Chapter 63 Ivy

Chapter 63 Ivy
My apothecary greets me like an old friend.

Glass windows warm from the hearth. The sharp, grounding scent of crushed rosemary and dried citrus peel. Glass vials catching the light like orderly thoughts. The moment I step inside, my pulse settles.

This is where I think best.

Phillip walks in without knocking. I have to suppress my eyeroll. I know he is carefree and that I asked Luca to bring him but he could show a little manners. 

Luca follows and closes the door, immediately checking the latch out of habit before leaning back against the wall like he’s trying very hard not to hover.

Phillip, on the other hand, is already poking around.

“So,” he says cheerfully, lifting a jar and squinting at the label upside down, “either you nearly died again, or this is a social call. I’m hoping for the second, but history suggests otherwise.”

I snort despite myself. “You’re charming as always.”

He grins. Phillip has that permanently relaxed air—dark jacket wrinkled, hair just messy enough to look intentional, eyes sharp in a way that doesn’t advertise itself. He looks like someone who never takes anything seriously, which is precisely why people tell him everything.

Luca sighs. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Phillip replies easily. “I’m just not panicking. Panicking ruins observation.”

I set my satchel on the central worktable and begin laying out the herbs I brought back, one by one. Phillip watches my hands now, his expression sobering just a notch.

“We were followed in town,” I say.

“Well that’s rude,” Phillip says. “Did they at least try to be subtle?”

“Too subtle,” Luca answers.

Phillip’s brows lift. “Ah. The dangerous kind.”

I glance between them. “I’ll explain.”

I tell Phillip everything.

The herbalist shop. The way the tail adjusted to our pace—not reacting, but anticipating. 

Phillip listens without interrupting, leaning against the table now, arms folded loosely.

“And then there was the scent,” I continue. “Winter jasmine. Fresh.”

That gets his full attention.

“Huh,” he murmurs. “That’s… specific.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Too cultivated for the street. Too clean. And it lingered.”

Phillip nods slowly. “Which means whoever it was had been close recently.”

“Yes.”

I explain how the man disappeared cleanly—no scrambling, no tells. Luca fills in details from his side, concise and controlled.

When I finish, Phillip lets out a low whistle.

“Alright,” he says. “So not a random threat and definitely not an amateur.”

“No,” I agree. “Which is why I tested Rose when we got back.”

Phillip’s mouth quirks. “Oh, I like where this is going.”

I recount the sitting room. The casual mention of winter jasmine. The way Rose reacted too quickly. The questions she asked that betrayed awareness.

Phillip hums thoughtfully. “Didn’t deny it. Didn’t dismiss it. Tried to control the narrative instead.”

“Yes,” I say. “Annoyed, not afraid.”

“That tracks,” Phillip replies. “Fear makes people sloppy. Annoyance makes them arrogant.”

Luca shifts. “You think she’s involved.”

“I think she knows she’s close enough to the fire to feel heat,” I say carefully. “But I don’t think she’s the one striking the matches.”

Phillip snaps his fingers. “Which means she’s buffering for someone else.”

“Aaho,” Luca says flatly.

Phillip tilts his head. “The quiet one. Calculating. Not sentimental.”

“That’s her,” I confirm. “If Aaho is involved, Rose is the weak point.”

Phillip grins. “Because she hates being the weak point.”

“Because she hates incompetence,” I correct. “And someone made a mistake today.”

Phillip straightens. “Alright then. I’ll keep an eye on Rose’s communications. Nothing invasive—just patterns. Who she speaks to, when, and how annoyed she looks afterward.”

Luca raises a brow. “That’s… vague.”

Phillip shrugs. “Vague is where people tell the truth.”

I allow myself a small smile. “And Aaho?”

“I’ll watch for shifts,” Phillip says. “Supply routes. Couriers. Anything that smells like a cleanup operation.”

He pauses, then adds lightly, “Also, if anyone suddenly switches perfumes, I’ll know.”

Luca exhales through his nose. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely,” Phillip replies. “But don’t worry—I’m very professional about my enjoyment.”

I rest my hands on the table, grounding myself.

“No accusations yet,” I say firmly. “I want reactions. Not defenses.”

Phillip salutes lazily. “Observation mode. My favorite.”

Luca steps closer, voice low. “And if they move again?”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Then they confirm which one lost control.”

Silence settles—not heavy, but deliberate.

Phillip breaks it with a grin. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands once, “on the bright side—you’re terrifying now.”

I smile faintly. “Good.”

Because if Rose is irritated…
and Aaho is adjusting…
Then the next mistake won’t be mine.

Aaho

Rose is becoming careless.

Not stupid—Rose has never been stupid—but loud. Emotionally inefficient. That is far worse.

I sit alone in the small, windowless room I use for calls, fingers steepled, replaying the conversation with clinical detachment. Her irritation had been sharp, unfocused. Not fear. Not yet. But annoyance has a way of curdling into impulsiveness if left unmanaged.

Winter jasmine.

I close my eyes briefly—not in frustration, but recalibration.

The error itself was minor. A scent. A variable introduced by third-party contractors who mistook anonymity for professionalism. That part is already corrected. Routes changed. Markers removed. Personnel reassigned.

The real problem is Rose’s reaction.

She noticed Ivy’s test. That alone isn’t a failure. Ivy is intelligent; that was always accounted for. What concerns me is that Rose allowed herself to be irritated in public. Controlled irritation is a tool. Visible irritation is a tell.

Rose does not like being tested.

She especially does not like being outpaced.

And Ivy didn’t confront her—she observed. That means Ivy is thinking in systems now, not emotions. That shifts the board.

I rise and cross the room, pulling on gloves as I do. The leather creaks softly. I pause, then deliberately switch them out for a different pair. No oil. No scent.

Adaptation is not optional.

Rose believes she is managing this. That she is still central. Still necessary.

She is wrong.

Rose was useful because she was close—emotionally embedded, underestimated, easy to dismiss as petty or reactive. She drew attention simply by existing. That made her a shield.

But shields crack when they start arguing with the sword.

Ivy noticed her irritation. Luca noticed the tension. Phillip—carefree, sharp Phillip—will notice patterns soon if he hasn’t already. Rose draws eyes, and eyes invite questions.

That makes her a liability.
Not yet disposable. But no longer essential.

I activate the secure channel again—not to call Rose, but to redirect resources. Observation protocols shift inward. Rose’s communications will be monitored more closely now—not because I distrust her, but because trust is irrelevant. Outcomes matter.

I consider the next phase.

Ivy will continue watching Rose. That is expected. I will allow it.

Let Ivy believe she is closing in.

Rose will bristle. She always does. And bristling people make predictable mistakes—overcorrecting, asserting presence, proving relevance.

That is when I will know whether Rose can be stabilized…
Or whether she must be sidelined.

I sit again, calm returning like a familiar coat.

Rose thinks today was a provocation.
Ivy thinks today was progress.
Both are wrong.

Today was a calibration.
And calibrations reveal which components still function—
And which ones are about to fail.