Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Alexandra Bracken’s new release: IMMORTAL ROSE
From Alexandra Bracken, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Lore, comes a stunningly original adult fantasy, the first in a duology. Set in a sumptuous world ruled by magical perfume, this achingly romantic, slow-burn love story will shatter your heart and leave you breathless.
Members of the ancient Rosebourne family have a strange gift born of a fairy ancestor: the ability to infuse fragrance with magic capable of manipulating mind, body, and emotion.
When a shocking murder leaves the kingdom of Albion vulnerable to a coup, royal spymaster Hugh Thornton seeks the one person who can help: Viola Lockwood, the last living Rosebourne and secret heir to a fraught legacy.
Livid at the silver-eyed aristocrat who had her thrown in jail to force her compliance, Viola nevertheless comes to an agreement with him. In exchange for crafting Immortal Rose, the singular perfume capable of saving Albion, illegitimate Viola can seize the life—and fortune—that should have been hers.
As Hugh and Viola race to find the perfume’s lost fairy ingredient, hidden deep in Albion’s dark underbelly, neither can deny the scorching attraction building between them—especially as the attempts on Viola’s life grow increasingly brazen.
But a terrible truth lurks in the heart notes of their kingdom—and while every bargain has a cost, Immortal Rose may demand more than Hugh and Viola can ever pay.
Get lost in the enchanting pages of the first book in the Immortal Rose series!
Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from IMMORTAL ROSE
If moonlight had a scent, it would surely be something like this: Airy white flowers—jasmine, night-blooming and lush, or even luminous tuberose. The cool, powdery kiss of orris, so very different from the golden warmth of the sun. And . . . perhaps the faintest hint of incense, for when the moon had gazed down upon a world ancient and wild.
Now that the moon’s face had risen above the church steeple looming behind us, the dark air had turned into a silver satin ribbon and the rain-slick cobblestones into lovely dark pearls. On most nights, the bright, ethereal glow of a full moon was a gift.
But to a Midnight Market, it was a betrayal.
“Three silvers!” the man scoffed, slamming the small bottle back
down.
The plank we’d balanced over two barrels wobbled precariously, the
whole endeavor on the verge of collapse. Beside me, Arabella sucked in
a sharp breath as the perfume flacons chattered against one another
like teeth.
“Three silvers,” I confirmed. One for the cost of the bottle, another
to pay back Oliver for the lavender oil, and the third for the seat on the
mail coach that would carry me far, far away from here.
“Do I look like a goosecap to you?” he demanded, his face flushing
beneath his hood.
No, I thought, keeping that bland smile etched onto my face. But you,
sir, reek of solicitor.
While he’d donned the simple, coarse clothing of a common tradesman, his essence gave away the game. I’d taken it all in with a single breath: the dry woodiness of parchment, wig powder, ink, and a certain pride that carried a metallic tang not unlike the heavy pouch of coins hidden beneath his cloak. He lived near the lilac-draped homes of the storied Feygrove Square, but not within it.
So, not a toff—even the second son of a lord wouldn’t survive the
shame of employment—but a man who aspired to join the ranks of
the Patricians all the same.
And, God, one of his yellow teeth was rotting at the root. If it wasn’t
giving him something to complain about, it would soon. In the meantime,
time, the soul-curdling stink of it, braided into the burnt parchment
scent of his growing annoyance, was a test to my stomach’s fortitude.
“Of course not, sir,” I told him, straining to find that tone that made
men believe they’d won your fancy. “But I must sell my wares if I’m to
eat. I know you understand this, being a man of trade yourself—that
every coin must be precious to you.”
“Not so precious,” the man said quickly, unable to help himself. As
always, the newer the money, the more desperate they were to flash its
shine.
Arabella subtly knocked a hand against my leg, stifling a laugh with
a cough.
“Chest complaint,” she explained when he cut her a suspicious look.
“Mayhaps yer in need of something splendid as well, being a man of
means and all? Found this in the River Temese just this week past. A
right treasure it is.”
She tapped a gnarled finger on a handsome new addition to her offerings:
ferings: a silver card case. After a moment’s hesitation, the man took
it, holding it up to the pale moonlight for closer inspection. I fought a
grimace as he turned it over, revealing the crest engraved there.
He tossed it back onto the table with a noise of disgust. “The Duke
of Weston threw his card case into the river, did he?”
Arabella rose to her full, diminutive height, her blue eyes piercing
within the sunken contours of her face. “Probably got bored of it and
wanted to use the gold one. Yer the one high in the instep, ye explain
it to me—”
The man’s top lip curled into a sneer as ugly as the rest of him. “You
are a thief!”
Lovely. That drew a handful of eyes from the nearby tables.
“And yer at the Midnight Market,” Arabella snarled. “If ye want virtue,
tue, get yerself to church.”
I placed a quelling hand on her arm, my smile rigid. We were
women of business now. Women of business swallowed their spleen
and smiled. They did not insult the night’s only potential customer, no
matter how badly he deserved to be diced by a former doxy’s wickedly
sharp tongue.
“What she means is that the Midnight Market offers a variety of goods you won’t be able to find anywhere else,” I said. “Including, of
course, that special perfume you had your eye on.”
The man’s dark gaze turned appraising. I resisted the urge to shift
my shawl higher. Not an ounce of the rusted scent of guilt or even tear-salted
salted desperation. Those were the easiest emotions to play through to a
sale. Instead, the man’s annoyance slowly spiced with a cinnamon zest
that signified nothing good. Nothing good at all.
His top lip curled again as his gaze finally drifted up over my face to
my hair. My chest clenched as he took in the strips of white streaking
the otherwise strawberry curls.
My resolve hardened once more. If I had paid the price for the creation
ation of the perfumes before me, he could pay for the use of them.
“How do I know it does what you claim?” he asked. “You could be
selling me a load of rotting dreams.”
He couldn’t smell the honeyed swirl of magic I’d blended into the
rose and lavender oils, of course, or feel its warm effervescence humming
ming within the brown glass of the apothecary bottle.
“Would you have come without being certain?” I asked, trying for
flattery. “You strike me as a gentleman who goes to great pains to ensure
sure he isn’t cheated. I presume you heard about my work from another
pleased client?”
I’d been too careless, that much was clear now.
“My wife was a client of Rosebourne’s,” he admitted after a moment.
“God rest his soul.”
My lips compressed into a hard, flat line. Or roast it in the fires of hell,
preferably.
“Year after bloody year, I paid dearly for a perfume to . . . enhance
herself, only to have the supply cut short,” the man continued bitterly.
“She heard of you from another lady she paid a call to.”
Unexpected, that. They might not have been Patricians, but they
were high enough in society to have been allowed access to the perfumes
fumes hidden at the heart of the House of Rosebourne.
“As a client of Rosebourne’s, you know how rare such a perfume is
then,” I said. “There are so few fairyborn left in the world, and fewer
still who know how to harness the forbidden gifts. Surely your wife’s
happiness is worth a mere three silvers?”
“And she would only need to add a drop of her blood to ensure its . . .
effects?” he asked.
“If she would like only her appearance affected in the eyes of others,
yes,” I answered.
He took the small bottle from my hand as I offered it to him. I was
close—so very close. His scent was turning bittersweet, like grapefruit.
Acceptance. I nearly had him.
Excerpt. ©Alexandra Bracken. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
Giveaway: One copy of IMMORTAL ROSE (US only)
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Meet the Author:
Alexandra Bracken was born in Phoenix, Arizona. She sold her first book as a senior in college, and later moved to New York City to work in children’s book publishing, first as an editorial assistant, then in marketing. She now lives in Arizona with her tiny pup, Tennyson, in a house that’s constantly overflowing with books. Alex is a #1 New York Times, USA TODAY, and internationally bestselling author. Her work has been adapted for feature film and is available across the world in over 20 languages.
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