. At the sight of him feeding Brigadier another scoop of food from his hand, I had to bite my tongue to keep my laughter from escaping.

The tale is one of mortal woe,

of bargains betrayed long ago.

Man must not heed the world that beckons,

for fate is for fairies and love is for legends . . .

“. . . are you quite finished now?”

Brigadier’s tail swished madly as she devoured the last few morsels of meat he’d offered her. I pressed my fingertips to my lips, helpless to stop the smile there. A few more verses, and I was ashamed to admit he might have had me eating from the palm of his hand as well.

“Whether or not you finish is entirely up to you,” Foxcourt told her sternly, rising from his haunches to lean against the staff’s table. A scattering of candles outlined his profile in gold. “But I’d rather not sing about a man who drowns himself after a fairy strangles his love, if it’s all the same to you.”

Brigadier let out a soft whine.

Foxcourt returned it with a stern look.

I was genuinely unsure who would triumph in the battle of wills.

“I will let you sleep in my bed tonight—and only tonight—if you finish eating the rest of this,” Foxcourt said at last.

The dog launched herself at the bowl, loudly devouring the remainder of its contents like a slobbering goblin. My stomach growled in response, but even that noise was lost to the wet inhalation of food.

I stifled a laugh as I bent to put my slippers back on. It would have been delicious to have barged in then, to let Foxcourt know without a shadow of a doubt I’d heard it all. But the thought of Mama’s portrait stilled my hand and my tongue. I could show him mercy.

For now.

I would have to be satisfied with knowing I’d stolen a secret from a master of them. But the longer I stood there, the harder it became to fully vanquish the hope that he might sing a few more lines. The thought of never hearing his lilting voice again sent an odd surge of panic through me, as if mourning something that should never have been mine to begin with.

I gave him the gift of a few moments of ambiguity over whether I had heard him. Counting to thirty in my head, I drew in a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Foxcourt didn’t startle—of course not—but I knew I’d managed to catch him by surprise. It was all in the way he straightened, his hand instinctively smoothing back the waves of his dark hair. He had the beginning of a night beard, making him look disarmingly roguish in the low light. The appraising glance he swept over me made my toes curl in my slippers.

“You should be asleep,” he said at last.

“As should you,” I said. Eleven o’clock was only the beginning of a night’s festivities for most toffs, but Foxcourt wasn’t dressed for his member’s club or a fete.

I peered at him through the darkness. I couldn’t begin to guess what he was dressed for. He wore a shirt dyed black, long black trousers, a black silk cowl around his neck, and boots with such a soft sole they made nary a whisper of sound as he came toward me.

“And you are”—he stopped before me, his throat working to muster the word—“well?”

With a snort of irritation, Brigadier trotted between us, her nose turned up like a duchess. On her way, no doubt, to warm Foxcourt’s bed.

“Vi—Lockwood?”

I started, realizing I’d never answered him. “Yes,” I said. “I’m well now. I . . . apologize if I was curt earlier.”

There. I’d said it.

His lips twitched. “I deserved a rap on the knuckles. The heat put me in an abominable mood. I take it the effects were somewhat worse for you. Was it the smell?”

I nodded. “It brought on a megrim.”