by C. K. Brooke
The nurse responded, but her soft-spoken tones did not quite carry to the ground floor. Intrigued, Cerise watched as they climbed up another stairwell. Once she was certain they would not hear, she mounted the steps in their wake.
The halls were poorly lit, concealing her as she followed the feminine voices that now drifted from an open supply closet. The maid finally disappeared, leaving the nurse to arrange her tinctures on a rolling silver cart. Cerise stood flesh against the wall, watching the woman work from the corner of her eye.
There was no room for conscience. Borrowing inspiration from the Tybirian prince, she lifted a copper sconce from the wall. It wasn’t lit; most of the candles rested dormant in their casings. As the nurse bent over her vials, measuring out the medicine, Cerise wasted no time in bringing the object down over her capped head.
Cerise shot behind the cart, catching the nurse before her limp body should land with an audible crash. Gently, she laid her upon a pile of clean linens and checked to ensure that her pulse still beat. She then secured the door and stole the woman’s coat, cape and cap.
With short breaths, she reached into her brassiere and felt for the tiny vial she’d brought with her from her private collection. Since agreeing to the job, Cerise had known all along that she would use poison, and her brand of choice was time-sensitive. It swept through the body rapidly and worked its dark magic without leaving a trace to convict itself. The trick, however, was its administration, for it needed to remain corked airtight until its hour of use. That was all Cerise would have: a single hour for the king to drink, lest its fatal compounds be rendered inactive.
She squeezed into the nurse’s coat and tucked her scarlet locks beneath the cap. Cautious, she reemerged from the closet, rolling the silver cart, and closed the door behind her. A manservant rounded the corner, and she lowered her eyes, waiting until he passed.
Alone, she set off up the hallway in search of the king’s chamber. It had to be on the current floor, or else how would the nurse have planned to wheel the cart up another flight of stairs?
To her fortune, she heard the maid’s matronly voice yet again, resonating from somewhere down the hall. “…a fine evening, Your Majesty, and a restful slumber.”
Cerise followed, gilt goblet and tiny glass bottles tinkling together atop the cart. She approached a set of heavy double doors, one of them ajar, just as the maid stepped out. Cerise ducked her head, pretending to reexamine her tinctures.
“Oh, an’ look, sire,” called the maid. “Here’s Althea now, with your sleep tonic.” With a deep curtsey to the man in the room and a quick nod to Cerise, she was gone, bustling back up the hallway.
Cerise pushed the cart through the open door and wheeled it into the king’s bedchamber. It creaked loudly as she parked it on an elaborate burgundy rug.
“Close the door,” came a growl from the chamber’s depths. Cerise did as told and, with her back to him, used the opportunity to ensure her hair did not peek through the white cap. She ran a hand along its rim, grateful to feel only the flesh of her cheeks and brow. In a swift movement, she withdrew the vial of poison from her brassiere and dropped it into her coat pocket.
She returned to the cart. The king’s shadow hovered by a wide canopy bed, beside which a glass paned door was open, leading out to a white stone balcony overlooking Wintersea’s southern yard.
He moved forward, and the thin light of a single candle revealed his wiry black hair and beard, flecked with gray. But it was the haggard, granite eyes that caused Cerise to take a small, involuntary step back. They were so doleful, so melancholy, the woman could hardly recall having seen anything sadder in all her days.
He cleared his throat. “Althea, I’m…glad you’re here.” Why, his tone was so much gentler this time, as though a different man had just spoken moments ago. Gooseflesh teased Cerise’s arms, and she would’ve marveled at the odd reaction, were she not growing so steadily disturbed. Something about Ira—his confused, tentative steps, his disoriented yet desperate gaze—haunted her to the marrow.
“The terrors struck strong last night,” he confided, voice soft as dew at sunrise. “I…ache….” The plaintive thought faded, incomplete, and he seemed to forget himself, instead peering out the balcony door.
Cerise remained silent. His back was to her while he continued to stare outdoors, looking lost, and gave no indication of turning to face her again. Fingers twitching, she reached into her pocket.
The gilt goblet was already half-full of warm cider, undoubtedly to mask the medicine’s bitter taste and calm the man’s nerves. Regardless of the heart that suddenly pounded her breast in protest, Cerise uncorked the poison vial and tipped it into the cider. It made no sound, giving off only a faint, earthy odor and darkening the liquid a single shade.
She lifted the goblet. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, praying her voice was not too different from his nurse’s, “your sleep tonic.”
He swiveled around, looking surprised. Heavens, had he already forgotten her? But he scrutinized her across the room with unexpected shrewdness. Cerise angled her cheek away, extending the goblet in hand.
“Althea?” He came closer, eyes cinched curiously upon her. “You do not seem yourself tonight. Something about you is…different.”
He stood before her, close enough to reach for the goblet, but did not. Between her shoulder blades, Cerise felt a drip of perspiration. She kept her face angled, her gaze downcast. “Your sleep tonic,” she repeated dryly. “You must drink it.”
“Look me in the eye.” His command was guttural, challenging.
“Your mind ails you, sire,” she professed, summoning an impressive demeanor of calm, considering her raging nerves. “Please.” She extended the goblet, knocking it against his knuckles. He had to ingest it soon. And she had to see him do it.
Finally, he grasped the stem, ever so gently, between his fingers. He lifted the cup to his bearded mouth, and Cerise held her breath. But he lowered it all too soon, suspicion in his eyes, and Cerise looked away again in fear and frustration.
An unanticipated lightness flickered across his features, like he was recalling a pleasant memory. Ira gazed over Cerise’s shoulder, as if someone stood there, although they remained the only two in the room. “Her Majesty loves this painting,” he remarked, smiling.
Cerise glanced back, noticing an ornately framed canvas hanging on the wall behind her. It depicted a woman seated at a piano-forte, fingers perched to play.
“She knows the artist. Dear friend of her mother’s. Supported by her patronage for many a year. Vanessa has commissioned him to complete a new piece for her parlor.”
Cerise’s brow clenched, though she was quick to smooth it. But the king was speaking as though the deceased Queen Vanessa were still living.
“Now, Weyland…he—he hasn’t time for art.” Ira chuckled. “Scrappy boy. Always looking for a fight. A real man’s man he’s to become, no doubt, with all that pent-up energy.”
Cerise stared. It seemed that the king did not realize his wife and son were dead. Pity nettled her.
“We’ll be hosting the fall festival, back home,” he announced, a childlike glow in his face. “How my wife loves the flowers. She’ll be ordering the arrangements soon.” He scuttled to the window, goblet still in hand, his movements somewhat frantic. Cerise watched in disbelief as he drew out the long curtain and spoke of the flora depicted on it, the red peonies and orange posies.
“Your Majesty,” Cerise interrupted at last. “Your tonic is fast dissolving. You must drink.”
He halted, giving her a long, skeptical look. Cerise remained motionless, guilt building in her every cell. Sure, she’d killed before, but those men had been in full control of their actions. They were victims of their own greed.
Not of grief.
Of course, Cerise knew what a tyrant Ira was. She’d heard the rumors, read the bulletins from n
ear and far. The king was a murderer on a grander scale than Cerise could ever be. She had to put an end to him, before his legendary madness claimed more lives. But could she blame him for grieving?
Deliberately, he tipped the goblet, releasing a single drop of liquid onto the curtain. At once, the fabric singed and smoked, burning a gray hole through its orange and gold design. Cerise’s breath caught. Ira fixed her with an accusing stare, his face furious. Terrified, Cerise froze.
And then suddenly, his eyes clouded over with enough sorrow to overshadow the sun, and he resolutely raised the cup to his mouth.
Cerise didn’t think. She would never know where her mind had gone when she flung forward with a hoarse cry, knocking the goblet from his hand. It crashed against the wall, staining the wallpaper with a streak of gray, and splashed down onto the carpet, sizzling through the fibers. For a single moment that seemed to endure an eternity, she and the king locked eyes.
A scarlet hue rose to his cheeks, and a vein throbbed in his neck. “Out!” he roared, and Cerise shook. “Witch! Poisoner!”
She fled the bedchamber, her spastic heartbeats uneven. Ira continued to bellow after her down the hall, alerting his staff: “Intruder!”
Cerise had never run faster. Down the stairwell she fled, shedding the nurse’s garb in a trail behind her, and darted across the main floor as guards and servants emerged from every corner of the upper halls to attend the king. She gasped as she nearly collided with two shadows by the front door. But her pulse sputtered with relief to recognize the Tybirian prince and his companion, Luccia. They looked as panicked as she felt.
She seized their arms. The girl lifted her dress and sprinted alongside her, while the man hauled open the front door. They flew out, evading the soldiers’ boots pounding down the main staircase indoors.
The breezy night met them face-on, biting with the late hour, and the three raced without stopping until they reached the moat. Without exchanging a word, they dove in, ignoring the rotting stench, and breast-stroked through the liquid. They emerged on the other side, wasting no time to dry or collect themselves before hurrying off again.
Down the pathway they fled, still able to hear the guards’ calls from the fortress in the distance. They coughed for air, but did not stop. At long last, they came to the path’s end at the bottom of the hill, and took the fork in the road away from town. It led to a mound of crags near the ocean. The tide hissed in their ears as they crawled onto the dark sand, concealing themselves behind a thicket of brush and collapsing in a breathless heap.
“What in hell,” panted the prince, holding his chest, “happened back there?” Luccia’s rich brown eyes were questioning as well, although she wheezed too hard to speak.
Cerise rested on her elbows, breasts heaving as disappointment rose in her throat like bile. She looked down at her knees, barely covered by a scrap of black silk, and shook her head in shame. “It’s my fault.” Her voice was heavy. “I botched the whole operation.”
The Tybirians waited for her to elaborate, but Cerise was speechless. She’d no idea what had gotten into her. It had something to do with the king’s tormented eyes, and the way in which he had knowingly raised the poisoned cup to his bearded mouth. What must the man be suffering to attempt to take his own life?
The prince regained his breath. “So, what is Plan B?”
The ocean crashed against the black rocks below the dunes. “There is no Plan B,” snapped Cerise. “I can’t kill the bastard.”
The prince’s expression settled into the most rigid scowl she’d yet to see of him. “You can and you will. I’ve already fronted you twenty gold pieces.”
She inhaled, furious with herself. “Look, I just need to clear my head. This has never happened to me before.”
Georome shot to his feet. “Then clear it!” He glowered down at her, resembling a dark panther, powerful muscles poised to pounce. “You are supposed to be the deadliest assassin in Llewes. Prove it!”
She held up her hands. After the ordeal they’d just escaped, the pouty boy didn’t frighten her; she only hated to see him exert the last of his energy in agitation with her. “I will amend this,” she asserted, although she had no idea how she would follow through. “Did you manage to find your brother?” she added.
“Obviously not,” the prince growled. “Up and down stairwells we searched, but hadn’t time enough to seek him before we heard shouting about intruders, and knew we were busted.” His tension dissipated, broad shoulders slumping in abrupt despair. “We can’t fail him. Not while we’re so close. We can’t just let him….”
His voice ebbed with emotion, and Cerise looked away, though not before she saw Luccia tenderly take hold of his hand. They loved each other, the woman realized. It was always evident that something existed between them. The way Luccia watched the prince, appearing to lose herself in his affliction, transcending sympathy to the point of embodying him. Cerise had once partaken of such devotion, such heartache, some time ago. It was the truest form of love she knew.
Georome regained himself, and peered out to sea. Cerise followed his gaze. There wasn’t much to see, other than the white froth of the waves beneath the waxing moon. “Why can’t you kill the king?” he finally asked, his tone absent of accusation this time. It seemed he simply wanted to understand.
Cerise smoothed her damp slip. “He’s grieving,” she tried to explain, though she doubted her words would be adequate to describe the anguish she saw. “That is the cause of his madness. He mourns his wife and son. He cannot accept that they are—”
“You pity him?” the prince demanded. “After everything he’s done?”
Cerise sighed.
“Ira has slain countless innocents,” Luccia’s voice emerged quietly. “Cities demolished, children orphaned and living in squalor. Both of our countries suffer at his hand, and need saving. We trusted you to help us, Cerise.”
“And you can trust me still,” the woman insisted. “Although….” She studied the sky, the constellations fading behind a curtain of fog. A question pressed through her lips. “If next time I succeed, then under whose reign shall Llewes fall?” She turned to the prince. “Your father’s?”
Georome met her eyes squarely, ashen brows set, and gave a firm shake of his head. “My father has no role in this. Nor has Tybiria any desire to usurp Llewes. We only want for your nation to acquire a leader with whom we can reason, and bring an end to the ongoing war.”
Cerise nodded. They trusted her; she would trust them. She thought a moment. Next in line to Llewes’s throne would be Ira’s first cousin, the Duke of Montague. Cerise knew little of the man, but had reason to believe he was at least sane.
“Cerise.” The prince had not broken their gaze. “If you wish for a life of obscene luxury and relief from your…occupation, then you must find us a way back into Wintersea. And soon.”
“We will try again.” She glanced between the youths, for once revealing a face as earnest as theirs. “Just allow me a few nights more.”
Georome cast her another long look. At last, he inclined his chin.
PAVOLA ARRIVED EARLIER THAN USUAL. “The guards are dining,” she explained, hauling a bucket across the room. “I didn’t want anyone to see me carrying this up.”
Dmitri rubbed the smudges from his lenses against the edge of his shirt. “My dear,” he set his spectacles back over his eyes, “you climbed the stairs with all of that?”
She didn’t appear to notice his concern as she dutifully set the bucket before him. He noticed her palms imprinted with red markings as she released the metal handle. “Your poor hands,” he gasped, grabbing them, and brought them to his lips, but she forcibly yanked away.
“No!” Her eyes were round. “What are you thinking? I’ve been working with chemicals all day!”
“Chemicals?”
She relaxed, looking apologetic for the outburst. �
�I mean, I wore gloves. But I don’t want to risk getting you sick.”
“I only wished to kiss your hands,” he mumbled.
She gave him a tender smile, stepping to his door. “You may kiss my mouth instead,” she offered, and leaned in. Dmitri did not hesitate. Her lips were soft as flower petals, and tasted of sweet, clear honeysuckle.
“Curse these dratted bars,” he groaned, wishing he could hold her without the hard metal between them.
Pavola stepped back, surprising him with a grin. “That’s what I’ve been working on, actually.” She bent over and removed a covered beaker from the bucket. “Vitriol.”
“Say what?”
“Sulfuric acid,” she clarified. “It’s a solution comprised of hydrogen and sulfate. Highly dehydrating—it can convert most base metals to salt. I only had to burn sulfur and saltpeter, with steam to add hydrogen, and produce acid by providing extra oxygen from—”
Dmitri’s head spun. “Pavi, I’m not a chemist,” he laughed. “In Halvean, please.”
She pressed her lips together. “We’ll use this vitriol to corrode one of the bars. Once it’s weakened, we can take a pickaxe to the metal and knock it out of the way. If you can squeeze through the gap, you’re a free man.”
Dmitri’s stomach leapt. “Seriously?”
“Yes, but you must be very careful. Sulfuric acid is toxic. Gloves and glass goggles are in order.” She handed him the supplies in question.
Dmitri received them, bemused. “Where did you get all of this?”
“From the laboratory.”
“What laboratory?”
“The one where Luíz Pavola worked. I wrote them when I was twelve; the address was in the back of one of his books. I saved up my monthly allowances from the king’s estate and mailed over the sums, requesting a starter kit. They were more than happy to oblige an aspiring chemist.” She spoke as though it was something any ordinary twelve-year-old girl would have done. Dmitri marveled.
“Anyway.” She donned her own pair of protective eyewear, and Dmitri did the same over his spectacles. “We’ll dip a sponge into the solution and start on a bar.” She pulled on her gloves. “Only thing that worries me is leaving you up here to inhale the fumes. That’s why you should remain on the opposite end of the cell after we work. And we mustn’t do this too frequently.”