“Aside from the fact that he agreed with his wife about sending you away from Fairweather Palace, and that you had a very heated argument over that.”
I clench my teeth. “That’s hardly worth killing someone over. Children argue with their parents. It isn’t a revolutionary concept.”
“Very well,” he says. “Explain the use of poison then. Even if I were to accept that you held no ill will for your father, could you have accidentally poisoned the pie while taking your tincture?”
“No,” I say, tone firm. “I’m careful with it. I never take it around someone else’s food or drink, nor could I have accidentally used actual Crimson Malus fruit. Had it been an apple pie, I might understand the possibility of such a grave mistake, but the pie I made was strawberry.Onlystrawberry.”
He lifts his chin, his countenance taking on a smug quality. Or smugger, I should say. The Huntsman is already smugness incarnate. “What would you say if I told you the poison wasn’t inside the filling but coated onto the pie crust?”
My mind goes blank at that. “That’s where the poison was placed?”
He nods. “It was laced into the butter that greased the pie tin.”
I place my hand on my chin and begin to pace, only to remember I can’t get very far in these cuffs. “That proves it,” I say, half to myself, half to him. “The pie tin is the only component that was out of my hands for any amount of time.”
The Huntsman takes a sudden step forward until only a foot of space stands between us. He lowers his head, and I pull back, but he doesn’t come closer. Only…breathes in.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He breathes in deeply again, then steps back to where he was. “Smelling for lies.”
I cut him a glare. “Then sniff away, bear man. I’m telling the truth.” When he says nothing more, I continue. “Queen Tris was alone with the pie tin. She came to speak with me when I first entered the kitchen to start the pie. She sent everyone out of the kitchen, the cooks, the servers, even my lady’s maid.”
“What did she come to speak with you about?”
My fingers curl into fists. “To remind me how serious she was about seeing me gone.”
“All because you rejected her nephew’s marriage proposal?”
I shake my head. “That was only the most recent fault she found in me. Her animosity for me had reached a boiling point long before then.”
“Why?”
I lift one arm in a half shrug. “Why do you think? Because of my magic. Because—like Madame Desire—she was envious of the reflected qualities she saw in me. More condemning is the fact that she had the opportunity to poison the pie. When she asked me what I was doing in the kitchen and sent everyone away, I told her I was making a pie but never said who I was making it for. While we spoke, I began to gather my supplies—pie tin, measuring cups, butter. By the end of our conversation, I was so upset, I stormed out of the kitchen in a huff. I didn’t bother to see when she left.”
“So you think Queen Tris poisoned the pie tin—or the butter—after you left the kitchen.” His tone suggests he’s still only humoring me, but at least he’s listening.
“Yes.”
“Was anyone in the kitchen when you returned?”
I suppress a groan, knowing my answer will give more space for doubt. “Yes,” I begrudgingly admit. “When I returned to the kitchen, the staff had already returned too. But none of them did it. Ithadto be Tris. She did it before she let the staff back in the room.”
A few quiet moments pass between us before the Huntsman poses his next question. “How would the queen have come by the same poison you use to manage your mood? We’ve already determined the poison had been laced into the butter and did not come from the fruit itself. Which means it had to have been delivered in liquid form.” His eyes narrow yet again. “Like a tincture.”
“I understand your conclusion, but regardless of what form the poison was delivered in, it was not placed there by my hand.”
“Tell me this, Miss Snow. Where do you source your tincture?”
My stomach sinks. Not with guilt but with the knowledge that my answer will cast me in a suspicious light. But if my captor can smell lies, I have no choice but to answer honestly. “I make it myself.”
He gives no indication whether he’s surprised by that. “Where do you brew it? The same kitchen you made the pie in?”
“Of course not! That would be highly irresponsible.” I take a deep breath before I explain. “I brew it in my room. I learned how to make it from the fae who healed me. When I was recovering, I asked a few questions. I hadn’t had any intention of making it then, but I was so curious about the poison that I wanted to understand more. I asked how to identify the variety from regular apples.”
“And how does one distinguish Crimson Malus from a non-poisonous apple?”
I assume he’s testing me. With how thoroughly he seems to have studied this case, he probably knows the answer already. “Crimson Malus drips dark red nectar when it’s ripe, and the grass and soil beneath the tree will be the richest shades of green and brown.”
