Chapter twenty – The Poison in Sweet Wine ii
Ravienne muttered, folding her fan with a sharp snap. "She's fainting from a single glass? How tediously fragile."
Seliora clicked her tongue, leaning over Elira's swaying form with a smirk. "I expected more. What's the point of making a pet out of something so... breakable?"
"Pathetic," Seliora murmured, stepping back as though the fallen girl were little more than a wilted rose.
Ravienne's eyes coldly surveyed Elira's still form. Then, without another word, she lifted a gloved hand and called:
"Alaric!"
The steward, who'd been lingering at the fringe of the ballroom, snapped to attention and crossed the floor in measured strides. He bent and swept Elira into his arms, her dress rustling against his uniform.
"I'll take her upstairs—to the East Wing. I'll summon the physician."
Ravienne arched a brow, her gloved hand resting lightly on her hip. "That won't be necessary."
"With respect, Lady Ravienne," Alaric said, his tone cautious but firm, "Lord Thorne entrusted her to his court. He will not be pleased to hear she was—" he paused, glancing at the broken pices of the goblet and Seliora's smug expression, "—mishandled."
Ravienne's hand flicked dismissively. "No. This is merely—discomfort.
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Lord Thorne—"
"Lord Thorne is indisposed," Ravienne cut him off, voice cool. "He entrusted her to us. We will see she recovers."
Before Alaric could argue, one of Ravienne's closer guests—a lean baron with sleet-grey hair—intervened, voice dripping amusement:
"And would a mere servant know Lord Thorne's wishes better than his own mother? Perhaps we should ask which holds more sway over him."
A ripple of laughter followed. Ravienne's lips curled into a dangerous smile.
"Your concern is touching, Baron," she said, voice silk over steel.
"Unless, of course, dear Ravienne, you're admitting the boy confides in his stable help more than his blood."
Ravienne's lips thinned into a cold line. "Careful, Meredin."
"I am merely observing. Perhaps if you hadn't been so busy disciplining pets, you might've—"
"Enough," she hissed, eyes flashing. "Alaric. Take her upstairs. And do not trouble the physician."
Alaric hesitated for a beat—just long enough to feel the razor edge of Ravienne's fury—then gave a clipped bow. "As you wish, milady."
The corridor was quiet, distant from the revelry. Alaric pushed the door open with one shoulder and carried Elira inside. Her skin was pale and gleamed with cold sweat. Her body burned with heat, even as her limbs trembled.
Mirelle rose from the edge of the bed in alarm. "What happened milord?"
"She took a drink from Lady Seliora," Alaric said, lowering Elira gently onto the mattress. "Now she won't wake. She's burning up."
Mirelle's eyes widened. She stepped closer, her hands hovering near Elira's forehead but not daring to touch. "Milord... she's scorching." Her voice softened respectfully. "Please, if you would... I'll loosen her corset."
Mirelle knelt, pressing the back of her hand to Elira's forehead. "She's fevered, milord. Burning as if struck by flame."
Alaric nodded and moved back, watching as Mirelle quickly but carefully adjusted Elira's layers to allow her to breathe.
"I need you to fetch Mirra," Alric said, already removing his gloves. "Tell her to bring me valerian, frostroot, and the silverleaf tincture she'll know where to find them."
Mirelle bobbed a curtsey. "Yes, milord. Right away."
As she disappeared into the hall, Alaric turned back to Elira. Her hair clung to her forehead, her lips parted as she gasped for air even in sleep. Her hands were clenched into the bedsheets as if fighting something even unconscious.
Alaric watched Elira's chest rise and fall in ragged rhythms. He knelt beside her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow.
"Rest now," he murmured, voice soft enough for her alone. "You've withstood worse than poisoned wine."
The door closed behind Mirelle, leaving Alaric alone in the flickering candlelight, his silhouette steady against the deep shadows—a silent guardian in a world suddenly grown too dangerous.
The room was dim and silent, save for the shallow, erratic breaths escaping Elira's lips.
The heavy door creaked open at last.
Mirra entered swiftly, arms full with a lacquered tray of glass vials, folded cloths, and bundles of dried herbs tied in silver thread. The scent followed her—a mix of crushed mint, earth, and the faint metallic tang of alchemical tinctures.
She gave a curt nod. "Lord Alaric."
"Set it down," he said, standing.
Mirra obeyed, placing the tray on the low table by the bed. "Frostroot, valerian concentrate, and silverleaf tincture, as you requested. I brought ginger distillate too—it will help her stomach accept the mixture."
Alaric looked at Elira's pale face. "Will she wake?"
Mirra didn't answer immediately. She examined Elira's eyes, lifting each lid gently with a gloved hand. "She's responsive beneath the surface. But whatever she drank was designed to suppress resistance. A slow-acting inhibition compound, mixed with a heating agent. Not lethal—but cruel."
"She didn't choose to drink it." His voice was low, unreadable. "It was forced."
Mirra arched a brow. "As is most everything in this place."
She pulled out a small porcelain bowl and began grinding the dried frostroot leaves, crushing them into fine green dust. Then she measured a few drops of the valerian extract—thick, bitter—and a delicate swirl of the glowing silverleaf tincture. The mixture shimmered faintly, its color shifting between jade and pearl.
"She won't be able to swallow on her own," Mirra said.
Alaric moved without hesitation, slipping an arm beneath Elira's shoulders to lift her gently. Her head fell back limply against his chest, her skin cold but sweat-slicked.
Mirra approached with a long silver spoon.
"I'll do it," Alric said, reaching for it.
She hesitated, then handed him the spoon with a small nod.
With great care, Alaric brought the liquid to Elira's lips, pressing the edge lightly against them. "Elira," he murmured, his voice no longer the cold efficiency he wore before others. "Drink. Just a little."
Her lips twitched.
He tilted the spoon slowly, allowing a thin stream to enter her mouth. She gagged faintly, and he adjusted her posture, holding her upright until the mixture slid down.
Another spoonful. Then another.
Between doses, he murmured quietly—nothing audible, just steady words to tether her to the world.
Mirra watched from a respectful distance, her arms folded, expression unreadable. "If she keeps this down," she said quietly, "the fever will break before dawn."
"And if not?" Alaric asked, brushing a strand of damp hair from Elira's cheek.
"She'll burn from the inside," Mirra replied simply. "But she's strong. Stronger than most nobles believe."
He looked at the girl in his arms, her features soft in the candlelight, her collar glinting faintly beneath her neckline like a chained star.
"She has to be," he said softly.
Mirra didn't respond to that. She simply began cleaning the tools with practiced efficiency, eyes flickering once toward the darkened corridor outside.
Neither of them noticed how Elira's fingers twitched faintly against the folds of her gown—or how the collar around her throat pulsed once, with a dim and silent light.