Page 32 of Immortal Rose

Uncle? But that meant . . .

I took an unconscious step back, colliding with Foxcourt.

Straggly wisps of white hair draped over the pillow, and a long, braided beard stretched down over the prone man’s chest, resting in the concave hollow of his belly. Despite the skeletal quality of his hands, a large signet ring stubbornly drooped toward the mattress on his right little finger. The yellow diamond, nearly the size of a grape, winked at me in the flickering light. Kingmaker. The mark of his bloodline’s birthright to rule, worn by every king to follow in his stead.

I jumped as the man cracked open a rheumy, contemptuous eye.

“Well, come in, girl, and shut the fucking door behind you,” the King of Albion croaked. “You’re letting all the warm air out.”

Chapter Seven

One thinks, after years of mentally rehearsing any number of impassioned speeches about the equal rights of all men, one might be prepared to seize the moment when the opportunity finally presented itself to say such things. To say anything, really, other than a soft, stupid “Oh.”

Foxcourt was the one to shut the door, leaving me standing there like a fool, my heart beating out a terrible rhythm in my chest.

King Alfred III, sovereign ruler of Albion and the greater isles, supreme defender of the faith, lay before me, withered to a husk of a man. And the god-awful reek of him. His essence was one of metallic pride, sweet wine, velvet, gold, and something unusually bright—bergamot and mint, warmed with the spice of ginger—but there was only the faintest hint of it beneath the stench of decay and his notoriously rotten teeth.

Foxcourt was suddenly beside me again, his eyes meeting Eleanor’s for the briefest moment before executing another bow. I hated myself for it, but I bobbed a quick curtsy out of self-preservation.

“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” Foxcourt began, and there, for a moment, was a triumphant glimmer in his eyes. “May I present Viola Lockwood?”

The King feebly struggled to sit up against the swell of pillows. “Took your time with it, Foxcourt. Hoping I’d die in the interim, were you?”

“Uncle,” Eleanor admonished gently. Foxcourt started toward the bed, only to be called off by a discreet wave of her hand.

“Ah, Elly,” the King wheezed, almost chastened, “it’s only this infernal sickness that’s making me so bad-tempered.”

By the expressions on Foxcourt’s and Eleanor’s faces, that did not seem likely, especially when weighed against the many, many satirical cartoons depicting him as a toad wearing an ermine cloak and crown.

To my utter amazement, the heir to the throne—not a servant—moved to assist the King, propping his frail body up with the addition of two more pillows. As much as I wanted to despise him, the sight of the King made my stomach clench with unwelcome pity.

I cast another look around the room, already suspecting the truth of it. We were alone, in a servants’ quarter in some forgotten hall of a sprawling palace. Not even a guard stood at the door. There was only us and Eleanor, who now dabbed at her uncle’s brow with a tenderness the old nob almost certainly did not deserve.

No one was meant to know the King was here—that he was in this condition, where only a month ago he’d been in robust enough health to launch a new warship on the coast.

“You’re certain you’ve plucked the right girl out of Fairgate, Fox?” the King began, sweeping a scornful look over me. “Would’ve expected Rosebourne’s leavings to be a bit sharper.”

Outrage curled like flames in my belly. Leavings. What a perfect encapsulation of what we had been to William Rosebourne. Discarded waste.

I drew in a breath, but Foxcourt was quicker, smoother, in his reply. “Believe me, Your Majesty, she’s sharp enough to flay a man.”

Eleanor’s gaze found his again, disapproving. I was both surprised and amused to find that look was enough to wear away some of Foxcourt’s usual sardonic polish as he added, far more mildly, “This is her. I’m certain of it.”

In different circumstances, I would have laughed at the set-down the sixteen-year-old girl had given a lord over a decade her senior, but there was nothing funny about any of this.

A drop of perspiration slipped down my spine as the heat of the room grew intolerable, stewing the stench of illness. I regretted that I hadn’t thought to ask for a handkerchief before we’d left Foxcourt House—anything to dull the poisonous scent of yarrow and angelica swamping the boiling air.

If we didn’t get on with it, I’d sweat through my dress or cast up my accounts all over His Majesty.

“Sharp enough, certainly, to understand I have been brought here to fulfill a request,” I said at last, summoning every diction lesson Mama had drilled into me until there wasn’t a trace of east city left in my accent. I wouldn’t give those present another reason to judge me if I could help it. “I would very much like to hear how I may be of assistance to you, Your Majesty.”

“A proper miss, are you?” The King’s dark eyes narrowed. “I thought you said she’d been knocking about the rookery, Fox.”

“Uncle,” Eleanor interjected with that same serene countenance, “the hour is late and you need your rest. Shall I explain the situation to Miss Lockwood on your behalf? I know how tiresome you find such details.”

The King’s expression turned petulant. “I can—” The words choked off with wet hacking coughs. Blood splattered from the King’s lips onto the coverlet—rancid black blood.

Foxcourt pushed off the wall he’d leaned against, alarmed. I drew back another step, but Eleanor only rushed forward again. In her hand was a silver perfume flacon, and she moved quickly to pull out its stopper and douse one of a number of folded handkerchiefs on the bedside table with it.