“I was going to wait until Santorini, but I want you to have this now.” He hands it to her.
Roshaan lifts the lid. Nestled inside, in a bed of dark-indigo velvet, is a shimmering green stone on a gold band. Blood drains from her head.
He slips the ring onto her ring finger. Emotion floods her.
“An emerald,” he whispers. “A stone as large and pure in quality as my love for you, and to match the green flecks in your eyes. It’s my promise to you, Roshaan DaSousa. I will love you always.”
Poppy
Poppy shuts the bathroom quietly, careful not to rouse Lillith. If her boss took those high-dose diazepam pills on her nightstand, she’ll be out for a while. Poppy wonders if she’ll even wake for dinner—the sky outside is already sliding into twilight as theBlack Orchidcuts through the Aegean toward Crete.
She locks the door. Best not be caught red-handed examining Lillith’s meds. Poppy sets the vanity case on the marble counter and flips it open. She’s already snapped a quick photo of the contents—insurance in case Lillith stirred before she was done. But this is better.
Back in Scotland, her room at the castle is near Lillith’s ground floor office, studio, and darkroom. Lillith’s private suite is upstairs. It isn’t possible to snoop up there without drawing staff suspicion. And Athens was too rushed for opportunities. This cruise is her chance.
So far, all she knows about Lillith’s health is what the old woman admitted herself: that she’d need increasing degrees of home care in the future, and that Poppy was to keep this private. But the dog-eared book on her nightstand—Exit Strategy: A Guide to the Gentle Art of Dying Well—says something more serious. Lillith may be preparing for death.
If Poppy can decipher the meds, she’ll have a better sense of what timeline she has to work with. Plus she’ll be one step ahead of Arrabella and Patrick.
She hasn’t told Lillith that the pair are on the ship. Poppy has decided to keep this information to herself. Better to let her boss be blindsided, and see her get angry with the couple. A girl has to look out for herself.
Poppy begins to unpack the vanity case, studying each label. And it’s quite the inventory:
Riluzole, for “MND,” 50 mg tablets in blister packs with a National Health Services label displaying Lillith’s name.
Baclofen, for muscle spasms. This could explain Lillith’s increased leg dragging and her limp, plus the occasional facial muscle twitches Poppy has noticed over the last few days.
Atropine eye drops, prescribed “sublingually” to dry the mouth. Gabapentin, for nerve pain and cramps. A tub of Swalloweze Clear “for dietary management of dysphagia.”
Poppy inhales deeply, her chest tightening at the implications.
She finds an unopened box of hyoscine hydrobromide patches, co-codamol for pain. More diazepam, this particular prescription “for panic and shortness of breath.”
She frowns, tension increasing in her chest as she places the medications in the bathroom cabinets.
There’s a card tucked into the side of the cosmetic case.
Dr. Annette Rowling,
Regenerative Neurology Clinic, Edinburgh.
Alongside the card is a piece of paper with contact information for a community palliative care team, plus the address of a hospice in Scotland, coupled with a helpline number.
A chill works down Poppy’s spine—this is a pattern she recognizes: She knowsMNDstands formotor neuron disease. She’s seen similar collections of meds. Usually for symptomatic relief of ALS—amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—or Lou Gehrig’s disease. The rapidly progressing kind.
And judging by this medication—especially the fact that Lillith brought with her the unopened tub of Swalloweze—she may have six months, or maybe less, before she will need round-the-clock palliative care. But so far the old woman’s cognition seems okay to Poppy. Justthe occasional hesitation while searching for words, and the odd slurred phrase. Poppy assumed it was drink. Lillith likes a good tipple—she had, after all, been a hard-living war correspondent and no stranger to a wild life. That alone could take a toll.
Poppy closes the bathroom cabinet. This should feel like a win.
So why does she feel a sadness curling through her instead?
She glances at her reflection. And it hits her.
In the nine months since she was hired, Poppy has actually grown fond of her boss. Lillith is not what she expected. She’s not condescending, patronizing, demeaning, or demanding, like so many of the superrich are. Despite her wealth and elegance, Lillith is down to earth. Kind, even. Poppy isn’t used to kindness.
Lillith asks how she’s feeling. She asks if Poppy is happy, and whether she needs anything.
This realization makes Poppy’s stomach hurt.
