Read Chapter 12: The Turn of the Rose

The séance chamber was stifling, thick with beeswax and the cloying sweetness of wilting lilies. The guild’s priestesses had arranged the circle in the oldest tradition, a ring of white candles around a mirrored table. Mistress Yvette stood at the head, her silver hair a stark halo in the guttering light. Her presence had been inevitable; as Eudora’s second, she had claimed the right to guide the spirit work. Camille stood at the opposite end, pinned between the suffocating scent of old rituals and the weight of every eye in the guild.

“We are here to call our mistress home,” Yvette intoned, her voice a low, practiced vibration. “Or to learn the truth of her passing.”

The word *passing* hung in the air like a foul perfume. Around the table, the guild sisters bowed their heads. Violetta stood beside Camille, her hand brushing hers—a brief, quiet reassurance.

“Let the veil thin,” Yvette chanted. The candles flickered in a wave, as if a breath had passed over them. Camille felt a prickle at the nape of her neck, a static charge in the air that had nothing to do with the tallow and wax.

The mirror on the table turned black, a void swallowing the candlelight. The temperature plummeted as though winter had opened the door. A low moan rose from the gathered women, a sound of dread and hope.

Then the surface of the mirror writhed. A face formed in the darkness—pale, gaunt, and achingly familiar. Mistress Eudora’s eyes, once warm as honey, now stared out with a void that made Camille’s blood run cold.

“Mistress,” Yvette breathed. “You have returned to us.”

The apparition’s lips moved silently, then a voice filled the chamber, hollow and resonant. “Murdered.”

A sob escaped from one of the younger sisters. The specter’s hollow gaze swept the circle until it landed squarely on Camille.

“She killed me,” the voice said, sharp as broken glass. “The perfumer. The foundling.”

Every eye turned to Camille. The air, thick with lilies, suddenly soured with suspicion. Yvette’s lips curled with barely concealed satisfaction.

“This is an illusion,” Camille said, forcing her voice steady. “A trick of the ritual. I did not—“

“Her hands,” the spirit hissed. “Scented with my death. Violetta’s creation. The one who shelters her.”

The accusation struck like a blade. Violetta stiffened beside Camille, her face paling.

“That’s enough,” Violetta snapped. “This séance is corrupt. Someone has fed the circle false intent.”

“Silence,” Yvette commanded, raising her hand. The air thickened, and Camille felt the weight of a gathering force—magic coiling around Yvette’s fingers like incense smoke.

“The spirit demands justice,” Yvette said, her voice now honed. “The foundling has brought corruption to this house. She has spilled our mistress’s blood.”

The candles flared, their flames turning thread-thin and violent. The mirror cracked with a sound like a whip.

A line of force lashed out from Yvette’s hand—hot, acidic, aimed straight at Camille’s chest. It stank of sulfur and burnt roses. Camille moved, but she was not fast enough.

Violetta was.

She threw herself between Camille and the spell. It struck her square in the sternum, a violet-black blossom blooming across her white gown as the magic bit down. Violetta gasped, a wet, rasping sound, and crumpled to the flagstones.

“Violetta!” Camille dropped to her knees, catching her friend’s head before it met the stone. The circle erupted—screams, the clatter of overturned candles, the scramble of panicked feet.

But Camille saw none of it. She saw only Violetta’s face, her lips already tinged with blue, a thin line of blood weeping from the corner of her mouth.

“No,” Camille whispered, pressing her hands over the wound. It was not a physical wound—the skin was unbroken. But beneath it, Camille could smell the poison as it worked: acrid, biting, something brewed in shadow and spite.

“The spell was meant… for you,” Violetta choked, her voice barely a thread. Her eyes, bright with pain, found Camille’s.

“Yvette,” Camille hissed. “She did this.”

But Violetta shook her head, a trembling motion. “Doesn’t matter now. Camille… listen.”

Camille leaned closer, her own breath ragged.

“Beneath the guild… the cellars. The floor is not stone—it is a seal. A rose carved in a circle.” Violetta’s hand clawed weakly at Camille’s sleeve. “The library of scents. The oldest collection… the one your mother refused to open.”

“The formula?” Camille asked, fear tightening her throat.

“It is not just a book. It is a door.” Violetta’s breath rattled. “Beyond it… the heart of the house. You must go. Before Yvette seals it forever.”

Camille nodded desperately. “I will. I swear it.”

Violetta’s eyes flickered to the shattered mirror, where the ghost had already faded back into shadow. “She played us,” Violetta whispered. “The spirit… it wasn’t Eudora. It was a puppet. Someone pulled the strings from outside the circle.”

“Corbeau,” Camille breathed.

Violetta’s lips shaped a faint, weary smile. “Find the rose. Trust no perfume.”

Her hand fell slack. Her chest stilled. The poison had worked quickly, blackly, a single violet stain blooming on her white gown where her heart had been.

A terrible silence settled over the chamber. The sisters stood frozen, torn between fear and revulsion. Yvette’s face was unreadable in the guttering candlelight, but Camille smelled her—the sharp, uneasy tang of sweat beneath her opulent amber perfume.

“She is dead,” Yvette said flatly. “Because of your lies, foundling.”

Camille slowly lowered Violetta’s head to the floor. She rose, her knees bloodied from the stone, and faced the old woman.

“She died because you reached for me,” Camille said, her voice low and cold. “And missed.”

Yvette’s mouth tightened. “You have no proof—“

“I have a nose,” Camille cut her off. “And I will remember the scent of your magic for the rest of my life.”

She turned, the gathered sisters parting before her like reeds before a storm. No hand reached out to stop her. No voice challenged her.

Camille’s mother’s scent rose around her—violet and bitter almond, a ghost of resolve that burned in her chest as she walked down the stone steps toward the cellar door.