In the shaded parlours of the city, they whispered about Lady Rowan — a woman whose drawing room always smelled faintly of eucalyptus, sharp and green beneath the perfume of roses. She claimed it cleared the air, soothed the lungs, and brought clarity to troubled minds. Guests left feeling lightheaded, flushed, their words tumbling more freely than they intended.
Her table was always set with fresh sprigs, threaded with pearls like drops of moonlight, their crimson berries gleaming like beads of blood. No one thought to question why so many confidences slipped from lips in her presence, nor why her rivals’ affairs so often ended in ruin.
When Lady Rowan’s name was finally spoken in scandal, it was already too late. The parlour door was closed, the windows latched, and the sweet, sharp scent lingered long after the house was emptied. Those who still breathe it in say the eucalyptus remembers — every secret, every sin — and waits for the right ears to whisper to again.
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