THE SCENT OF FORBIDDEN ROSES

Élise Dubois pressed the dead woman's wedding ring into her palm. Her perfume workshop hummed around her. Copper stills bubbled rosewater on the stove. Shelves held cobalt bottles of scent. A widow in black silk wept at the counter. "He smelled of bergamot and rain," she whispered. Élise pricked her finger. A drop of blood fell into the glass bottle. The widow's grief swirled into the liquid. Her husband's laugh. His pipe smoke. The sterile smell of the hospital where he died. The perfume turned storm-cloud gray. "Souvenir de Mariage," Élise named it. Memory of Marriage. The widow clutched the bottle. Her tears stopped. Peace bought with stolen sorrow. Midnight bells rang. Élise hid her bloodied tool. Another memory taken. Another step toward finding her missing sister Clémence. The alley behind her shop stank of rotten flowers. She never saw the attacker. A hand clamped over her mouth. A knife pressed her throat. "The Vicomte sends greetings," a man hissed. "You want Clémence alive. Bring us the Queen's tears from the Notre Dame crypt. You have three nights." He shoved a tiny painting into Élise's hand. It showed Clémence. Terrified. "Fail and we bleed her dry." The man vanished. Élise leaned against the cold bricks. Shaking. Then boots echoed on the street. A lantern flared. A man in a surgeon's coat stood before her. His eyes were cold as river ice. "Élise Dubois. I am Dr Lucien Thorne. You are arrested for illegal magic." He held up a bottle. Her Souvenir de Mariage. Taken from the widow's home. "That's grief relief," Élise protested. "It's memory theft," Lucien cut in. "And you will help me destroy the monsters who use it." He snapped an iron cuff onto her wrist. Pain shot up her arm. Her magic died. She spat at his boots. "I would rather hang." He smiled without warmth. "Your sister would not."