Chapter 7: The Cup

The cup chilled in Linnea's fingers.

Frost crept up the china from the tea, and the surface of the liquid turned to white ice.

She set it down on the table very carefully.

The maid by the door was a thin girl of eighteen, wringing her apron.

"Who made this tea?" Linnea said.

"The kitchen, my lady. I only carried it."

"Who gave it to you at the kitchen door?"

The girl's eyes flicked to the window and back.

"No one. It was on the tray."

"You're lying."

"I'm not, my lady, I swear."

Linnea stood and crossed the room, barefoot in the torn nightgown she had pulled a robe over.

She took the girl's wrist and turned it up.

A small cut ran across the palm, fresh and shallow, and a dab of white powder clung to the edge.

"You touched the powder," Linnea said. "Open your mouth."

The maid tried to pull free.

She stumbled back against the wall and clutched at her throat.

Her face went grey.

"My lady," she gasped. "It wasn't for you. They said it was only to make you sick."

"Who is they?"

"I don't..."

Her knees buckled.

Linnea caught her, and they both went down on the floor.

The girl's eyes rolled, and foam gathered at the corner of her mouth.

"Guards!" Linnea shouted. "Fetch the healer!"

Boots thundered in the corridor.

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