The stench of dried mandrake root and unwashed linens clung to the apothecary’s shop like a shroud. The gaunt, perpetually sweating shopkeeper wrung his hands, his gaze flicking between Jadwiga’s unblinking stare and the Duke’s silent, towering presence. Volkov had not spoken since they entered the cramped backroom, but his gloved hand resting on the hilt of his dress sword communicated more explicit threats than any shouted demand.
“I merely supply what is requested, my lady,” the apothecary whimpered, a bead of sweat tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. “Nothing more. The Duke knows I am a man of—of discretion.”
“Discretion is a luxury you cannot afford, Master Klemens,” Jadwiga purred, stepping closer. Her voice was low, laced with the icy promise of ruin. “Especially when the requests involve certain… unusual compounds.” She gestured to a dusty shelf laden with glass vials containing powders of various ominous hues. “Lachryma Noctis, for example. Not exactly common cold medicine, is it?”
Klemens flinched. “Only for specific clients! A rare botanical, highly prized for its… properties.”
“And its remedy?” Volkov’s voice, a low rumble, finally broke the silence. It was devoid of inflection, yet the very air seemed to thin with its arrival. “Do you supply that too, or do you prefer your customers to remain… incurable?”
The apothecary’s face went even paler. “Counter-draughts are a separate craft, your Grace. My expertise lies in the extraction. Not the reversal.”
“We’re not here to discuss botanical curiosities,” Jadwiga interjected, cutting off his burgeoning monologue. “We’re here to discuss a particular toxin. Fast-acting. Untraceable by conventional means. Used to simulate a wasting sickness. Rings any bells?”
Klemens swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He cast a panicked glance at a heavy, iron-bound ledger sitting on a small, cluttered table. “Many compounds fit that description, my lady. The world is full of… unfortunate coincidences.”
“Open the ledger,” Volkov commanded, his voice now a sharp-edged shard of ice. He didn’t raise it, but the force of it seemed to physically push the merchant back a step. “The one for the past three years. Special orders. Under the code ‘Rosewood’.”
Jadwiga hid a smirk. Volkov worked fast. He must have sent his people to scour the magistrate’s records, to match the falsified diagnosis with known suppliers. She had offered a name, but he had unearthed the method.
Klemens hesitated, his hand hovering over the dusty book. “That… that is highly confidential, your Grace. My clients value their privacy.”
“And I value lives,” Volkov retorted, taking another deliberate step forward. The floorboards groaned under his weight. “Lives that appear to have been cut tragically short by your ‘discreet’ business. Open it. Now.”
With a defeated sigh that sounded like air escaping a punctured bladder, the man fumbled with the clasp. The pages, thick with age, rustled as he turned them, his gaze scanning frantically. Jadwiga leaned over his shoulder, her eyes sharper than his. There, tucked amidst entries for pain tinctures and sleeping draughts, was a series of orders for ‘Essence of Viper’s Kiss’ – a chillingly accurate description of the neurotoxin. The dates stretched back years, coinciding perfectly with the Dowager Countess’s slow decline.
“And the client?” Jadwiga demanded, her voice tight with suppressed fury. “Who is ‘R.M.’?”
The shopkeeper pointed a trembling digit at the coded entry. “Countess Renata Morawska, my lady. One of my oldest and most valued patrons.”
Jadwiga felt a cold, hard knot form in her gut. She had suspected, but to see it in stark, undeniable script… her confidante. Her family's closest confidante. A predator hidden in plain sight. Volkov, too, showed no surprise, only a grim tightening around his mouth. He had likely deduced this from the ledger and the physician’s payment. Jadwiga turned, her gaze meeting Volkov’s. In his eyes, she saw a flicker of something that might have been grim understanding, a shared burden of deceit. He had his traitor. She had her murderer. The alliance was cemented, not in words, but in the cold, hard proof of their mutual enemy.
She left the apothecary’s shop in a daze, the smell of dried belladonna and bitter salts clinging to her clothes. The Varaz afternoon air, usually crisp, felt thick and suffocating. She needed to see Stefania. Needed to know.
She found her sister in the glasshouse, meticulously tending to a cluster of verdant, unassuming plants. The air inside was humid and sweet, a stark contrast to the city’s biting chill. Stefania looked up, her usually serene face etched with a subtle tension Jadwiga had only recently learned to recognize.
“Jadwiga,” Stefania said, her trowel poised over a patch of dark earth. “You seem… troubled. More than usual.”
Jadwiga sat on an overturned potting bucket, pulling off her gloves. “Troubled doesn’t begin to cover it, Stefania. I need to ask you something. About these.” She gestured vaguely to the Lachryma Noctis. “And about Mama.”
Stefania’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. She laid the trowel down with quiet precision. “I thought you might. You’ve been asking too many questions, Jadwiga. Looking in too many places you shouldn’t.” She turned, her gaze uncharacteristically direct. “I knew you would eventually.”
“Knew what?” Jadwiga’s voice was barely a sound. “That she was murdered? That it wasn’t the Weeping Pox that took her?”
Stefania’s eyes, usually so soft, hardened with a quiet resolve. “It was a slow poison. A neurotoxin, from what I could deduce from her symptoms. It mimics a wasting disease. Takes months, sometimes years. I started researching as soon as her health began to decline. I knew something was wrong. Her doctors, they were… dismissive. Too quick to accept the official diagnosis.” She picked up a small, stoppered vial from a shelf beneath a work table. It contained a clear, slightly iridescent liquid. “I’ve been cultivating these plants, not for their poison, but for their properties. To understand how to counteract them. To find a treatment, a counteragent. For years.”
Jadwiga stared as a sharp pang of sorrow and respect seized her chest. Her gentle sister, quietly toiling in the shadows, fighting a silent war for their mother’s memory. “You suspected… all this time?”
Stefania nodded, a lone tear tracing a path down her cheek, quickly brushed away. “I was too young, too powerless to act then. I could only watch. But I swore if it ever happened again, I would be ready.” She extended the vial to Jadwiga. “This is a potent counteractant. Not a full cure once the venom has taken root, but it can neutralize immediate effects and slow progression dramatically. It must be taken quickly. I’ve refined it over time.”
Jadwiga took the vial. The glass was cool against her palm. It felt like a promise, a weapon. A fragile, shimmering hope. Stefania had not just been cultivating plants; she had been preparing for war. Jadwiga looked at her sister, truly looked at her, and saw not just kindness, but an iron will she had never acknowledged. A dense, shared grief settled between them, a silent pact forged in the quiet hum of the glasshouse.
“Thank you,” Jadwiga managed, her voice thick. “For everything.”
Stefania offered a small, sad smile. “Protect yourself, Jadwiga. And Teodor. This poisoner… they are cunning. More so than you can imagine.” Her eyes narrowed, focusing on something unseen beyond the glass panes. “They won’t stop at one. They never do.”
The air in the glasshouse grew heavy with that quiet threat. Jadwiga clutched the vial, its contents a stark reminder of the deadly game they were now playing. Countess Morawska. The elegant, wise confidante. The poisoner. Jadwiga had faced down dukes and baronesses, but this was different. This was a serpent in their garden, one who knew every petal, every root, every secret weakness. And she was now armed with the means to strike again, perhaps at Jadwiga herself, or at those she loved most. The glass vial felt heavy, both a shield and a terrible burden, and Jadwiga knew, with a chilling certainty, that she would have to use it soon.