Chapter 8: The Vial

Hadrian had the vial tested at eleven by a healer he trusted, an old woman with ink on her fingers.

She sniffed it, touched a drop to a white cloth, and waited.

Then she wiped her hands slowly on her apron.

"Foxglove," she said.

"A small dose, mixed with honey."

"Enough to make someone very sick, but not enough to kill."

"Who would want that?" Hadrian asked.

"Someone who wishes to be found sick," the healer said.

"Someone who wants to be pitied, and wants someone else punished."

She left us in the study, and the door shut with a click.

I stood in the middle of the room with my arms wrapped around myself.

In the book, Sorrel was poisoned almost fatally at the ball, and she survived because she was a saint.

I had always thought that was the author's laziness.

Now I knew it was a plan.

"She means to take it herself," I said.

"On Midsummer Eve, in front of the whole court."

"A little foxglove, and a cup with my name on it."

"Then the Prince will need someone to blame."

"He needs no excuse to blame you," Hadrian said.

He was leaning against the edge of his desk, arms folded, looking at me with an odd expression.

"You went into the palace tonight without a weapon."

"I had a piece of paper."

"You threatened the Crown Prince with bookkeeping."

"It worked."

"It worked because the Queen's treasurer was standing next to you," he said.

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