I must leave this room before I lose control. I take another deep breath and lift my chin to address a guard. “Hold them in the prison tower until the flogging tomorrow. Everyone else is free to go.” And with that I stride from the kitchen and into the hallway.
Hector hurries to catch up. “Please allow me to accompany you,” he says.
“Of course,” I say wearily. “I just had to get away.”
“You did well.”
I don’t feel like I did well at all.
He says, “I’ll send Doctor Enzo to you when he has a prognosis on the conde’s man.”
“Thank you.”
Moments later, we arrive at the door to my suite. He looks down at me, not bothering to hide his concern. “Will you be all right?”
“I hate myself right now,” I admit.
He reaches out as if to touch me, hesitates, lets his arm drop. He says, “I know. But I don’t. Hate you, that is.” And then he’s gone.
Chapter 11
I pace back and forth in my suite, awaiting word from Doctor Enzo. I pray as I pace, begging God to spare Iladro’s life. The Godstone suffuses me with warmth, but I know from long experience that the warmth is only an acknowledgment of my prayers, not an answer.
Mara paces right along with me, wringing her hands. “This would not have happened if I hadn’t injured myself,” she mutters. “If I had been the one cooking—”
Ximena has been calmly watching us. But now she grabs Mara’s shoulder and stops her midstride. “Injury aside, it isn’t right that the queen’s lady-in-waiting cooks for eight people. For the queen, occasionally. But you will not cook for state dinners. You’re a lady now, Mara. A noblewoman.”
I stare at my nurse. Why Ximena feels compelled to argue such a point at a time like this is beyond me.
Mara peers around her to give me a stricken look. “You could have died. The kitchen master’s taster is dead.”
“Yes,” I whisper. I hate this. My taster in Orovalle died too, when I was just a princess. Hundreds of my Malficio—my desert rebels—died because of the hope I gave them. Then Humberto. King Alejandro. The guard Martín. Will my continued existence carve a bloody path through the lives around me? Will my life’s greatest legacy be a wake of bodies?
I wish Hector were here. I need his solid presence, his sure-burning intelligence. Then I chide myself for weakness. My personal comfort is not as important as finding answers, and Hector is best where he is.
The rotten-pepper scent of vomit precedes Doctor Enzo, and I look up even as the guards announce his arrival.
“The herald?” I demand. “How is he?”
“He’ll live.”
My breath leaves me in a whoosh of relief as I collapse onto the bed.
“He may have stomach pain the rest of his life. He vomited blood, which means the poison ate into the lining—”
I hold up a hand to forestall further details. “What kind of poison?”
“Duerma berries, I think,” he says, and I gasp. “He’ll probably sleep a day or two.”
“I poisoned an animagus with duerma berries once,” I tell him. “It was nothing like what happened to Iladro. After digesting them, the animagus toppled over, passed out.”
“You used raw berries?”
I nod.
“They’re more toxic when dried and pounded into a powder. Mashed into flour, it would be almost tasteless. I suspect the powder mixed with alcohol is incredibly corrosive.”
“We had wine with our meal.” All of us.
“That would do it.”
“That’s why it didn’t take effect on the taster as quickly. No wine.”
“Rather ingenious, isn’t it?”
I don’t appreciate his admiring tone. “Thank you, Enzo. Good work tonight, as usual.” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand.
I resume pacing. Unlike the first attempt on my life, this one was clumsy and unfocused. Ill planned. Anyone could have eaten those pastries. Everyone in the dining room could have been poisoned. There is a clue here somewhere. Think, Elisa!
Crickets begin their nightly serenade, and the sun disappears behind the distant palace wall so that only the faintest glow seeps through my balcony doors. Ximena lights the candles on my bedside table. Mara retrieves my nightgown and lays it out on the bed, then fetches a brush to start working on my hair.
But I’m not ready for our nightly routine. I’m about to assign them useless tasks, just to keep them occupied and out of my pacing range, when Hector returns. His face is grave.
“The assassin’s employer?” I ask.
“No sign. The family knew nothing.”
Disappointment is like a rock in my gut. I am desperate for answers.