Chapter 40 #3
Then he shrugged as if he already knew that.
And right now, it seems to be working in our favor.
The Umbra brushes her fingers over her purple-painted smile, letting the words sink in, and when they do, her expression hardens on me. “He is right. At least someone appreciates what I do for this place.”
She gives me a once-over, and though it looks painful for her to say, she relents, “Go help Greer with the bread baskets. You will be the last one to leave these kitchens tonight.”
“Yes, Umbra.” I dip my head and shift past her, but instead of making my way to Greer, who is neatly placing dinner rolls in brown wicker baskets, I join the young boy polishing glassware by the sink.
He’s young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, with white hair cut short to his head. His nails are painted a dark purple, and his skin is nearly translucent, his yellow eyes bright with power.
When he notices me standing there, I make a show of looking appalled. “What are you doing?” I gape at him.
His eyes widen, and his stare falls to the glass he’s wiping clean. “I’m polishing the drinkware?”
“The Umbra wanted you on bread baskets with Greer.” I gesture to the far side of the kitchen, and the boy tracks my gaze. Whatever he sees sets him into a panic, his attention darting to his half-finished task.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, nodding to the drinkware. “I’ll handle this.”
That seems to be enough for him because he throws his polishing rag down and scurries off to the bread baskets.
Alone with the glasses, I finish placing the rest on a round tray, checking over my shoulder before I dig through the pocket at my side.
Salem was only able to find five Espervane berries—a fatal fruit according to him. The skin around the berry is safe, but the inside is deadly. One drop of the juice in my system and I’d only have a couple of hours before my heart stops beating.
I work quickly, pulling a thick glove over my left hand and using the tip of a knife to slice the white skin off the first berry. Shielding my body so I’m blocking the kitchen's view of the tray, I run the fruit along the rim of the first glass.
The poisonous residue shines as it hits the light, but if I wasn’t looking for it, I wouldn’t notice it was there.
I toss the berry into the garbage and peel back the skin of another, adrenaline sparking in my veins. By the time I’ve lined four glasses with Espervane and set them carefully back on the tray, my hands are shaking with anticipation.
“Alesi!” The boy comes running back, and I flinch, whirling around to face him. “The Umbra needs the glasses—” He stops abruptly, noticing my gloved hand.
Panic flares in my chest. “I didn’t want to get fingerprints on the glass,” I tell him.
He remains skeptical, and I do everything I can to keep fear off my face, strengthening my illusion and forcing my body to remain still.
The boy raises a brow, and my shoulders slump in relief when he dismisses the suspicion with a loose shake of his head. “Whatever.” He reaches for the tray. “Give me those.”
I lift it before he can grab it, balancing the tray carefully on my hand. “I’ve got it.”
I don’t give him a chance to argue, pushing past him to navigate my way through the busy kitchen. The Umbra’s back is turned when I pass, too focused on something over the stove.
The glassware wobbles as I push through the door and into the dining room, keeping my head down in an attempt to be invisible. Too focused on my task to pay attention to the conversation being had, I circle the table, setting empty glasses in front of each guest.
Mr. Fairbourne is unfolding his napkin when I set his shiny-rimmed cup down. Our other source, Vance—the man I saw brutally assault Callan’s father—is lazily reclined in his chair when the stem of his tainted glass hits the table. I’m fighting a smile as I move to the next guest.
We needed something that wouldn’t cause a scene or raise any alarm before I was able to signal Callan and start the real distraction, and a slow-acting poison was the best option.
The more time we have to get rid of the sources before the rest of the Estate is aware, the better. If the Rogues suspect something is wrong, their attention might shift to the Captures—exactly where we don’t want it.
I set the next glass on the white tablecloth in front of the Countess, who is too busy in a side conversation with the woman to her right to even notice. Soon after, a servant enters from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine, pouring the deep burgundy liquid into each cup.
Exhaling a steadying breath, I move to the back of the room, sliding the tray onto a small cart before turning my back to it.
One glass remains. One source left.
I look over at the dining table, meeting a pair of bright blue, crystalline eyes that—if I’m not mistaken—are almost prideful.
I’m tempted to smile. Tempted to feel relieved. But we aren’t finished yet.
Salem blinks, and the emotion vanishes. He rises from his chair, grabs his glass, and taps his knife lightly against it. The attention of the room instantly shifts in his direction.
“I’d like to make a toast,” The Hound announces, sweeping his gaze over the guests. He glances once to the kitchen, then looks pointedly at the Countess. “Where is the Umbra?”
“The Umbra?” Her golden eyes narrow. “She doesn’t join our dinners.”
“I’ve noticed,” he cuts back. “However, I’m leaving tomorrow.”
At the Hound’s announcement, the Countess straightens in her chair, sharing a smug look with the woman beside her.
“And I’d really like to thank her for all of these fabulous meals.”
It takes monumental effort not to roll my eyes.
The Countess is too elated with the news that he’s leaving to care much about his request anymore. She looks up at the servant pouring her wine, an elated grin pulling at her red-painted lips. “Get the Umbra, would you?”
The girl nods, turning in the direction of the kitchen, and I intercept her, offering to take the bottle off her hands.
She hands it to me without a second thought, and I pivot to the tray, filling the final glass with what’s left of the wine.
The door to the kitchens swings back open a moment later, and the Umbra emerges with a bright smile on her face. As she passes, I hold the glass out to her, and she takes it without even looking at who poured it.
The Umbra is far too focused on the Hound.
“There you are,” he drawls, laying the charm on thick. It’s fascinating really, the way he’s able to slip into such a casual confidence.
The smile he puts on is alluring, as if he and I weren’t up until dawn plotting the downfall of everyone in this room. As if in a few hours the sky outside won’t be burning and at least four people in this room won’t be dead.
No, he doesn’t seem to care at all as he raises his glass to the dinner guests and the Umbra grins back at him, lifting her drink in his direction.
“I’d like to thank you for your hospitality,” the Hound says, gesturing to the table. “Though I doubt I’ll be back.” He delivers the jab with a smile, eliciting some uncomfortable laughter and an unimpressed snort from the Countess.
“I wish you all a myriad of things,” he continues, “but mostly I wish you luck.” Salem raises his glass, and I bite the inside of my cheek. “Lots of it.”
The following clink of glassware is eerie. The only sound in the room.
Mr. Fairbourne has already signed his death certificate, downing nearly half his wine at the conclusion of the cheers.
Vance takes a generous sip of his too, and the Umbra goes for a second, her lips red with the wine as she continues to admire the Hound.
Salem, however, is watching the Countess, who is still swirling around her drink.
My heart begins to pound as they stare at each other.
To his credit, his calm demeanor doesn’t shift in the slightest. He’s confidently drinking his wine, and he doesn’t look worried at all.
Panic squeezes my lungs, crawling up my throat, and just as my pulse nears fatally erratic, the Countess lifts her glass.
“To never coming back,” she says with a satisfied smile, then presses her red-painted lips to the Espervane.