“Doctor.” The chalked word hung in the air, cold and definitive. Zofia Nowakowska felt a sickening lurch, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with horrifying precision. The Vodyanov ledgers, the payments for the imported salt, the 'almond' taste, and now the true heiress’s trembling accusation. It wasn’t a curse, or a lingering ailment. It was a calculated, methodical murder. She looked at the girl in the bed, whose eyes, despite their weakness, burned with a fierce, silent demand for justice. Zofia Vodyanov nodded almost imperceptibly, confirming the accusation. Her frail hand dropped the slate, a tiny clatter against the bedframe. Zofia Nowakowska felt a surge of cold fury. This wasn't just about reclaiming her birthright anymore; it was about saving a life, and exposing a heinous crime. The 'illness' was a deliberate act of cruelty, orchestrated by the same family who had stolen everything from her. She turned from the bed, her mind already racing. "Stay calm," she murmured to Zofia Vodyanov, though her voice was sharp with a controlled urgency. "Do not take anything from anyone without my explicit instruction. Not even water." The girl watched her, a faint understanding in her gaze. Zofia left the room, the door clicking shut softly behind her. The quiet elegance of the Vodyanov corridor now felt like a gilded tomb. She found Master Borys overseeing the evening preparations in the grand hall. The steward, ever observant, sensed the shift in her demeanor. “Is everything well, Miss Vodyanov?” he inquired, his voice low. “You seem… troubled.” “Troubled is an understatement, Master Borys,” Zofia replied, her voice carefully modulated, though a tremor of rage ran beneath it. “I require an immediate audience with Dr. Albin. Is he on the premises?” Borys’s brow furrowed. “Dr. Albin visits on Tuesdays and Fridays, unless specifically called. He was here this morning for the Duchess’s tonic and will return Friday for Lady Zofia’s weekly examination.” “Then summon him. Now. Inform him it is a matter of utmost urgency concerning Lady Zofia’s health.” Zofia’s gaze was unwavering. “Tell him if he does not arrive within the hour, I will send for the Guild of Physicians and have his license reviewed.” Her tone left no room for argument. Borys, sensing the steel in her voice, bowed slightly. “As you command, Miss Vodyanov. I shall dispatch a carriage immediately.” The wait was agonizing. Zofia paced her own chambers, the opulent furnishings doing little to steady her pulse. She prepared her arguments, recalling every detail from the partial diary page, every whispered rumor about Dr. Albin’s penchant for card games and extravagant tastes. She didn't need proof yet, only enough to make him crack. Precisely forty-seven minutes later, a servant announced Dr. Albin’s arrival. He entered Zofia’s sitting room, a portly man with a perpetually flushed face and an air of self-importance that grated on her already thin patience. His tailored coat was slightly askew, and his usually neat grey hair was disheveled, suggesting a hurried journey. “Lady Zofia,” he began, a condescending smile playing on his lips. “I understand you found my presence… essential. I trust it is not merely a young lady’s fleeting fancy for attention.” “It is not, sir,” Zofia said, her voice dangerously calm. She stood, her posture straight, channeling every ounce of aristocratic arrogance she had observed. “It is a matter of life and death, yours primarily.” Dr. Albin’s smile faltered. “My dear Lady Zofia, I assure you, your health is my paramount concern. Any talk of my own mortality is quite… dramatic.” “Really? Perhaps you find the slow, agonizing decline of a young woman to be ‘dramatic’ as well?” Zofia moved closer, her eyes fixed on his. “Let us speak plainly, sir. Your patient, the *true* Lady Zofia Vodyanov, is not suffering from a naturally occurring illness. She is being poisoned.” The doctor’s face drained of color. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. He tried to compose himself, raising a hand. “Preposterous! I have been her physician for years! This is a Vodyanov family ailment, a delicate constitution exacerbated by… agitation.” “Agitation?” Zofia scoffed. “Or perhaps, a daily dose of a rare, imported salt. One that, when administered in small, controlled quantities, induces symptoms remarkably similar to a wasting disease. Symptoms that conveniently intensify when the dose is increased. And tell me, does this white powder have a distinct, bitter taste? A taste, perhaps, of almonds?” The color fled from Dr. Albin’s face entirely. He stumbled backward, knocking a small porcelain figurine from a side table. It shattered on the marble floor. His eyes darted around the room, wild with panic. The arrogant veneer had cracked, revealing a terrified man. “How… how did you know?” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “The archives provide a wealth of information, man of medicine. As do the whispered rumors of a man with an insatiable gambling habit,” Zofia pressed, stepping forward. “Who is making you do this? Lord Gorski, I presume? He always was one for leveraging other people’s weaknesses.” Dr. Albin visibly flinched at the mention of the Gorskis. He wrung his hands, his gaze fixed on the shattered porcelain. “He… he had my markers! Debts to the Solstice Syndicate. He threatened to expose me, ruin my practice, have me thrown into the debtor’s prison. He promised wealth, a new life, once… once the Vodyanov fortune was theirs.” His voice was a pathetic plea, desperate for absolution. “And the compound? Where does he get it?” Zofia demanded, her ribcage aching. This was it, the truth, laid bare. She needed every detail, every name. “He procured it from a contact in Port Callisto. A rare earth, he called it. He said it was undetectable, that no one would ever suspect. He said Lady Zofia’s death would be natural, a sad end to a sickly girl. He promised… he promised a new life for me, away from Radomsko, free of debt.” Tears welled in the doctor’s eyes. “I never wanted to harm anyone, I swear! I was desperate!” Just as he was about to reveal more, a sharp, distinct CRACK echoed through the mist-shrouded gardens outside. It was not thunder. It was the sound of a rifle. A sickening spray of crimson erupted from Dr. Albin’s chest, staining the heavy damask hanging behind him. His eyes, wide with shock and agony, stared at Zofia for a fleeting moment before he collapsed to the floor, a gurgling sound escaping his lips. Zofia froze, the scent of gunpowder suddenly acrid in the air. The mist outside swirled, obscuring the view through the glass. Another CRACK split the silence, this one closer, striking the wall just inches from her head, showering her with plaster dust. A scream caught in her throat. Suddenly, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her violently downwards. She stumbled, falling to the plush carpet just as another shot shattered the pane, sending shards of glass flying. Emil. He had materialized from nowhere, his face grim, his movements precise and urgent. “Down!” he barked, shielding her with his body as he dragged her across the floor, away from the terrace doors, towards the relative safety of a heavy, carved oak desk. “Kasia’s message about the doctor’s emergency visit came just in time. Gorski must have been watching.” Zofia pressed flat against the dark oak, breath tearing in her throat. Through the jagged frame, past the swirling mist that clung to the Vodyanov gardens, she caught a glimpse. A glint of polished metal, a rifle barrel. And behind it, a familiar, cruel face. Her adoptive brother, Janusz Gorski. He was the sniper.

A Doctor's House Call