“Wonderful.” My tone was calm, too calm. The heat behind my ribs burned hotter with every measured word. “And the Dowager?”
“She’s gone out riding, Your Grace.”
Nelly busied herself with the teapot, pouring carefully, but her hand trembled enough that the liquid rippled against the rim. She turned with a cautious smile, offering me the cup.
“Here you are, Your Grace.”
I didn’t move to take it. My gaze flicked to the cup, then to her face.
“Is that thenormaltea,” I asked softly, “or has Laudanum already been added?”
The cup dipped a little, her eyes widening. “There is Laudanum, Your Grace,” she stammered.
A hollow laugh escaped me as I rose from the bed, the sheet slipping from my shoulders. “Nelly,” I said, voice smooth and low, “I would likenormaltea. In the solarium. I want anormallunch. In the solarium.”
I stepped toward her slowly, my bare feet silent against the rug. “And if anyone—anyone—offers me Laudanum again,” I swore, each word sharp as glass, “they will be dismissed at once. Is that understood?”
Her throat bobbed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good.” I turned toward the window, staring into the garden below without another word.
Behind me, Nelly gathered the tray, moving quickly toward the door.
It shut softly, and for the first time in days, I felt something dangerous shudder beneath my ribs.
Not madness.
Not fear.
Resolve.
An hour later, I entered the solarium quietly, the soft rustle of my skirts the only sound as I stepped into the glass-walled room. For the first time in what felt like weeks, my body hummed with something other than fatigue. The fog that had dulled my mind had finally lifted.
But any sense of peace shattered the instant I saw her.
Isolde sat at the round table, the sunlight glinting off the pearls at her throat like a line of armor. A ledger lay open before her, and Mrs. Ashby stood dutifully at her shoulder, hands folded, head slightly bowed.
“I don’t care for duck,” the Dowager said crisply, tapping a manicured finger upon the parchment. “Perhaps a roast. Something simple. Peasant fare, but palatable.”
My steps slowed.
Mrs. Ashby murmured something in response, but the Dowager waved her off with imperious disinterest. She hadn’t even looked up.
I drew a slow, deliberate breath, steadying the tremor in my hands. “Good afternoon,” I said, my voice cool, controlled, and far too polite for the venom stirring in my chest.
Isolde glanced at me only long enough to assess my gown, my posture, my insolence. Then she snapped the ledger shut and handed it to Mrs. Ashby.
“Ah. Look who’s finally awake.”
I forced a smile, thin and sharp. “Is that the menu you’re approving?” I asked. “Formyhouse?”
She gave a languid shrug, as though my outrage were a buzzing fly in her ear. “Someone must see to things while you laze about in a stupor. I should think you’d be grateful.”
The heat rose in my cheeks. “Laze about?”
“On Laudanum, no less,” she added with a sniff. “It’s a wonder you can stand.”
My composure cracked. “Mrs. Ashby,” I demanded, turning to the housekeeper, my voice clipped and clear. “Will you please escort Lady Havenshire to her room? Once there, you may help her pack. She is leaving at once.”
