Page 84 of Immortal Rose

I shifted, my remorse as powerful as the scent of the benzoin oil escaping the case at his feet. I owed him so very much for this—in coin and in goodwill. Though not rare, the oil had traveled across the world to arrive on Albion’s shores, and the price per ounce reflected its journey from the Far East. I trusted only Oliver’s superior nose when it came to selecting batches of oils I couldn’t make myself.

“Thank you for gathering all of this,” I told him. “I’ll reimburse you, of course.”

“Is it for one of your, ah”—Oliver paused, cutting a quick glance at Foxcourt—“more unusual blends?”

“One of her magic perfumes, yes,” Foxcourt said impatiently. “How curious you should know about it.”

His piercing gaze flicked over to mine, triumphant, as if he’d proven something to the both of us. I gave him an even look in return, the stabbing behind my eye now throbbing in time with my pulse. I gritted my teeth.

“The King has been generous with his pardon because the perfume is for an important client,” I told Oliver carefully.

Even if Foxcourt had allowed it, I wouldn’t have told him the truth. I couldn’t involve him any further in this.

“I see,” Oliver said carefully. “I didn’t recognize the combination of oils from any of the perfumes in your mother’s journal. It’s something else, then?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I said, then steered us onto safer ground, where I wouldn’t need to lie to him. “Were you able to find levant rose absolute of good quality?”

“I thought you already had a bottle of rose oil,” Foxcourt said.

“Levant roses and centifolia roses are completely different,” I told him, irritated by the implication of his words, “and this perfume calls for both. Each variety has a unique scent—you might discover this yourself if your nose wasn’t constantly thrust into other people’s business.”

Oliver let out a shocked, strangled laugh, his eyes darting to mine nervously at the utter disrespect. I gritted my teeth at Foxcourt’s sly smile; all I’d done was entertain him and shock the one gentle soul I’d ever want to be a true lady for.

Hell’s tits—I’d remember my manners once my head ceased to feel like a rotten melon on the verge of bursting open.

“The rose is the queen of all flowers,” Oliver offered awkwardly. “There are as many variations as there are women in the world, all beautiful and beguiling in their own way.” He returned his focus to me. “Is the levant rose in the heart notes of the perfume?”

The House of Rosebourne had developed and taught a new structure of perfume based on how quickly the layers of notes faded: the top notes, the heart notes that were revealed once the initial impression had faded, and the base notes, which were often heavier scents that carried longer on the skin and added depth to the perfume.

“Yes, it’s rather interesting,” I told him, grateful to finally have someone to talk to about this. “Looking at the notes, it feels as though it’s trying to capture a sort of mythic accord—the fantasy of a golden, divine rose. The essence of Venia herself.”

Oliver leaned in, his eyes widening. “I suppose that’s why you asked for jasmine and orange blossom. I was surprised there’d be two such animalic notes, but it follows if the aim is to embody the dual aspect of the fairy goddess of love and healing.”

My smile turned genuine. I knew he would understand. “There’s actually very little—”

“Animalic?” Foxcourt interrupted. “What does that mean in this context?”

And with that, the small rush of enjoyment was gone, and my patience was at its end. I turned slowly to him, my head throbbing with each small movement.

“Carnal,” I said. “Is that clear enough for you, my lord? Many white flowers carry an unusual note, one variously described as the essence of filth, decay, and the scent of lovers.”

It was one reason my white floral perfumes had found a home in several brothels through Arabella’s connections. There was something wonderfully, terribly alive about that note within the flowers’ otherwise graceful offerings. The contrast between the beauty and the more indecent element asked the scenter to return to the fragrance again and again to understand its draw.

Mama had always said it was the truth of life in a drop of oil. A pristine flower was only so a moment before it began to fade. To seek to understand the duality of that scent was to confront the mystery of our own mortality. Most perfumes were born of death—flowers were destroyed to make the necessary oils and animals killed for their musk. It was cruel, but truthful. The most remarkable perfumes brought together the purity of nature and man’s darker and, yes, carnal nature.

Foxcourt stared at me, saying nothing.

“Oliver,” I said, remembering the other point I’d had in meeting him. “I’m wondering if you know of anyone who might have or be able to procure oils made from fairy flowers and plants. Perhaps one of the pawnbrokers you’ve become acquainted with has a collection they don’t advertise to their typical customers?”

Oliver blinked. “Goodness. One hears rumors, of course . . . Is there something in particular you need?”

Foxcourt opened his mouth to interject, but I wasn’t a fool. I trusted Oliver, but that trust didn’t extend to every soul alive he did business with.

“An assortment, such as . . .” I racked my memory for some of the oils I’d seen listed in the Treasury. If word of this somehow got back to Glenmoor, he wouldn’t know exactly which we needed. “. . . sweetfeather . . . Queen’s Delight . . . and the nectar of the Afallach tree.”

Perhaps the heat had made him momentarily forget himself, but I could have sworn Foxcourt’s lips curled in a smile.

Oliver repeated the names to himself. “Where should I send word if I find them?”