Free The Secret Ways of Perfume by Cristina Caboni Page A

Le Notre in the eye.
    â€œVery well, Mademoiselle Duval. What do you say we move on to the administrative side?”
    Monique nodded, trying not to let her enthusiasm show. “I’m listening, Monsieur Le Notre.”
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    It was almost ridiculous, waiting in the rain. He was completely drenched, his jeans and T-shirt stuck to his skin, his eyelashes dripping with raindrops. Yet Cail wouldn’t have moved from the rosebush even if the sky fell in.
    He looked down into the courtyard for a moment. The renovated apartments enclosing the large communal courtyard, the heart of what had once been the grand home of one of the wealthiest aristocratic families in Paris, were still cloaked in darkness.
    Cail moved his umbrella to keep the rose stem dry. At the top of the spiny branch, a fat bud was about to open any moment.
    He half-closed his eyes. The rain pattered relentlessly, plastering his hair to his face and soaking into his two-day-old beard. He shook himself dry, careful not to knock the rose.
    He had no idea what effect getting too wet might have on a bud at that stage of maturation. In general, he’d prefer to conduct an experiment like this in a greenhouse, but this particular plant was the product of a series of events that went against any cross-breeding technique manual, and he didn’t want to run the risk of undermining months of effort by moving it. It was a three-year-old rosebush, with its first mature bud.
    He leaned over, desperate to protect the flower. Then he put oneknee on the grass; he was so impatient he was shaking. He was excited and he couldn’t wait for the dawn to come and light up the sky. It would stop raining soon; he knew it.
    â€œBloody weather,” he cursed. “For God’s sake give it a rest!”
    John, his dog, got to his feet and plodded over to join him. Cail smiled and put out his free hand to stroke the creature’s tawny coat. “Go back in your kennel,” he ordered. “You’ll get soaked.” The dog licked his hand, and did as he was told.
    Paris seemed to be waking up. The buzz of cars quickly became a roar, like a swollen stream heading for the valley. Lights were disappearing from houses, too, replaced by a sunrise growing brighter and brighter. Cail knew it wouldn’t be long before the courtyard was full of people. He gritted his teeth. It was better for them if they kept their distance.
    He didn’t mind the quizzical looks from his neighbors, who had caught him talking to his plants on more than one occasion. But the benefit of being a solid six feet four was that none of them was brave enough to poke fun at him. At least, not within earshot. Although he was more inclined to think it was due to the off-putting effect of his scar.
    â€œGood morning, Caillen,” a voice called up. “I won’t ask what the hell you’re doing standing in the rain keeping that rosebush dry. I’m far too scared of that temper of yours.”
    â€œPiss off, Ben!”
    His friend’s laugh got a smirk out of Cail. Ben waved goodbye and went about his day.
    Cail knew he looked ridiculous holding a ladies’ checked umbrella over the rosebush. His mother, Elizabeth, had left the umbrella on one of her visits. She would have appreciated the excuse to come back and collect it, but Cail had decided he’d post it to her at the first possible opportunity. He carried on waiting, eyes fixed on the bud.
    A stream of pink eventually cleared away the black clouds, the rain slowly easing off until it was just a light patter. Piles of wet leaves at the sides of the courtyard below gave off a strong, musky plant smell.
    Cail breathed in the pungent scent, concentrated by the cold air, and then turned his attention back to the rose. It was the only survivor from a group of seeds that had been very important to him, and had gone decidedly wrong. For a while they were growing normally; then