Page 80 of Immortal Rose

“You seem, dare I say, disappointed to have to send a missive to this Oliver Radcliffe,” came his companion’s sly observation.

Bloody Reddy.

Hugh’s jaw set. “I only care about the sort of people I invite to my home, and the less people who know of her work, the better.”

“Could we not just take what she needs from here?” Reddy asked as they reached the shelves of raw oils.

“She claims only he knows ‘the particular balance of perfumer’s alcohol I need,’ among other things,” Hugh said. “I suppose I’ve no argument if it hurries the perfume along.”

Reddy paused beside the shelf to his left, clucking his tongue. “No chance of that now.”

Hugh’s lungs seized as he circled around to Reddy, exasperation writhing in him as he spotted the label Nectar of the Afallach Tree and the empty space above it. “Damn it all . . .”

Reddy drew the candle closer. “Yes, agreed, but look—look at the dust.”

The shelf was caked with a thick layer of it, save for a perfect, small circle where the bottle had sat. It had been there. Very recently.

“Maybe he moved it to a workshop to make the perfume?” Reddy suggested.

There was a chance of that, of course, however unlikely. The image of the thief flashed in Hugh’s mind, only for him to dismiss that in short order, too. Now, as he gazed around the chamber, he looked past what was there and sought what wasn’t.

“A number of oil bottles are missing,” Hugh said, taking quick stock of them. “Heatherbore, moonflower, silverbranch, and sweetfeather . . .” All fairy flowers or herbs. “They might have been used up, or . . .”

“Traded or sold?” Reddy suggested, catching the drift of his thoughts. “But why?”

Why, indeed? Hugh could think of only one thing that might convince the old man to part with such valuable oils, and recently. “Rosebourne was looking for her.”

“Who?” Reddy asked, blinking. “Lockwood?”

Hugh nodded. “That’s what he wanted in exchange for making Immortal Rose—for me to find her. He might have asked someone else first, before he knew he needed the nectar for the King.”

And so, the question became: Who had it now? And what would it take to get it back?

They returned up the steps into the study. It was more of a relief than he cared to admit, working alongside Reddy again. His uncle had trained them both well enough that Hugh didn’t need to ask the other man to search the desk for records or recent correspondence they might have missed earlier. Reddy simply did, humming to himself as he leisurely gathered a pile.

“Reddy,” he said suddenly.

His friend glanced up from his work. “Yes?”

God, he would live to regret this. He knew he would. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. It had been bothering him all day, like an itch he couldn’t reach. He knew a great deal of cant—well, a passable amount. Enough for disguises. He couldn’t have a gap in his knowledge.

“What,” Hugh began, “is the difference between a nib and a nob?”

Reddy stared at him a moment, then it dawned on him. His lips compressed as he smothered a laugh. “You know, Fox, I think it’ll be good for you to live with a bit of mystery.”

“I’ll find out,” Hugh groused. “Eventually.”

Reddy only hummed an annoying little hum, and Hugh regretted not foisting a second orphan on his conscience and household.

But on the subject of orphans . . .

“There’s another matter I’ve been meaning to ask you about,” Hugh began.

“I do think all that black makes you look more sallow than mysterious, yes,” Reddy said.

Hugh was tempted to point out the scandal sheets Reddy adored would beg to differ. “Have you heard anything about so-called snatchers in the Brickbats?”

Reddy canted his head to the side. “No, but I absolutely do not like the sound of that. Did you ask Slip and Sneak?”