“The Duchess, you see, is an admirer of unique gloves.” Aleksy’s words, a silken promise, unfurled a new layer of the intricate game. Danica pressed the heavy vellum flat against her palm. Aleksy wasn’t merely delivering an invitation; he was issuing an order. The glove from her late uncle's hidden compartment was now tucked securely in her vanity drawer. The Crimson Hall of the Orlya estate glittered beneath gaslit chandeliers, the air rich with potted helianthus and distilled cedar. Light pooled on the marble paving, reflecting the faces of barons and ranking merchants who held the city's purse strings. Danica moved through the crowd, a phantom in her ash-grey gown, her steps silent and deliberate. On her left hand, peeking from beneath her sleeve, was the glove. Crafted from midnight-blue lacewing silk, it bore an architectural pattern worked in silver thread, cool and taut over her knuckles. She spotted Aleksy near a display of antique cartography, his back to a towering globe. He raised a glass to her in a silent toast, his gaze indicating a stout man with a florid face, gesturing grandly near a cluster of ladies. “Baron Vonzel,” Aleksy murmured as he stepped to her side. “A key investor in your family's latest mining venture in the Lyran Peaks. Rumor has it the yields are sparse.” Danica nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing her features. The ledger had recorded Vonzel's advance—thousands of imperial thalers secured against future iron ore. “One might infer,” Danica remarked quietly, “that Katarzyna's acquisition of the eastern docks was merely a desperate scramble to mask the deficit.” She turned toward a young noblewoman nearby. “Lady Vane, your gown is exquisite,” Danica said with practiced charm. “The silver trim reminds me of the Lyran Peaks. Have you heard of my family's mining venture there? Such a grand enterprise, though the output has fallen rather short. One wonders if their purchase of the eastern docks was meant to cover the gap.” Lady Vane stiffened, her gaze darting toward Baron Vonzel before she bowed her head and slipped into the crowd. Aleksy, ever the puppeteer, offered Danica another approving smile. “Well played, Lady Volkov. The seeds of doubt are the most potent, are they not?” Then the hostess, Lady Esmeralda Orlya herself, moved through the circle. Her eyes, the color of aged emeralds, immediately fixed on Danica’s gloved hand. A flicker—recognition, then a slow, knowing smile—bloomed on her lips. “Lady Volkov,” Esmeralda said, her tone smooth and measured. “Welcome. I confess your return piqued my curiosity, but that glove holds my attention. A relic of the late Baron’s collection, if I recall. Singular and rare.” Esmeralda's words signaled what the room needed to hear: Danica carried the late Baron's private patronage. A footman approached bearing a silver tray lined with flutes of pale wine. As Danica reached for a delicate crystal flute of pale amber liquid, Aleksy’s hand subtly, almost imperceptibly, brushed against her wrist, guiding her away from that particular glass. “Perhaps a vintage from the western vineyards, Lady Volkov,” Aleksy suggested smoothly, his gaze unwavering as he plucked a different glass from the tray. “I find the eastern varietals a touch too… assertive for such a delicate palate.” Danica, following his lead, accepted the alternative glass. A moment later, as the attendant turned toward another patron, his boot caught the edge of a heavy Krestovan carpet. He stumbled. The very glass of pale amber wine that Aleksy had steered Danica away from arced through the air, shattering on the rug. A gasp rippled through the immediate vicinity. The boy dropped to his knees with a linen cloth. But where the liquid pooled, the wool hissed, bleaching rich scarlet pile to foul yellow bile. Whispers died around them. The vintage was lye and sulfur. Danica kept her hands still at her sides. Aleksy’s gaze met hers without a ripple of surprise. He had known the cup was poisoned; he had engineered either the rescue or the threat itself. Before Esmeralda could summon the steward, heavy boots struck the threshold. The carved oak doors swung wide to reveal Justicar Stellan Varady. He stepped into the light in his slate-grey uniform, flanked by two armed constables. Stellan held a rolled parchment in his hand, its official seal prominent. His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Aleksy, then settling with unnerving intensity on Danica. “My apologies, Lady Orlya,” he announced, his voice carrying over the hall. “But I come with a warrant, issued by the Imperial Magistracy. We have reason to believe that certain records pertaining to the late Baron Volkov’s illicit trade network may be concealed within your estate.” A collective gasp, louder this time, rippled through the hall. Esmeralda’s composure fractured. “Justicar Varady!” she snapped. “This is an outrage. My home is no harbor for criminals.” Stellan ignored her. Tracking Danica across the parquet, he moved past Aleksy without glancing his way, halting two paces before her. “Your mentor,” he said, his voice dropped so low it reached only her, “guards your life with peculiar care. Or perhaps he simply guards his stake.”

The Poisoned Cup