Chapter 13: Sit Down

Ansel let out a small, patient sigh.

"You've had wolfsbane in your blood for a week, my dear," he said.

"The withdrawal does this. It sharpens the nose until it lies."

He turned to his son.

"Roan, she is feverish. She smells poison in her own sweat."

"I smell it on your gloves," I said.

Roan looked at the tea running down his wall.

Then he looked at me, and I watched him decide not to believe it.

"Ilsa, my father has poured that cup every night since the funeral," he said.

"Three years. I'd be dead."

"A few drops," I said. "Every night. You'd feel tired, and slow, and you'd sleep like a stone."

"You'd feel weak."

His face did not change, but his hand closed on the edge of the desk.

"Did he pour her tea, too?" I asked. "Your first mate. The month she was carrying."

Nobody answered.

Ansel's gloved hand stayed where it was on the tray, perfectly still.

"That is enough," Roan said.

His voice shook on the last word, and I knew I had hit something that had never been looked at.

"Roan, ask him to take off the gloves."

"I will not ask my father to strip for a girl who walked in here the day after I..."

He stopped.

"Say it," I said. "The day after you kissed me."

"You came here to take him from me."

"I came to stop you drinking it."

The double doors to the dining hall stood open behind the desk.