He said nothing as I approached, only cocked his head and flew to my shoulder, his talons brushing lightly against the lace of my collar.
We descended the stairs together, and though I walked slowly, each step felt unnaturally loud, echoing through the hush of the house. The halls were too still, the air oddly heavy. A draft stirred along the corridor, bringing with it the faint scent of dried lavender and wood polish.
“Where are the maids this morning?” I murmured, more to Poe than myself.
He gave no answer, only clicked once, deep in his throat before brushing his head against my cheek.
I passed through the front parlor, the study, even the music room where the keys of the pianoforte gleamed like teeth. But Mrs. Ashby was nowhere to be found.
I was about to give up when I heard the faint snip of shears.
I followed the sound toward the conservatory.
The room was drenched in pale morning light that pooled across the tiled floor, refracted through glass panes streaked with silver condensation. Mrs. Ashby knelt near a raised bed of chrysanthemums, her hands working steadily, pruning each blossom with quiet ruthlessness.
“Mrs. Ashby,” I said, keeping my voice light. Poe adjusted on my shoulder, his wings rustling softly. “Good morning.”
“Your Grace.” Her voice was even. She snipped another blossom and dropped it into the basket beside her. “You’re up early.”
“I hardly slept,” I replied.
Another clean clip. “Quite understandable.”
“I did try, though,” I added carefully. “Your tea helped.”
That made her pause.
She glanced at me briefly before resuming her task, the faintest hitch in her movement before she carefully snipped one long stem.
“What teais that, Your Grace?” she mused.
“The one you left by my bedside last night… with the note.” I offered. “I thought I tasted something floral in it with hints of something earthy.”
She set down the shears, her attention focused on me now, though her expression was unreadable. “I didn’t send any tea to your room, Your Grace. Lord Blackthorn said you had already fallen asleep.”
Poe let out a low croak. “There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton…” he paused to chitter, “much of the bizarre.”
Mrs. Ashby’s eyes flicked to the bird for the briefest of moments, her lips pressing into a thin line.
I laughed lightly, ignoring Poe. “I’m quite certain there was tea. It had a note in your hand.
Poe ruffled his feathers.
She studied me for a moment, voice calm as she returned her attention to the flowers. “It wasn’t from me, Your Grace.”
My fingers curled slightly in my skirts. “Perhaps a maid left it then. Lydia, maybe?”
She straightened. “No one would have entered your chambers without permission. I made that very clear.”
“But I drank it,” I whispered, more to myself now. “It helped me sleep so… deeply.”
A pause. Mrs. Ashby’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, Your Grace?”
I held her gaze for a moment too long. Then forced a polite smile. “Nothing at all. It was only… unusually effective. I had hoped you could tell me the blend.”
The lie rolled off my tongue with ease.
Poe dipped his head low, staring at Mrs. Ashby. “Whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor—“ he croaked once, then continued, “and silence, not solitude, was in the room…”
