Jadwiga didn't think; she reacted. A sound tore from her throat, a raw, ragged shriek that ripped through the polite clinking of crystal and cutlery. “NO!” Her chair scraped back against the polished parquetry. She vaulted over the linen and silver, skirts tangling in the butter dishes. Porcelain platters of roasted quail and delicate pastries scattered, crashing to the ground in a cacophony of shattered china and spilled sauces. Her arm swept sideways between Countess Morawska and Teodor. Her palm slammed into the Countess’s wrist, sending the poisoned goblet arcing through the air. At the same instant, her other hand smacked Teodor’s glass, the innocent one, out of his grasp. Both vessels spun through grease and candle smoke, liquid spraying before they hit the baseboard with twin cracks. A shard of crystal grazed Jadwiga’s cheek, leaving a thin line of warmth. The dining hall fell silent, punctuated only by port dripping off the hem of the damask runner onto a boar hound's snout. Every head snapped up, forks suspended midway to parted lips. Duchess Vanya Volkov, Borislav’s aunt, clutched her pearl necklace, her mouth a perfect ‘O’. Teodor, his face pale, stared at the splattered wall, then at his sister, bewildered. Stefania knocked her bread plate aside, knuckles pressed against her chin. Mishka, who had been curled under Jadwiga’s chair, hissed, his enormous frame tensing, ready to spring. Only Countess Morawska remained unnervingly composed. Her hand, where Jadwiga had struck it, fell slowly back to the table. Her eyes, still fixed on Jadwiga, held not anger, but a profound, almost serene amusement. Her thin lips parted over neat, small incisors. She dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin, as if Jadwiga had merely spilled her tea. Duke Borislav Volkov, seated opposite them, had risen to his feet. His gaze swept from the Countess to Jadwiga, then across the wrecked venison. A cord corded in his neck. “Jadwiga,” he said, pitched below the clatter of the servants' hall. “Explain yourself.” Jadwiga stood bracing her knuckles on an overturned sauceboat, bile sour on her tongue. She stabbed an index finger at the Countess. “She… she poisoned it! She tried to murder me!” The words tumbled out against the silence, thin as tallow smoke. The Countess simply arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Murder, dear Jadwiga?” The Countess’s voice was a silken caress, carrying effortlessly through the hushed hall. “Such melodrama. I merely offered you a digestif. Are you suggesting I lack taste in libations?” She chuckled, a delicate, tinkling sound that grated on Jadwiga's nerves. “It was the neurotoxin,” Jadwiga insisted, her voice gaining a desperate edge. “The one from the apothecary, Vencel’s shop! The fast-acting one meant for… for you!” She realized her blunder as soon as the words left her mouth, implicating herself. The Countess’s smile widened, a predator’s grin. “Ah, Vencel. A most discreet man,” the Countess purred, rising from her seat with unhurried grace. “Though perhaps not as discreet as he once was. Or perhaps, my dear Jadwiga, you are just a little too… observant.” Her eyes flickered to Borislav, whose fingers tapped once on the table edge. “Or perhaps you were simply too ambitious.” She walked around the table, her steps light, her gaze never leaving Jadwiga’s. “You see, dear girl, the Olenkas have always been a nuisance. A blight. A stain on the proud lineage of the house of Morawska.” Gasps rippled through the guests. A few brave souls tried to speak, but the Countess merely raised a hand, silencing them. “My ancestors, the rightful stewards of the fertile Gyras Plains, were stripped of everything. Their lands, their titles, their very name, all because of the avarice of your *illustrious* great-grandfather, Old Man Olenka. Three centuries of shame. Three centuries of plotting. Did you truly believe a single generation could ever repay such a debt?” Three centuries. All the ledgers Jadwiga had burned, every rumor she had bought in tavern cellars—it was not an ambitious courtier's scheme, but an old grudge festering under powdered skin. “You arranged all of it?” Jadwiga said, her voice catching on the dry air. “The pamphlets? The plague? The ‘accident’ with Borislav’s horse?” “Oh, the horse was a delightful improvisation on your part, I admit,” the Countess conceded, a spark of genuine admiration in her eyes. “But yes. Every pebble in your path, every stumble, every misfortune that has befallen the Olenka name for the last twenty years has been meticulously placed by my hand. Your mother, your father… all carefully managed. And now, you, dear Jadwiga, with your uncanny foresight, have simply made my work more… entertaining.” Before anyone could react, the Countess clapped her hands, a sharp, decisive sound. A faint click echoed from the far wall, and heavy iron grilles, previously concealed behind wall hangings, slammed down over the two main archways leading out of the dining hall. Drafts whistled down the flue, fluttering the tallow tapers. “Duke Volkov’s resources are indeed formidable,” the Countess said, her voice now hard as flint. “But even the mightiest duke has blind spots.” From behind the grilles, a dozen figures emerged, their visors raised, their leather jerkins emblazoned not with the Volkov crest, but with a stylized, clawed hand – the ancient symbol of the Morawska retainers. These were Volkov’s own guard, or at least, they *had* been. Borislav took a step forward, his hand dropping to the pommel of his ceremonial sword. The hilt clicked against his scabbard ring. “Renata, stand down from the table.” “Stand down?” The Countess barked a single dry syllable. “This is reclamation.” She shifted toward Stefania, who remained pinned against the sideboard. In a flash of movement too quick to follow, the Countess seized Stefania, her arm wrapping around the girl’s neck. A glint of silver appeared in her hand – a small, wickedly sharp carving knife from the dessert trolley, its tip pressed to Stefania’s throat. “And now,” the Countess sneered, her voice dropping to a vicious purr, “the final act of this very long play. Your first funeral was for your ruin. This one will be for your extinction.”

The Second Funeral