Page 99 of Immortal Rose

“Dobbin?” I echoed. The name tickled my memory, but it was a moment before I recalled why. “Spelt with two b’s and an i?”

The list in Mama’s journal, of the shops and vendors she had purchased oils from in the past. Or had it been mentioned elsewhere, with one of the formulations? Damn it all, I’d read it enough times. Why couldn’t I remember?

He set his empty glass down. “You know of a Dobbin?”

“I might,” I said. “I’d need to check my mother’s journal to be sure. We’ll . . . we’ll need to go to my boardinghouse to retrieve it.”

A few days ago, the thought of Foxcourt in my home would have filled me with revulsion, if it had crossed my mind at all. The thought of bringing anyone there did. And so I hadn’t. I had never wanted to bare that part of myself to anyone.

Foxcourt’s cool, assessing gaze would see it all: the way I lived, my oils, how very few possessions I had to my name, and no doubt countless other little tells about myself.

Why—why—then did it feel safe to do so?

“All right,” he agreed. His eyes drifted up to the roof, where the passing storm was drumming in time to the music. “But perhaps . . . after the rain?”

“No sense in drowning ourselves,” I concurred, reluctant to surrender the warmth in my chest to the damp night air. Besides, a summer storm tired itself out in minutes, not hours. We could wait a few moments more, especially now that we had a lead on the nectar.

It was worth it to see Foxcourt like this—at ease, almost leisurely. I wouldn’t have believed the uptight toff capable of relaxing, if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes. The change was so remarkable, it felt as if he were someone else entirely.

Or maybe that was only a product of my earlier conversation with Reddy, who had given me a different lens to see him through.

“Reddy thinks that the duke’s actions are to punish you for surviving,” I said softly, “for denying him what he desires.”

Foxcourt’s lips compressed. “Reddy needs to keep his thoughts to himself.”

“Do you agree with him?” I asked.

“Not entirely,” Foxcourt said. “I don’t think it’s as simple as him resenting my existence, because by all accounts, he’s been like this since he was a child. His key has always been a need to be admired as superior to all others. It would be ridiculous and far less frightening if he possessed empathy.”

“His key?” Something in the way he had said it had nudged at my curiosity.

Foxcourt had been rubbing his thumb along the edge of the empty glass, slowly teasing out unwelcome images in my mind of where else he might draw those lazy circles. At that, he paused, licking at his lips, as if inwardly repeating the words he’d spoken back to himself.

I leaned over the table, whispering playfully, “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I know,” he said, softly. “It’s only that you’ll hate it.”

“Well, now you simply must tell me,” I said. “I find I need a new reason to hate you.”

“Because you’ve forgiven me of the first?” he asked. It might have been the drink softening the edges of my thought, but I could have sworn he sounded almost . . . hopeful.

“No, but you are chipping away at my resolve there,” I admitted.

He didn’t smile, as I might have expected—might have hoped, because I found I rather liked that smile when it was unguarded.

No more rum, I ordered myself. Ever. Ever.

Foxcourt braced his arms on the table and leaned forward, until our faces were mere inches apart, and I could see the slivers of blue in his eyes.

“Every person I encounter is like a letter written in code, waiting to be deciphered,” he said. “Most code breaking involves looking for a pattern or a key that unlocks the contents in their entirety. People are very much the same. In time, they learn how to disguise their pain and longings, but there’s always something that explains why they are the way they are—some event or belief. Once you find it, you can often predict how they’ll respond to any situation.”

Forgoing manners entirely, I set my elbow on the table, resting my chin on my palm as I studied him, disarmed by the wary hope in his face as he drew in a breath and held it, waiting to see if I would understand.

Wanting me to.

“I told you that you’d hate it,” he said, lowering his dark, spiky lashes.

“No,” I countered. “I see the truth of it. I was thinking it’s similar to what I think of as a person’s essence—there’s often something in that scent that reveals something deeper about them. It’s usually only an impression, though, and not especially helpful.”