Chapter 4: The Glasshouse

The palace glasshouse was hot, green and empty.

Torin had marched her there through three corridors without a word, one hand wrapped around her upper arm.

He let go only when the door shut.

Tall palms and lemon trees rose around them, dripping in the damp.

Rain-colored light fell through the glass roof onto his black hair.

He set the teacup he had carried out of the sunroom on a stone bench.

"Bitter almond," he said. "Enough in that pot to put three grown men in the ground."

Aveline's mouth had gone dry.

"I know."

"You knew before you poured it."

"I smelled it."

"You did not smell it," said Torin. "You put the pot on a table all night and watched it."

She stared at him.

"How could you possibly..."

"Your maid told the head groom, and the head groom tells me everything."

He turned the cup a little on the stone.

"You did not throw the wine."

It was not a question.

He said it.

"No," said Aveline.

"Everyone in that hall knew you would."

"I changed my mind."

"You never change your mind."

"People can."

"Aveline never could."

He looked at her steadily.

For one wild moment she thought he could see straight through the gown and the scarred eyebrow.

Straight to the woman from the 7:40 train.

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