Chapter 4: The Physician's Draught

Isaline went down in yesterday's ivory silk, because nobody had brought her trunks.

Sidonie came behind her in a borrowed robe, carrying the scent bottle in her pocket.

"If they lock you up," she whispered, "I'm keeping your shoes."

The great hall still smelled of last night's wine.

The whole household was there.

Footmen, maids, the steward with his keys, the valet from last night, very pale.

Lothaire sat in the big carved chair with his head in one hand.

Isaline's father stood beside him in his good grey coat.

And between them stood a thin man in black with a leather case, holding a small silver cup.

"Darling," her father said, and came to kiss her cheek. "You look so tired."

"I didn't sleep in the north wing."

"I heard." He sighed, very gently. "That's why we're here."

The thin man bowed.

"Your Grace. I'm told you saw poison in a cup and spent the night in a stranger's bed."

"Such fancies come on brides. Quiet rooms, a calming draught morning and night, and you'll be yourself by spring."

"Quiet rooms where?"

"The north wing," Lothaire said into his hand. "With a lock."

Isaline almost admired it.

A wife locked up as unwell in her mind couldn't stand before the temple.

The count would be over before it began.

"And if I'm not mad?"

"Then the draught will do you no harm at all," said the physician, and held out the silver cup.

She took it.

Every maid in the room was watching her.

She lifted it and smelled it.

Then she dipped the tip of her little finger, touched it to her tongue, and spat neatly on the floor.

The steward flinched.

"Poppy," she said. "A great deal of poppy. And henbane, for the bitterness at the back."

The physician's face stayed very still.