A chill tightened across Zofia's ribs. The Gorskis were a distant threat, a serpent to be cornered in the open. This, however, was a viper coiled within the very walls of Vodyanov House. Someone had slipped past the household staff, past the carefully curated order of the estate, and into this room. Not for jewels, not for coin, but for a book of private thoughts. The implications hung heavy in the quiet air. She moved to the bed, kneeling beside it. Zofia Vodyanov’s small hand trembled as she pointed a thin finger at the disturbed area, her ribs heaving with every shallow rattle. “The… the… *Spięta*,” she whispered, her voice a reedy sigh. *Spięta* – ‘The Tense One’ – a nickname Zofia Nowakowska had heard whispered among the lower servants, referring to the diary’s ornate clasp. “Shh,” Zofia murmured, her own voice tighter than she preferred. She gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Zofia Vodyanov’s forehead. “Rest. I will handle this.” But what was there to handle? The most damning evidence of her impersonation, the very record of the true heiress’s existence and thoughts, was now in the hands of an unknown enemy. The carefully constructed façade, the slow, methodical plan to dismantle the Gorskis – all of it could crumble to dust by morning. Fury drove her upward. This wasn’t just about reclaiming her birthright anymore; it was about survival. It was about protecting the innocent girl in the bed, whose life was already hanging by a thread. Zofia strode to the door, pulling it open. The corridor was empty, a misleading picture of calm. “Guard!” she bellowed, her voice echoing through the silent wing. Within moments, two hulking Vodyanov guards, uniformed in the house’s deep emerald livery, appeared at either end of the hall. “No one enters or leaves this wing without my express permission,” she commanded, her tone sharp, leaving no room for argument. “Send a runner to Steward Borys. Inform him that the estate is to be locked down. All gates secured. A full muster of the household staff in the grand dining hall within the hour. Every soul. Tell him it’s an urgent matter of House security.” The guards exchanged a glance, surprised by the directness and force of her authority, but snapped to attention. “At once, my Lady.” Zofia watched them depart, then closed the door, the click resonating with finality. She turned back to the ravaged room, her eyes scanning every surface. The scattered papers, the overturned inkwell, the broken porcelain. Her gaze snagged on a small, gilded frame that had been knocked from the bedside table. Beneath it, half-concealed by the Persian rug’s fringe, was a single, unbound page, clearly torn from a book. It was thicker than common stationery, with a faint, almost floral pattern along one edge – a design she recognized from Zofia Vodyanov’s other delicate belongings. Her pulse spiked. The diary. Or a piece of it, at least. She snatched up the page. The script, though delicate and sprawling, was distinctively Zofia Vodyanov’s. Zofia Nowakowska’s eyes devoured the words, her herbalist’s mind immediately sifting through them, seeking meaning, seeking a clue. *“The headache returned today, worse than before. He insists the new tonic will strengthen me, a special mineral imported from the Rythennian Mines. It’s a pity, though. It leaves such a bitter taste. Like…”* Her gaze dropped to the next line, the final ink on the torn sheet. It was a single, terrifying sentence. *“…like almonds.”* The draft from the corridor felt sharp against the nape of Zofia's neck. Almonds. The tell-tale scent. The bitter, metallic tang that often masked the more noxious properties of certain compounds. Zofia, the herbalist, knew precisely what that meant. *Cyanide*. Not a mineral for strength, but a slow-acting poison. A deliberate, insidious murder. He. The word echoed in her mind. Not ‘they’. Not ‘the servants’. *He*. Singular. Someone the true heiress trusted enough to accept a 'tonic'. Someone with access, with motive, with the cold precision to administer poison in small, consistent doses. This wasn't just a saboteur looking to expose her; this was a murderer actively trying to erase the true Zofia Vodyanov. The implications slammed into her with brutal force. The ‘illness’ that kept Zofia Vodyanov confined to her bed, wasting away, was no illness at all. It was a prolonged execution. And the person responsible was still in the house, moving freely, perhaps even now watching them. Her gaze snapped to the bed. Zofia Vodyanov was watching her, those wide, intelligent eyes fixed on the page in Zofia Nowakowska’s hand. A flicker of recognition passed between them, a shared understanding of the horrific truth. The girl knew. She had known all along, perhaps subconsciously, perhaps with growing clarity as the symptoms worsened. Zofia Vodyanov, with immense effort, pushed herself higher against the pillows. Her hand fumbled for a small, grey slate and a piece of chalk that lay beside her bed, used for simple communications with the nurses. Her frail fingers struggled, but she managed to scrawl a single, shaky word. She held it up, showing it to Zofia Nowakowska. Her stare fixed on her double's face. “Doctor.”

The Poisoner's Diary