Page 121 of The Mercy of Dawn

She’d deal with the damn curtains after.

Her head throbbed an agonizing beat in time with each clatter and clank as she set everything on the bathroom counter and dumped a package of the crystalized powder into the cup. She filled it half full with cool water straight from the tap, gave it a rough stir with her finger, and braved a first, tiny sip.

That first taste of mint laced with clove and ginger wasn’t exactly…pleasant, but it didn’t come right back up, either.

Progress.

Cyril wet her lips with another cautious sip and the most minute wisp of relief rolled down her throat.

She could have sobbed.

Cradling that cup of gods-sent liquid in her hands, she headed straight for the sofa.

It was the first soft surface she’d set her body on since she hauled out of bed all those hours ago. Nothing had ever felt more inviting, and each sip of tincture went down easier than the last until the glass was empty.

At its base, the medicine’s compounds eased the debilitating cramping and bleeding that came with fae cycles. A fair price to pay, the mortal women always liked to remind them, for something that only came once or twice a year.

Cyril begged to differ.

But most apothecaries, like the one the Rhodea Estate ordered its tablets, tonics, and tinctures from, liked to add a few other niceties to the mix. Namely, just a touch of a mild sedative and a couple of choice plant extracts to ease pain-induced nausea before the rest of it kicked in.

Apparently, it also did one hells of a job easing lockmead-induced nausea, too.

Cyril hadn’t even realized she’d nodded off on the sofa until a persistent knock at the door startled her awake. She was still upright, the empty cup on its side in her lap. If the simple wooden clock on the mantle was to be trusted, it was eleven. She was certain it said eight the last she looked.

“Lady Cyril, are you awake?” came a soft, feminine voice from the other side of the door.

“Come in,” she called from the sofa, and gods, her voice. It was more of a raspy, broken croak than anything else.

The short, enviably curvy fae woman who pushed open her bedroom door offered Cyril a warm smile that spoke of nothing but empathy as she wheeled in a cart behind her stacked full of loaded trays. She recognized the woman right away from the long, golden brown braid that swept down to the backs of her thighs.

But her name? Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea.

Marlie? Maisey? Mari?

“Thank you,” Cyril said, instead of fumbling out what assuredly would have been the wrong name.

“Oh, you’re very welcome.” The woman tossed her another smile before floating her finger over the trays, humming softly to herself. She crouched down and pulled one from the second shelf as she said, “Did you have a good solstice, Lady Cyril?”

“Too good, I think,” Cyril groaned.

The other woman chuckled as she sat a tray down on the cushion beside Cyril.

A covered dish with something Cyril hoped was plain, a mug steaming with the scent of ginger, and a trio of tonic bottles served as the perfect distraction from letting her mind dwell on the events that made her solstice too good.

Namely, that it hadn’t even been twelve hours since she was tangled up with the prince in her bed and making a gods damned fool of—

“If I could offer a suggestion?”

Cyril blinked up at the woman and nodded.

“Take this before you eat.”

She slid one tonic bottle to the end of the tray closest to Cyril.

“Take this one afterward.”

The next bottle she slid to the middle, and then she tapped her finger on the one still left at the far side.