Vlasta scrambled across the flagstones, her knees scraping painfully as she reached Milena. Her sister's small body convulsed, a rattling gasp escaping her lips, already stained with pinkish foam. “Milena!” Vlasta cried, her voice cracking. She fumbled at her sister’s collar, searching for a pulse that felt too weak, too rapid. The scent of the vermilion blossom hung thick, an oppressive syrup fouling the damp glasshouse air. Jarek burst in a moment later, his face pale as fresh parchment. He dropped to his knees beside Vlasta, his hand hovering uncertainly over Milena’s forehead. “What—what happened?” he stammered, his gaze darting from the struggling girl to the discarded sketchbook. “The poison,” Vlasta choked out, tears blurring her vision. “It’s faster this time. So much faster.” This wasn't how it happened before. Milena had wasted away slowly, over weeks, not hours. Every choice Vlasta made, every desperate alteration to fate, seemed to twist back on itself, sharpening the blade instead of dulling it. It was like dancing with a ghost, a malicious entity countering her every step. Duke Hrubý’s shadow fell over them. Vlasta looked up, her own face likely a mask of raw terror and grief. He stood, unmoving, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene, calculating. He didn't offer comfort, or even a question. Just observation. “Bring her inside,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble. “Get a physician.” Jarek, spurred into action, carefully lifted Milena, his movements surprisingly gentle for his flustered demeanor. Vlasta stayed on the flagstones for a moment longer, her gaze fixed on the wilting scarlet bloom in the vase. This wasn’t just a random act of fate. Someone was actively escalating the danger, turning her knowledge against her. Days later, the grand halls of the Imperial Palace shimmered with the false gaiety of the Solstice Ball. Milena lay sequestered at the Kopřiva shop, clinging to life, her breathing shallow, her skin a waxy pallor. Vlasta had administered every temporary counter-agent she knew, but the poison’s virulence defied her. It was stronger, more insidious. The true cure, the one she had perfected in her past life, still eluded her, a maddening phantom just beyond her grasp. Tonight, she would find the poisoner. Her original target, House Žižka, felt too simple, too obvious now. This was a deeper game, a cruel manipulation. She moved through the throng of courtiers, her ruby-dyed silk gown rustling against the polished parquet. She had to locate the source of the lung rot's new potency, or Milena would not last the week. She saw Jarek on the periphery of the ballroom, looking utterly out of place in borrowed formal wear, his eyes wide and scanning the opulent surroundings. He caught her eye, a frantic gesture beckoning her towards a less crowded alcove. Vlasta excused herself from a minor noble, her smile brittle, and slipped away. “Jarek, what is it?” she asked under her breath, watching the passing guards. His usually pale face was flushed with urgency. “The poison,” he gasped, clutching a crumpled piece of paper. “It’s not in a drink. Not this time. I overheard a servant, a footman from House Hněvsa, talking about a special delivery for Lady Milena, a gift from Countess Smetana. He mentioned ‘spun silver-thistle dust’ and ‘the scent of the Red Murmur.’ He was intercepted and replaced before he could finish delivering it.” Vlasta’s mind raced. Spun silver-thistle dust. The exact ingredient that had been sabotaged in her lab. The Red Murmur was an old apothecary moniker for the toxic blossom. “Where is it?” she demanded, her voice tight. “A sash,” Jarek hissed, unfolding the paper. It was a hastily sketched design of a beautiful, intricate sash, adorned with crystalline beads and fine, shimmering threads. “He described it. Said it was woven with the dust. Lady Milena was meant to wear it tonight.” Vlasta scanned the ballroom, her heart thudding against her ribs. Milena wasn’t here, but the sash… if it was meant for her, it might still be in play. She spotted it then, draped across the elegant shoulders of Countess Smetana’s niece, Lady Běla. The sash gleamed, its threads catching the light, innocent and deadly. The fine dust was invisible to the naked eye, a slow-release toxin woven into the fabric. The moment the body heat activated it, the poisoning would begin. If it touched Milena, it would be a death sentence. There was no time for subtlety. Vlasta grabbed a glass of potent Vinohrady wine from a passing tray, dark red dregs sloshing toward the rim. She moved with purpose, a calculated elegance that belied her frantic intent. Lady Běla was deep in conversation with a portly Baron, her back to Vlasta. Vlasta 'tripped,' a perfectly executed stumble that sent her careening forward. The wine arced through the air in an ink-dark splash across the front of Lady Běla’s gown, soaking straight through the embroidered silk sash. “Oh, my deepest apologies, Lady Běla!” Vlasta exclaimed, her voice laced with feigned horror. “How clumsy of me! Allow me to assist you.” Lady Běla gasped, her face a mask of outrage. “My gown! And this… this beautiful sash, a gift from my aunt!” she shrieked, batting Vlasta’s hands away. “You did that on purpose, you vulgar commoner!” The onlookers gasped, a ripple of shocked murmurs spreading through the nearby clusters of nobility. Vlasta, however, felt a surge of grim satisfaction. The wine’s acidity would neutralize the plant-based toxin, rendering it inert. Milena was safe, for now. Humiliation, a public spectacle, was a small price to pay. She offered a low, exaggerated curtsy, a silent challenge in her eyes. “My deepest regrets, Lady Běla. Perhaps a trip to the washroom would be in order?” Lady Běla, fuming, swept away, trailed by a handful of scandalized ladies. Vlasta took a deep, shaky breath. One crisis averted, but at what cost? She had made an enemy, and Duke Hrubý’s agents would surely report the incident. “A rather… dramatic solution,” a low voice purred from behind her. Vlasta stiffened, recognizing the familiar, unsettling timbre. Duke Vojtěch Hrubý emerged from the shadows of a grand archway, a half-smile playing on his lips. He looked impeccably sharp in his formal attire, a silver brocade waistcoat gleaming under the candelabra. “You draw attention, Mistress Kopřiva. Is that your intent?” “Merely an unfortunate accident, Your Grace,” Vlasta replied, her composure returning like a freshly polished façade. “The Vinohrady is rather potent tonight.” He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Indeed. Almost as potent as your knack for finding trouble. Or perhaps creating it.” His smile vanished, replaced by a gaze that seemed to pierce her very soul. “Tell me, Mistress Kopřiva, what is your particular interest in the creeping sickness?” Vlasta opened her mouth to speak, to deflect, but Hrubý held up a hand, silencing her. “Save your breath. House Žižka, the ones you so diligently investigated, were mere pawns. A distraction.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a slim, leather-bound book. The air stalled in Vlasta’s lungs. It was her research journal. The one that was missing. The one that shouldn't even exist yet. Her own precise handwriting, detailing steps for synthesizing the contagion's counteragent, filled the open page. “This was recovered from an agent,” Hrubý continued, his voice devoid of inflection, “an individual who apparently has a remarkable interest in your… work.” His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, locked onto hers. “This journal, Mistress Kopřiva, details the exact synthesis of the contagion. And it is in your hand. You are now the primary suspect in a treason plot against the Imperial Crown. Your one chance is to help me find the truth. Your goal is no longer just to save your sister, but to save yourself.”

The Solstice Deception