The scent of crushed cypress and something sharper, metallic, seemed to cling to Kazimir Volkov. Anja met his gaze without flinching, a feat that would have been impossible for the Anja of a week ago. The Anja of a decade past would have mumbled a polite excuse and retreated into the nearest shadow, her brother’s defense already a quiet ache in her chest. This Anja felt only the cold, precise hum of her purpose. “Aevum Dynamics?” Her voice, when it came, was steady, devoid of the tremor that used to betray her. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Kazimir’s smile thinned, a predator assessing a newly revealed prey. “Don’t play coy, Mirecka. My analysts are good. Your… aggressive acquisition of a company universally deemed worthless has set off alarms that could wake the dead. And now you stand here, publicly dissecting a man who, until moments ago, was considered untouchable. Suddenly, you’re very interesting.” “My interests are my own,” Anja replied, her gaze flicking momentarily to Bogdan Rostovsky, still stewing near a towering sculpture of polished chromesteel, his face a mottled purple. “And my assets. My financial decisions are hardly fodder for gala gossip, Mr. Volkov.” “They are when they involve a multi-million krona purchase of a company on the brink of collapse,” he countered, his voice losing its hum, becoming a low, dangerous growl. “A company whose sole patent, I might add, is a theoretical kinetic energy stabilizer that has never moved beyond abstract schematics. Unless you know something I don’t.” She allowed a faint, dismissive shrug. “Perhaps I simply have a different eye for potential. An artist’s eye, if you will. The kinetic stabilizer has a certain elegance, even if its current applications are limited.” She chose her words carefully, a tightrope walk between plausible deniability and a hint of the future she held. The stabilizer, once perfected, would be key to a particular piece of medical diagnostic equipment that hadn’t even been conceived in this timeline, a device Teofil would later innovate. Kazimir leaned closer, he stood close enough that his tailored lapel cast a sharp shadow across her collarbone. The tang of ozone and crushed cypress sharpened between them. “Elegance? Or insight that borders on prescience? You’ve piqued my curiosity, Mirecka. That’s a dangerous game to play with me.” “I’m merely diversifying my portfolio,” Anja said, maintaining eye contact, though the urge to step back, to create distance, was strong. Her past self would have crumbled under such scrutiny. This self felt a thrill, cold and sharp, at holding her ground against him. “Perhaps you should consider it too, Mr. Volkov. Volkov Industries could use a touch of… unexpected vision.” A beat of silence stretched between them, rigid as chilled tempered plate. His eyes, the color of winter fog, narrowed almost imperceptibly. He searched her face, her stance, her every minute reaction. He found nothing but a cool, unyielding surface. The faint smile returned, a flash of white in the low light. “You have my attention, Anja Mirecka. Completely. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He turned, cleaving through the knots of onlookers, and exited as abruptly as he had arrived, leaving behind a sudden pocket of thin, unsettled silence. Anja felt the collective stares of the room settle on her again, heavier this time, laced with a new kind of speculation. She had shattered her reputation and drawn the attention of Varsova’s most ruthless magnate in one evening. Good. Let them talk. Let them underestimate her. It was precisely what she needed. *** The glass-and-concrete expanse of the Mirecki estate felt colder than usual as Anja stepped through the automated entrance. The air inside, filtered and circulated, hummed with a sterile quiet. The workshop lights were still on, amber beams washing the concrete floor of the atrium. Teofil was likely still bent over his articulating armatures, lost among balanced gears. She found him precisely where she expected, surrounded by brass escapements and loose wiring, his brow creased over a lens clamp. “Brother,” she said, her voice softer than it had been all evening. Her purpose, for him. Always for him. Teofil looked up, a smile instantly lighting his face. “Anja! You’re back late. Did you finally escape the art world’s suffocating embrace?” “Something like that.” She moved towards him, her hand brushing his arm, a quick, possessive gesture. He looked so vibrant, so full of life, so entirely unaware of the shadow that loomed. The certainty sat like lead in her gut. Before she could say more, the chime of the estate’s secondary entrance sounded. “Ah, Elena’s here,” Teofil said, setting down his needle files. “My weekly consultation. Don’t worry, she won’t drone on about my cellular markers.” Dr. Elena Sorokin entered, a vision of calm competence in a tailored charcoal tunic. Her smile, as always, was warm and reassuring, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Teofil, my dear. Still defying my orders to rest, I see.” She hugged him, a familiar, almost maternal gesture. Anja watched, a new, chilling awareness sharpening her senses. Elena’s hand lingered on Teofil’s back, her fingers stroking gently, a touch that suddenly felt less solicitous, more possessive. “Anja, you made it back,” Elena said, her smile broadening. “Good to see you. You look a little… tired. The gala circuit can be draining.” There was a subtle probing in her tone, a quiet assessment that Anja registered for the first time. “It was certainly eventful,” Anja replied, keeping her voice even. Her gaze flickered to Elena’s medical bag, pristine and leather-bound, resting on a nearby console. In her past life, she had never questioned Elena. Elena was family, Teofil’s trusted physician, a calming presence. “Well, I’ll be quick tonight, Teofil,” Elena said, already pulling out her diagnostic tablet. “A quick scan, a chat, and then your chamomile tea, as usual. We must ensure you get your beauty sleep after all those balance wheels and dynamos.” She gave Anja a knowing look, as if sharing a private joke about Teofil’s dedicated work ethic. Anja tracked the physician's routine: the pressure applied against Teofil's forearm during the scan, the protracted gaze, the micro-pause before extending the slate. A familiar ritual, but now the clinician's mouth twitched tight before each soft reassurance. “Tea time,” Elena announced, moving to the small kitchenette built into the workspace wall. She was always so attentive, so proactive. She always brewed his evening herbal draught herself, measuring the dried leaves with exact care. She filled the copper kettle, the metallic tap echoing against raw concrete. Elena returned, a delicate porcelain cup steaming gently in her hand, a thin herbal steam trailing from the porcelain. “Here you are, Teofil. Drink it while it’s warm.” Teofil reached for it, his fingers brushing the rim. Just as his hand closed around the cup, Anja moved. Her elbow, seemingly accidentally, brushed against Elena’s arm, a blunt, deliberate pivot. The cup tilted, then slipped, tumbling from Elena’s grasp. It shattered on the polished floor with a sharp crack, hot amber liquid sheeting across the sealed screed. The porcelain fragments caught the overhead halogen. “Oh, I am so terribly sorry!” Anja exclaimed, her voice pitched with feigned alarm. “My mistake, Elena. I was just reaching for Teofil’s sketchbook. How clumsy of me.” Elena’s face, usually so composed, froze. For a fleeting, horrifying moment, Anja saw it—a flash of genuine, terrifying anger in her eyes, a tightening of her lips that spoke of pure, unadulterated fury. It vanished almost instantly, replaced by a practiced, concerned frown. “Anja, it’s quite alright. Accidents happen. Just a shame about the tea.” Her voice, though calm, held an edge of something brittle. “Let me get it,” Teofil began, but Elena put a hand on his shoulder. “No, no, darling. I’ll clean this up. Anja, could you perhaps boil some water for a fresh cup? I think there’s more chamomile in the cabinet.” Her smile was back, a little too wide, a little too fixed. Anja kept her breath low and even, nodding. “Of course.” As she turned to the kettle, Elena knelt to begin sweeping up the porcelain shards. Anja watched her reflection in the darkened glass of the atrium windows. The woman's hands moved with clipped efficiency. Her left hand, shielded from Teofil’s view, dipped into the opened medical bag, her fingers deftly closing around something small and unmarked. A tiny, clear vial, no bigger than her thumb. It disappeared into her palm with practiced ease, concealed just as Anja turned back from the kettle. Certainty crystallized, hard and immovable. The illness wasn’t random. It wasn’t an accident of fate. It had been administered, drop by insidious drop, by the very person they trusted most. And Elena Sorokin, their beloved family friend, was the poisoner. Teofil’s life depended on Anja proving it, without revealing her impossible knowledge. She had to watch Elena make the second cup. She had to find a way to stop her. And Elena, Anja realized, was watching her right back, with eyes that promised cold, calculated retribution if Anja dared to interfere again.

The Taste of Chamomile