Chapter 55 #2
“Ah, you’re after my motivation for donating. I wanted to help. I plan to help more.”
“You’re from the border.”
A slow, acknowledging smile. “How do you know?”
“You drag your vowels slightly. I made a guess.”
“The accent leaks through from time to time. You’re right. I grew up in Lyrica.”
“Are your family amongst those—”
“I’m the only one left in my family. The townspeople took care of me growing up; it’s only right I repay them.”
Quin hums and, while I dance, continues conversing. His mouth addresses the commander, but his eyes are solidly on my performance. Something which the commander notices. He toasts Quin again, and orders another dance. “You, come closer. Let my guest admire you fully.”
I wince behind my silk scarf and flutter towards Quin, whose lips twitch knowingly. I dance again, this time close enough that I touch his chest—with warning force—and knock his constable hat over his grinning face.
Quin neither budges nor flinches. Instead, his smile widens, he straightens his hat, and after another twirl, he yanks me into his lap with firm steering hands, eliciting a laugh from the commander. “Excellent, excellent. Pretty eyes, that one.”
“Full of hidden talents,” Quin agrees.
I purse my lips.
The commander rises. “Excuse me one moment, I’ll be right back. Keep playing,” he orders the harpist.
Quin’s hands tighten on me, stopping me from pulling away. His breath combs my ear. “Laugh,” he says. “There are eyes in the room.”
I feign a giggle, though my chest lurches with .
. . frustration. Quin’s grip softens, but his fingers linger around my hips.
I pinch the sensitive area of his chest as hard as I can, and he jerks slightly under me—but that only results in him laughing and drawing me in tighter.
He whispers, “Being interested in the entertainment keeps the commander at ease.”
Makes him no threat. Maybe opens the commander up. Quin’s after this chance to understand him . . .
“Hmm?” Quin says, nuzzling into my neck.
I tip his chin back and stare hard into his eyes, then lower my face slowly to his. The silk scarf shifts between our lips. “Understood.”
His fingers flex; I pull back with another giggle, pluck a grape off a plate and feed it to him, sliding my thumb into his mouth.
His teeth graze my skin. At the sound of footsteps returning, Quin grabs another grape and ducks his face under the curtain of my silk scarf to feed it to me from his lips.
Our mouths don’t touch, but I can still feel it, like a shiver.
I almost drop the grape, trembling. His splayed hands brace me.
“The harpist is watching a bit too closely,” he whispers.
I swallow. Nod. This is to further the act. To convince all eyes that he’s a lady’s man.
I’m swallowing the heartbeat in my throat when the commander returns with more dancers and more wine. On his way to his seat, he gives Quin a jolly slap on the back that jostles me further up his lap.
Wine is poured, drunk deeply, and getting the chance, I secretly knock some back too. Quin turns from the commander to an empty cup, and pauses. He gives me a small rub to my back, and tips more wine into the cup.
“Take your pick,” the commander says. “Any woman you like. On me.”
Quin laughs. “This one here’s tired. Let’s dismiss her. I like the harpist.”
He ushers me off his lap and my stomach gives a strange, uncomfortable lurch as Sparkles rises from her perch and sashays towards him.
“Go on, off you go,” he says when I don’t move.
I stop my staring, hurriedly curtesy, and escape. The doors shut behind me with a resounding click. I sag against the wall. Muffled giggles vibrate at my back, and I flee downstairs.
I make a feeble attempt to keep my mind on track and search for Eparchess Juliana, but my gaze keeps travelling back towards the staircase . . .
My women helpers from earlier find me in a flurry of skirts and once more I’m led into the changing room. They pluck me free of skirts and wipe off my makeup, and soon I’m staring at a more recognisable reflection of myself. Albeit one with an unfamiliar set to the mouth.
“What’s the matter, deary? You look disheartened.”
I bolt to my feet, then before a row of widened eyes, ease back into my seat with a tinny laugh. “Disheartened. Ha. Where’s my cloak?”
A woman at the neighbouring seat puffs a spray of perfume and my senses sharpen. I waft the air towards my nose, breathing in. “Amorous spores?”
Painted lips curl brightly and she nods. “Just a hint.”
I leap off the chair and peck her cheek to the delight of all in the room. “Brilliant.” Someone tosses my cloak over my back on my way out.
When I’m striding along the main square, I take out the handkerchief and check. Amorous spores. Definitely an ingredient.
I stall at the sight of freshly glued posters in the town square—one has a drawing of my face. Wanted for questioning. Inform the constabulary. I lower my hood over my eyes and hurry to the inn.
Sequestered in Quin’s room, I take out my grandfather’s books—which Quin insisted were brought here—and leaf through them for the page on amorous spores . . .
Should not be combined with nebularia, aquamantis, thundergrass, verdantia, or lunabloom. The result will be toxic.
I frown. Thundergrass is an element of the poison.
But if it’s so toxic, why did only the redcloaks and the nannan die, while the rest of the refugees were only sick?
Could the dosages have been different? Nannan was already frail, her liver was weak.
Perhaps she wasn’t able to filter even a small amount, and that’s why it killed her?
I read over all the known ingredients of the poison and take notes. The interactions of the various plants change their properties dramatically. Lethally. According to my notes, even the smallest amount should be enough to down a horse.
I shiver. Could it be that amorous spores and venom have been combined with a type of bramble or root? Something that would act like a bubble around the poison, making it seep out slowly. But if that’s the case . . .
The chamber’s door creaks open and Quin steps inside with the snick of his cane. He stops halfway across the room, his eyes having already read me. “What is it?”
I rise from my books, trembling.