He blinked. “What in—?”
She uncorked it anddrank.
The hall went silent.
In the half second before the liquid scorched her tongue, Wanton realized—with the detached clarity of a true scientist—that in her attempt to save Tavish MacTease, she had almost certainly condemned herself. Which was, objectively speaking, very noble of her. If a bit rash.
In retrospect, she could simply have thrown the suspicious liquid at the fire, or perhaps requested a control sample. But heroism rarely allowed for peer review.
The whisky hit her tongue like divine punishment: smoke, peat, fire, regret. Her eyes watered. Her curls trembled.
“Well, Uncle Barth would approve.”
Addendum to Field Note 18.3: If this is poison, one must admire its craftsmanship. Aged to perfection, full-bodied, with lingering notes of smoke, despair, and poor decision-making.
She choked out, “Peat… and death… most potent combination.”
Tavish stared. “That’s whisky, lass.”
Wanton blinked at him, wobbling slightly. “You’re mistaken. It’s poison. Very well-aged poison, but poison nonetheless.”
He folded his arms. “Aye? And how d’ye ken that?”
She pointed a wavering finger at her chest. “Because I feel… warmth spreading through my extremities. A tingling, almost pleasant sensation. My pulse is racing. My knees appear to be negotiating independence.”
“That’s called drinkin’,” Tavish said.
“And there’s a curious buzzing in my ears,” she continued earnestly, “followed by a sudden affection for all sentient life. Including you.”
“That’sdefinitelydrinkin’.”
She pressed her hand to her temple. “And my linguistic faculties appear to be slipping. Observe—‘thricstit… thrisththithiticcal error.’ You see? Classic poison slur.”
Tavish exhaled, half a laugh, half a groan. “Classic, aye.”
“Don’t mock the dying,” she scolded gently. “It’s terribly rude.”
And before Tavish could stop her, she lifted the flask again and took another valiant swallow.
“There. Secondary dosage administered. If I expire, please record the data with appropriate footnotes.”
She swayed, gloriously unsteady. The hearth loomed. Another half step, and she would have faceplanted straight into it—had Tavish not caught her.
His arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Heat radiated from his body, solid and startling.
She looked up—and promptly forgot how to exist.
Field Observation 18.4: Symptoms of supposed poisoning include dizziness, euphoria, and increased appreciation for Scottish anatomy.
His face was inches from hers, his breath warm with smoke and whisky. Her gaze, entirely of its own accord, drifted to his mouth. “Oh,” she whispered faintly, “I am most certainly dying.”
He frowned, tightening his hold. “And why’s that, then?”
Her voice wobbled between observation and confession. “Because my internal temperature has surpassed the boiling point of reason, and my limbs appear to have entered a state of molecular panic.”
His mouth curved, wicked and soft at once. “That’s Highland whisky to ye.”
She blinked up at him, dazed. “I also feel… dizzy. My pulse is rebelling, my knees have seceded, and my entire nervous system seems to be voting in favor of sin. Is that the effect of the whisky as well?”
