Page 40 of Down Comes the Night

“Even without this bond to betray you,” said Hal, “you’re a terrible liar.”

Wren’s face burned with humiliation, even as she willed it into blank composure. “I liked you better when you were less chatty.”

Hal was almost beingniceto her, and it made her feel small and childish for her earlier behavior. She doubted he was actually concerned about her—more that he was struggling to understand her. Through the tether, it was easy enough for him to sense her waning energy levels. When she tugged back, she could feel the truth of his condition, too. Sluggish vitals. High cortisol.

He was still in a lot of pain. Of course he hadn’t told her.

Wren heaved a heavy sigh as she reached into her bag. She placed a bottle of painkiller on her nightstand. “Fine. I’m exhausted, and you’re a martyr. Two drops. Take it or leave it.”

Even after she closed the door behind her, she swore she could still feel Hal’s gaze prickling the back of her neck.

As Wren settled herself behind her desk, everything else melted away. Here, surrounded by her equipment and faced with a problem to solve, she was in her element. This was what she was made to do. If her magic told her nothing, then surely his blood would.

Wren uncapped the first vial and dribbled a sample on a slide. It spread like a bruise across the glass, slow and creeping. What her nation would pay for this opportunity, to uncover the genetic secrets lurking in his cells. But underneath the microscope’s lens, his blood looked the same as anyone else’s. It would have been nice if it hadn’t. How sweet it would be to see his wickedness twined into every strand of protein and spelled out in his platelets.

She adjusted the focus of the microscope and frowned. Well, maybe it didn’t look exactly like everyone else’s blood. As expected, his white blood cell count was too high. But among them swarmed something else.

Alkaloids.

“Goddess above,” she whispered. In her search for viral or bacterial cells, she had overlooked something far more obvious—more sinister. Colwick Hall’s mysterious illness didn’t exist and never had. Hal had been poisoned.

Which meant someone was murdering Lowry’s servants.

CHAPTER TWELVE

What in the Goddess’s name was she doing here?

Wren lowered her head onto the desk. Murder and sabotage lay far, far beyond her skill set. What if someone came back to finish the job? What if someone came forher? Her mind was an ever-tightening coil ofwhat if, what if, what if.

She had to tell someone who was qualified to handle this. She had to tell Lowry. She had to take Hal and escape immediately. But she couldn’t.

Her carriage wasn’t ready; braving the mountain roads in this snowstorm would almost certainly promise death. And Lowry was already a frazzled mess over this illness, if that absurd contract was any indication. Telling him it was poison would send him into a nervous conniption.

Assuming, of course, he’s not the one who did it.

But then why call for a healer? Why put on airs of mourning? Ifit wasn’t him, there were only about five other servants on the estate besides Hannah. Her list of suspects was uncomfortably small.

She took slow, steadying breaths to keep herself grounded. Everything would be fine if she stuck to her plan. She couldn’t panic. Fourteen more days. That was all she needed to endure. Fourteen more days to develop an antidote that would guarantee Hal’s survival and her safety. Fourteen more days until she could go home. She didn’t have to embroil herself in any of this. She just had to be quick and discreet. And focused.

So focus.

If she knew what the poison was, she could treat the root cause, but at least fifty different plants grew in this area that could cause his symptoms. She would have to visit the local herbalist to narrow down the options and acquire samples if she could. In cases like these, folk knowledge often surpassed scientific.

After pulling on every jacket she owned, Wren waddled into the hallway. Even in broad daylight, the house was impossibly dark, almost funereal. The only natural light filtered in through a round window at the end of the corridor that watched her like a half-shut eye. The snow accumulating on the windowsill would soon consume her view entirely. Wren wondered if this was how it felt to be buried alive, watching as the darkness swallowed a single point of light. After this ordeal, maybe she’d request a transfer to a coastal town.

Emerging into the grand hall, Wren clutched the banister and hurried down the staircase’s three twisting flights. As she rounded the last corner, she smacked into something solid and red. She gasped, staggering backward, but gloved hands caught her and steadied her by the elbows. She twisted out of the grip, but stilled as a key swung hypnotically in front of her nose like a pendulum. Wren recognized it—Lowry’s, of course—and looked up into his panicked blue eyes.

“Ms. Southerland?” As soon as he registered it was her, he wilted with relief and laughed breathlessly. He was dressed ostentatiously in red checkered trousers and a matching waistcoat.A differentoutfit from this morning…?They’d met only a few hours ago, and it wasn’t as if he’d entertained anyone or gone on a ride in this weather. “We really ought to stop meeting this way, scaring each other half to death.”

“My apologies! My head is elsewhere, clearly.”

His gaze lingered anxiously on the fur-trimmed collar of her coat. “Where are you off to in such a hurry? You’re not leaving, are you?”

And what concern of his was it if she did? Then, she remembered—the contract.

I shall not leave the estate under any circumstances without express permission.

Forcing a smile, Wren said, “Would you give me leave to run an errand? I’m hoping to go to the apothecary. My supplies have run dangerously low, and I’m missing an ingredient for Henry’s medication.”