Excerpts fantasy Read an Excerpt From Immortal Rose by Alexandra Bracken An achingly romantic, slow-burn love story set in a sumptuous world ruled by magical perfume. By Alexandra Bracken | Published on July 9, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Immortal Rose, a romantic fantasy novel by Alexandra Bracken publishing with Avon on August 18th. Members of the ancient House Rosebourne 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 Lockhart, 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. Buy the Book Alexandra Bracken Immortal Rose Buy Book Alexandra Bracken Immortal Rose Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget 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: 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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. In the end, men were simple creatures. They wanted to feel as though they were getting away with something. “If you’d like Blooming Beauty, I’d be pleased to gift you another of my scents, called Diamond of the First Water,” I said, stooping to retrieve a small flacon from the basket at my feet. “It is a lovely blend of orange blossom—” “Does it contain magic as well?” he interrupted, snatching it from my hand. “No,” I answered, struggling to master the sparks of my temper. “It is a simple perfume. However—” “Then what good is it?” he cut in. “I can buy an ordinary perfume in any apothecary or Rosebourne’s own shop.” “Her scents are hardly ordinary,” Arabella began loyally. My hand tightened around her arm again. “If your interest is primarily in my more noteworthy perfumes, may I recommend Lady Luck for yourself? Wearing a dab of it will draw good fortune to you whether you sit at a card table or merely seek to conduct business.” As the creation of the perfume had taken luck from me in equal measure, I’d suffered a small fire in my room, a twisted ankle, a ruined dress, and two Midnight Markets without a sale, all for a single wretched batch of that perfume. His eyes lit at the prospect, and, as quickly, he was redolent with grapefruit—rotting grapefruit, but grapefruit all the same. “And I will give you both for six silver coins,” I finished, bowing my head in feigned humility as I offered Lady Luck to him. “That is two silvers less than a gentleman paid earlier in the evening for both.” And so, the deal was done. Triumph swelled in me, and I had no idea how I managed to wait long enough for the man to disappear back into the crowd before I turned to Arabella, shaking the fistful of coins with glee. “Ye didn’t sell a whit to another toff tonight,” she noted with a cackle. “No, I most certainly did not,” I said, slipping the money into the hidden pocket I’d sewn into my skirt. I dropped one silver into her basket when she turned to give an alluring look to a passing market-goer. Somehow, perhaps after counting her remaining teeth, the man resisted the temptation. “And I charged him full price for the Lady Luck.” I finished with a curtsy, accepting her laughter in lieu of applause. Pride shimmered in Arabella’s eyes as she faced me again. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, and the moonlight made those strands twinkle as she gave a pleased little shake of the shoulders. “We both got a shiny from ’im!” She whipped her left hand up from behind her skirts to reveal a small snuffbox, its lid painted with a delicate pastoral scene. I gaped as she turned it over, mocking the way the man had studied her case. “Not so fine as to come from Bell Street, la-de-da,” she noted airily, “but it’ll fetch me a silver at next week’s market all the same.” “How in the world…?” I began, laughing with amazement. The others at the market called her Mrs. Mudlark, but a more apt name might have been Lady Lightfingers. Arabella drew close to the battered plank serving as our table; her slight build put her at the exact right height to slip an arm beneath it, giving her clear access to anything the man had stowed near his waist. “You keep ’em looking at something else while ye get to work,” Arabella explained with a demonstrative swipe of the hand. “By arguing?” “Sometimes,” Arabella agreed. “A flash of the ol’ bosom never goes amiss, especially when you’ve one as legendary as mine.” I didn’t doubt that was true, but it hadn’t been enough to save her once she’d aged out of the brothel she’d been sold to as a young woman. The mere thought heated my blood with an acidic fury. “Or ye get ’em thinking yer making for their wallet when yer really after their shiny fob,” Arabella continued, tucking the snuffbox down her bodice for safekeeping. “The fool thinks they’ve caught ye and won’t know the truth of it until yer well away. That’s the trick of it, see?” “I do,” I said. It seemed all one truly needed to survive in the world was an unflinching belief in oneself, a roof over one’s bed, and a retired doxy to teach you how to pilfer from unsuspecting toffs. That, I thought, smiling down at my two-fewer bottles, and a generous dab of perfume. “Are ye certain ye can’t make a life of it ’ere?” Arabella began. “I don’t like the idea of ye all alone in Southpoint—” “I’ve been alone for years,” I cut in. Feeling her flinch, I softened my tone. “It’s… a fresh start. New opportunities.” To vanish, to leave all of this behind, the way I should have years ago. “If ye say so,” Arabella said after a while. The rattle of wheels on cobblestone forced my gaze up again. Clattering metal cages stinking of rust and animal droppings clashed with the stench of perspiring man, heralding the arrival of one Mr. Toady. His unusual essence greeted me as the man and his small, covered cart came into view down the crooked alleyway. “Already for ’ome?” Arabella called out to him. “Night’s young yet!” He ambled past us, gesturing up toward the full moon as he called back, “Bad omen, this is. Ours is the sort of business best kept to the dark.” Mr. Toady did not possess good looks, or manners, or what most would deem the good sense to be afraid of the menagerie of strange, sorry creatures he sold. The lot included a basket of unnervingly crimson eggs, a knot of vipers, and a host of venomous toads that would rival any gentleman’s club for charm. “Perhaps for you,” I called back to him, “but for some of us, it’s been a blessing!” Arabella shook her head, her breath escaping in a sharp whistle. “Now ye’ve done it. That’s an invitation to ill fortune if I’ve ever heard one.” I settled back on my heels with a pleased hum, relishing the weight of the coins in my skirt pocket. If this was to be my last Midnight Market, I’d make a good showing of it. “I have a perfume for that, you know. Three silvers, but I’ll give you a dab for free.” Arabella shot me a wary look. While she’d gladly doused herself in any of the simple toilette waters and perfumes I made for her, she, like so many others, viewed the few remaining fairyborn with equal parts fascination and apprehension. If church sermons hadn’t convinced them that fairies were demons, there were always the old stories of trickery and misfortune. No one would risk their eternal soul or freedom being caught with a remnant of fairy magic, if they could help it. She tucked a loose white curl behind my ear with a sisterly tenderness. “So many of them accursed perfumes this week. Did that wily florist give ye the ’eave to? Is that why ye’ve got it in yer ’ead to leave?” I pulled back, turning away from the tender hurt that crossed her face. “I chose to quit the flower stall,” I assured her, and left it at that. My business was my own. From the book Immortal Rose. Copyright © 2026 by Alexandra Bracken. To be published on August 18, 2026 by Avon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Immortal Rose</i> by Alexandra Bracken appeared first on Reactor.