Page 149 of Immortal Rose

“Have I mentioned,” Fleming began, as if this all were very normal, “that I saw four fox kits in the garden today?”

That was met with a chorus of excitement. The mood of the table lifted as surely as if someone had scooped us all out of a puddle.

“Four!” Willie exclaimed, punching his brother’s shoulder. “I told you it’d be a lucky year!”

As I ate my mutton and sipped at my wine, the others discussed what the names ought to be, gently ribbing one another’s choices and suggesting more and more ridiculous ones to Fleming’s chagrin.

I marveled at it—the ease among them, the obvious pleasure they took in one another’s company, the way they saw to filling each other’s plates as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The longing that filled me was sweeter than any fairy wine. This—this is what love, what a feeling of safety, could do for the soul.

As the words and laughter flowed, notes arranged themselves in my mind, layering lovingly: an accord of freshly baked bread, warm candle wax, rosemary, and a hint of wild rose.

The Fox Den, I would call it.

“Daisy if there’s a girl,” Tommy argued. “Or Dahlia.”

“Ombeline,” Mrs. Silver insisted, spelling it out with her fingers for Tommy, who promptly made a horrified face. “It is a good, strong name—”

The sound of footsteps on the garden path brought the conversation to a swift halt.

“That must be the evening papers,” Willie said, rising to get the door.

But as it opened, I knew at once it was not.

My chair screeched as I pushed away from the table, my pulse leaping up with me. An older woman stood in the doorway, clutching a parcel. Her face was scrubbed clean, and her graying hair had been scraped back into a neat twist, revealing a rather lovely bone structure. The chocolate-brown dress she wore was simple but well made. If it hadn’t been for her essence, I might not have recognized her at all.

Her eyes fell on me and widened.

“My li’l ruby!” Arabella gasped out, the box falling from her hands. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost. “My sweetling!”

“I’ll just . . . set this aside, shall I?” Willie looked between us, bending to pick up the box. There was a new wariness there, one shared by Tommy, who also came to my side.

Arabella burst into tears as she threw her arms around my shoulders, petting my hair, clucking over me as she’d done countless times despite all my resistance.

“Ye look so fine in yer pretty dress,” Arabella wept. “I almost didna recognize ye. I fretted myself to death over ye, worried ye might’ve been for the ’Gate, but then there were the police who came around Riverside asking questions about ye and where ye live.” She looked suddenly fretful. “I told ’em ye were for Caledonia, hoping to throw the hounds off ye scent. Did I do wrong?”

“No, of course not,” I said. It was only a shame it hadn’t helped. “Thank you.”

“Madam,” Fleming began, rising. “Do you realize who—”

Mrs. Silver gripped his arm, forcing him back down into the chair. “Won’t you introduce us to your delightful friend, ma chère?”

“Everyone,” I said, “this is Arabella—she and I used to share a table at the Midnight Market.” At their murmured greeting I turned back to her. “I’ve been worried about you—what are you doing here?”

“I’ve new work now, assisting Mrs. Turner at ’er”—she paused, concentrating on the pronunciation—“haberdashery. She has me make deliveries to the clients. No more Midnights for me.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “But how in the name of God did you come by the work?”

“Oh, ’twas the most peculiar thing,” Arabella said in a hushed tone. “A few nights after the raid, I went to the streets to see if any of the girls there ’ad ’eard tidings of ye. I was out with the others, and a man approached us with one of the vagrants we all know well and trust—Bobby Smith? I think I’d told ye of ’im.”

I had no memory of it, but I nodded, resisting the urge to hurry her on. Arabella loved nothing more than telling a story of a dozen words in a few thousand.

“Anyway, this gent—thought a fight might break out ’mongst the girls, there was such a clamor to ’ook ’im, ’andsome and tall as ’e was. Rare to see one of that sort, most nights you haveta open yer legs and get on with it—”

“Madam,” Fleming cut in, aghast. Willie hid his laugh in his fist as he and Tommy finally returned to their seats.

“But ’e said there was other work for me, if I wanted it. Then the girls asked if the same could be said for them, and he got real quiet like, did the ’oly wheel, and said yes. Some of the girls, they were afraid, see—yer just as likely to get a poke from a knife as a poke from a co—”

Fleming’s already shrill voice leapt a full octave. “Madam!”