Page 85 of A Season for Scandal

By the time we reached the hotel again, I thought my heart was going to burst, the relentless hammering of my pulse the only sound I could hear. Helene and Lucy were right behind me as I ran through the doors into the opulent lobby, heads turning in our direction as we flew past, unheeding.

A thousand images flickered in my mind. Oliver, lying on the floor, a shattered coffee cup beside him. Dead. Dead and gone. The pain of it was so sharp that I felt my vision turn white at the edges. I had to remind myself to breathe, breathe, breathe, as we sprinted down the hallway towards my room.

I flung the door open, and it smashed against the wall with a tremendous bang. Inside the room, five astonished faces turned in my direction.

Oliver. He was alive. He was standing there, alive. Then I noticed the coffee cup in his hand.

“Bloom!” he exclaimed. “What—” The words died on his lips and his eyes widened as he took in the women crashing into the sitting room behind me. “Ellen!”

But before he had a chance to move forward, I was charging into him, smashing the cup from his hand, knocking him to the ground, where I tumbled on top of him.

“Oof!” Oliver made a breathless, winded sound.

I peered down at him, our faces so close together that I could count every one of his ridiculously thick eyelashes. I scanned his face in concern, as his arms came up round my waist, holding me steady. His eyes, so dark that they were almost black, looked into mine, and his mouth softened, pulling up into a half-smile. For a tiny moment I melted into him, felt the blissful warmth of his body sink into my bones.

“Bloom?” He arced a brow at me. “Not that I’m not enjoying myself, but may I ask … is there any particular reason why you have tackled me to the ground?”

“How much coffee did you drink?” I asked urgently.

Oliver frowned. “Have you suffered some sort of head injury?”

I clambered off him, barely taking in the baffled expressions on the faces of my friends. I ran to the coffee cup, which had spilled on the floor, a small pool of liquid already soaking into the plush carpet. I grabbed the pot. Half of it was gone.

“How much did you drink?” I asked again frantically.

But Oliver wasn’t paying attention to me; instead he had struggled to his feet and was slowly approaching Helene. “Ellen,” he said softly. “It is really you.”

“Yes.” Helene took a step towards him. “Oliver… I…”

“OLIVER! HOW MUCH COFFEE DID YOU DRINK?” I yelled then.

Oliver turned to me slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Bloom, I do not know what your obsession is with my coffee-drinking habits, but is this really the time?” He gestured towards his sister. “There are more important things happening, you know.”

If the coffee didn’t kill him, I might. Fortunately, Mrs Finch stepped forward. “He drank about half a cup,” she said quite calmly. “I suppose it is poisoned?”

“Poisoned?!” Oliver exclaimed.

“With what?” Winnie’s voice held mild interest.

I ran to the bedroom and reappeared with my leather case. “I don’t know.” I began desperately grabbing at the glass jars. “Lucy didn’t hear that part.”

All eyes swung to Lucy.

“And whatdidLucy hear exactly?” Sylla enquired, piercing Lucy with an interrogative glare.

“They… They only said they had something from the chemist,” Lucy stammered. “That you couldn’t taste in coffee.”

“Strychnine?” Winnie mused.

“Maybe cyanide?” Maud suggested.

“My money is on arsenic,” Sylla said dispassionately.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said acidly, “are you about to start taking bets on how I have beenpoisoned?”

Sylla shrugged. “Who among us hasn’t ingested a little poison here and there?”

“The fact that you are still alive is a good sign,” Mrs Finch said reassuringly. “You hardly drank any of the coffee.”