BLYTHE

THE WAKEFIELD MANOR WAS NOT THE SORT OF PLACE ONE WOULD write home

about. It was a stately building, well maintained and warmed by its rich tones and deep mahogany wood. Blythe had visited it several times over the years and was always underwhelmed by its simplicity. It had neither Thorn Grove’s oddities nor the extravagant beauty of Wisteria Gardens. No fascinating art or scenery, or really anything to make it stand out or feel lived in. Disregarding its size, the manor was, simply put, a painfully ordinary home.

Blythe kept close to the walls as she slipped inside, walking on her toes so that the heels of her boots would not clack against the floor. Much of the staff was preparing for the men to return from the hunt. The butler barked orders, sending two young maids Blythe didn’t recognize fleeing from the parlor with pillows in hand.

“Careful!” a feminine voice chided him. “We want to indoctrinate the poor girls, not send them running off in fear.”

Blythe alerted at the voice as a short woman with rosy cheeks bustled out of the room with a serving tray in hand. It had been some time since Blythe had seen her, but she at once recognized her as Sorcha Lemonds, Eliza’s lady’s maid.

Blythe was halfway through deciding her next step when Sorcha spotted her and almost dropped her serving tray.

“Heavens, Miss Hawthorne! You’re going to make an old woman catch her doom by skulking around in the corners like that. What are you doing

here?” Her voice was sharp and abrupt, the words blending together in a uniquely northern accent that Blythe had always enjoyed listening to.

“Miss Wakefield and I were riding together when she took ill,” Blythe said as she stepped away from the wall. “I came to check on her.”

“No need to worry yourself. She’s resting in her room. This bout will come and go like the rest of them.”

“The rest of them?” Blythe stood a full head taller than the woman, and yet she was racing to keep up as the maid ascended the steps without spilling a drop of the tea she carried.

“Her headaches, dear. They’re growing more frequent. I keep telling her to try and rest, but she only prattles on about needing to secure a good match her first year out. It’s ridiculous, if you ask me. But does she listen? Of course not.”

Only when the words were spoken aloud did Blythe realize that the past several times she’d seen Eliza, the young woman had been a sickly green or so ashen that she’d seemed ghostly, always complaining of a sour stomach. Her eyes immediately focused on the steam curling from the teapot.

They had never found the person responsible for poisoning Blythe. The staff had been culled, and eventually she was able to make a full recovery, but… what if the culprit had moved on to Eliza?

“She’s still getting those?” Blythe was wading into unfamiliar waters, unused to this delicate extraction of information. She wanted to take Sorcha by the shoulders and demand answers, but the Wakefield family had always been so proper. One wrong move, and she was certain they’d enact some sort of polite protocol to toss her from the manor. “How long has she been having the headaches now? It seems like it’s been ages.”

“They started just before her uncle passed, though I swear on my late mother’s grave that they’ve been worse since that night.” The woman crossed herself. “I think it’s the stress. I’ve never seen her in such a state.”

Blythe pressed her trembling hands against her sides to keep them from being noticed. “Why don’t I bring her the tea? If Eliza is feeling as down as you say, I’m sure she could use the company.”

Sorcha’s grip held tight as Blythe tried to pry the serving tray away. Though it was clear she wanted to deny Blythe’s advance, a crash sounded from the kitchen. The maid squeezed her eyes shut, muttering words beneath her breath in a language Blythe didn’t recognize before she handed

over the tray.

“Very well, Miss Hawthorne. You remember where her room is?” “Down the hall, third door on the right.” Blythe flashed a smile she

hoped was charming enough to keep Sorcha away before she hurried up the stairs. Only when certain she was alone did Blythe slump against the nearest corner, breathing in rasps. Her hands shook fiercely enough to clatter the teapot, and she had to sink down the wall and set it on the floor before the noise summoned anyone.

Blythe knew in her bones that she had no choice but to test the tea. Yet despite her efforts, her hammering heart had her pulling back each and every time she tried to pick up the teacup.

“Do you always hide in random halls of homes that are not yours, Miss Hawthorne?”

Blythe started at Aris’s voice, jerking upright so quickly that she nearly knocked over the teapot and had to quickly grab it by the spout. She winced when its heat seared her palms. “What are you doing here? Where’s the fox?”

“She’s asleep in the carriage. The driver didn’t wish to leave without you, so I waited ten minutes before I came to gather you myself. What are you doing?”

Blythe could see how badly she was shaking and knew there was no point in lying. If Aris had one redeeming quality, it was that he had not been in Celadon when she’d gotten sick, which meant that he couldn’t have been the one behind the poisoning. If she was going to safely confide in anyone, it may as well be him.

“Not long ago, I was unknowingly poisoned.” She curled in on herself, the very thought of poison resurfacing some forgotten trauma she’d buried deep in her body. “I’m worried the same thing is happening to Eliza.”

Aris pursed his lips. “If it is, would you be able to recognize the taste?

Or perhaps even the smell?”

The very thought of smelling belladonna turned her stomach. She pressed a hand to it, fighting back her nausea. “I can’t even pick up the pot to pour it.”

“You’d be able to recognize it, though, if you tasted it?”

In any other moment, she might have laughed at the ridiculousness of such a question. “I don’t think I could ever forget it.”

Instead of a reply, the sound of pouring liquid had Blythe unfurling long enough to watch as Aris poured a swig’s worth of tea into the cup. He was careful to keep it at a distance from Blythe as he swirled it.

“You want to try it,” he whispered. “Don’t you?”

Needed was more accurate. Because if it was poison, Blythe didn’t want Eliza to suffer as she had. She tried again to reach for the cup, but still her hands refused to move. Observing her struggle, Aris asked, “If you didn’t have to drink it from a cup, do you think you could do it?”

She swallowed, imagining the idea. When her mind didn’t immediately reject it, she roused a little. “Perhaps? I’m not sure.”

Again he swirled the cup, lips pressed into a thin line. “If I said I had an idea that might help you, would you wish to try it?”

She had no need to think before responding, “I would.”

The answer had barely left her mouth before Aris tipped the cup to his lips and took the swig. Blythe bolted upright, about to demand that he spit it out when he took one side of her face in his hand and drew her into him. Blythe realized what was happening the second before he kissed her.

Her body drowned in the heat of him, tiny electric currents jolting up her spine as his tongue slipped between her lips.

Aris didn’t taste of belladonna, but of warm ginger and honey. And good God was it delicious. It was a conscious effort to not let her tongue move against his, and to remember that this was no kiss. He was helping her. And yet, while she didn’t mean for it to happen, she sighed against his mouth. The second she realized her slipup, Blythe jerked away, mortified.

She collected the teacup and the pot at once, settling everything back on the tray where it belonged.

“Thank you.” Her voice was brisk as she stood, scooping up the tray. “I- it’s only ginger.” Though Blythe was doing her best to avoid looking at Aris, it was impossible not to see the smugness in his grin.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Good,” Blythe continued for no other reason than that she could not help herself. “And you should know that it’s been a long time since anyone has kissed me. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Aris had no right to be so amused, and yet he was practically gleaming. “It wasn’t a kiss, Miss Hawthorne.”

She had to turn away from him, refusing to let him see that she was

flushed from the chest up. “Of course not. I have been kissed before, Your Highness. I know they usually elicit a more rousing response.”

Aris’s laughter ceased. “Of course they do,” he said with the utmost defensiveness. “That’s because this was not a kiss.”

Blythe only shrugged, hoping she didn’t look like she was sweating as much as she was. “If you don’t mind, I need to deliver this to Eliza.”

“By all means, don’t let me stop you.”

She didn’t intend to. Before she let herself get any more distracted, she shoved past him and hurried toward Eliza’s room, knocking on the door once, then twice when no response came.

“Open up, Auntie!” she called, knocking again. Still there was no answer. Blythe’s heart was racing, lodged in her throat as she opened the door and prepared herself for the worst.

Fortunately, Eliza had not suffocated, nor had she died in a mess of her own vomit like Blythe had once nearly done. Instead, she was asleep on her bed, above the sheets and still fully dressed. On the nightstand sat a small jar of laudanum.

Blythe let herself feel the weight of her exhale leaving her chest. Eliza wasn’t dead or poisoned; the laudanum had just put her to sleep. Perhaps it truly was a passing illness; something entirely unrelated to poison. Blythe set the tea down on a table as something gave her pause.

Clutched in Eliza’s hand, barely visible, was a tiny vial of half- consumed herbs. Not the kind prescribed by doctors, but the kind found in the very apothecaries that Eliza had always claimed to hate. Blythe reached for it, trying to get a better look. The moment her hand brushed against Eliza’s, however, it was as though Blythe were thrust back weeks into the past, when she’d stared at Elaine’s skeletal reflection in the mirror.

The Eliza before her was little more than a corpse of withered skin taut against sharpened bones. Blythe could do nothing but stare as a maggot curled over one of Eliza’s hollow eye sockets, through her nose, then disappeared back into the corpse whose cheekbones were too gaunt and whose neck was twisted at an impossible angle. There was something stirring within the depths of her body; a sickly and consuming presence that Blythe shut her eyes against.

It was a hallucination. It had to be. Eliza had been asleep, breathing contentedly only seconds before—

“Miss Hawthorne?” The prince’s voice cut through her thoughts, and her eyes fluttered open. “Miss Hawthorne, are you well?”

Blythe forced herself to look at the bed, where Eliza was curled and resting peacefully. No bones. No hollow eyes or dark presence. Just a young woman in an enviously deep sleep.

Blythe gave herself fifteen seconds to memorize what the contents of the vial looked like, and then she stepped away from Eliza and took the prince by the wrist.

“Come on,” she whispered, not daring to spare Eliza so much as another glance before hurrying from the room. “Let’s get out of here.”