Ximena launches across the table, a blur of ruffled skirts. She grabs his fork with one hand, forces open his jaw with the other.
Hector yanks me to my feet. With his free hand, he whisks a dagger from his vambrace. “Elisa, spit out any food in your mouth. Now.”
Poison. My skin goes clammy cold. “I . . . there’s nothing.”
Ximena shoves the handle of the fork down Iladro’s throat, saying, “Let yourself vomit, my lord. It may save your life.”
And he does, in great geysers of half-digested, red-tinged pollo pibil and pastry lumps, all over the table before me. Acid singes my nostrils.
“The scone!” Belén says. “He was the only person who had one.”
The kitchen master bursts into the room, yelling, “Stop! Spit out your food! The taster just—” He sees the mess on the table, and his face drains of blood. “Too late.”
“Lady Jada,” I order. “Find Doctor Enzo at once.” She launches to her feet and runs from the dining room.
“Will he—?” the conde asks in a wavery voice, stroking his herald’s arm. “Oh, Iladro, what did you—”
Hector’s arm wraps across my shoulders, pulling my back against his torso as he backs us away from the table. He still holds a dagger in his free hand, though I’ve no idea what he thinks he can do with it.
“Water!” Ximena yells to no one in particular, and a glass appears before her. She tips it down the herald’s throat. He chokes, and water spews from his mouth, but she yells something at him and he starts to gulp it down like his life depends on it, which it might. And then she makes him throw up again.
“Let’s go, Elisa,” Hector says, and he starts to drag me from the dining room.
But I resist. “No.”
“It’s not safe! We need to—”
I whirl on him. “Your sword will not protect me from poison.” To the rest, I say, “Ximena, stay with Iladro until Doctor Enzo comes. Everyone else, with me now.” I stride through the door to the kitchen, and everyone tumbles after me.
The kitchen is chaos. People rush everywhere to dump food and clean bowls and utensils. I catch the acrid scents of vomit and of burning bread. On the stone floor beside the chopping table lies a man I’ve never seen before. He is clearly dead. His eyes bulge, frozen in terror and pain. Blood-tinged vomit leaks from the corner of his mouth and puddles beside him. A girl in a maid’s frock stares at him from behind the roasting spit. Tears stream down her face. Belén and the guards move to block the entrances.
“Silence!” I yell. Quiet settles, even as eyes widen with dread. “Everyone against the wall, there.” I gesture, but they do not move fast enough. “Now!”
They scramble all over one another in their hurry to comply, but manage to line up neatly.
I pace in front of them. “Who prepared the scones?” I ask.
Silence. Then a timid voice says, “I did, Your Majesty. Felipe and I.”
I turn on the source of that voice. It’s the crying maid. “Did you poison them?”
“Oh, no, Your Majesty, I would never—”
“Where is Felipe?”
“I don’t know.” She can’t bring herself to meet my gaze, and her maid’s cap has skewed forward. It bothers me that I can’t see her expression to read it.
So I reach forward and tip up her chin with my fingers. “When did you last see him?”
She swallows hard and blinks wet eyes. “I’m not sure. Maybe . . . just before we served? He said he needed wine to . . . to soak the pears. But . . . oh, God.”
“Oh, God, what?”
“Pears weren’t on the menu. I didn’t think . . . at the time . . . I was so busy. How could I know?” Her gaze is terrified and shaky but guileless. I find myself believing her.
Without breaking her gaze, I say, “Belén, please check the wine cellar.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
I step back, clenching my hands into fists. This cannot go unpunished. What will happen when the city learns that poison entered my private dining room? They will see me as weak, unable to govern my own staff, much less a country. And they will be right.
I need a show of strength. Of wrath. Something memorable.
I pace, worrying my thumbnail with my teeth. I could dismiss them all, throw them out of the palace. That would certainly be memorable. But there can be no doubt that most of them—maybe all—are innocent. If had proof, I would not hesitate to have the poisoner beheaded.
I freeze in my tracks. Is this why General Luz-Manuel had Martín executed? Merely as a show of strength? Because it was politically prudent to cast the blame somewhere?