Ouma Hessel’s words, “Hunting season, my dear, hasn’t started yet,” echoed in Beatrys’s ears long after the old woman had retreated inside, leaving Beatrys on the porch in the chilling twilight. The scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke clung to the air, a stark contrast to the heavy perfume of metropolitan ballrooms. Beatrys’s bright smile had faltered only a fraction of an inch, just enough for her lips to feel a little stiff. She knew the game. Ouma saw the hunter, not the prey. And the rules of Rustenveld were far older, far more entrenched, than any city syndicate. But Beatrys Vossen didn’t play by rules, not when her kin's legacy lay in ruins. Dawn broke with a mist so thick it swallowed the distant hills, painting the orchards in shades of grey and silver. Beatrys, clad in Ouma’s loaned work clothes – rough denim and a faded flannel shirt – felt the unfamiliar rasp of the fabric against her skin. The bubbly tourist persona, perfected over years of city galas, felt thin, stretched taut over a core of icy resolve. She found the harvesting crew already at work in the apple orchard, their voices muted by the fog. Maartin Kest stood among them, his broad shoulders straining the worn fabric of his own shirt as he reached for a cluster of crimson fruit. His dark hair, damp from early dew, fell across his brow, and the lines of concentration around his eyes deepened as he worked through the clusters. He moved with an unexpected grace, an economy of motion that spoke of innate strength, not just practiced labor. Beatrys took a deep, fortifying breath, her internal switch flipping to 'bubbly and slightly bewildered'. She approached the nearest apple tree, a smile blossoming on her face, ignoring the way her muddy boots sank into the soft soil. “Morning, everyone!” she chirped, her voice a little too loud for the hushed orchard. “Oh, these are just *gorgeous*! I’ve never picked an apple before, not really. Do you just… pull?” She gestured vaguely at a low-hanging branch laden with fruit, then, with a deliberate lack of coordination, snagged a handful of leaves and tugged. The branch gave way with a sharp crack, sending a cascade of unripe fruit and splintered wood to the ground. Beatrys gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth in feigned distress. “Oh dear! Oh, how clumsy of me! I’m so, so sorry!” She bent down, pretending to assess the damage, but her gaze flickered to Maartin. He had paused, his basket half-full, and was watching her. His expression was unreadable, a familiar mask she’d seen on many powerful men in high-rise boardrooms. “It happens,” Maartin said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the mist. It held no anger, no impatience, only a quiet observation. He walked over, his heavy boots making soft thuds on the wet grass. Beatrys straightened up, offering him her most apologetic, fluttery smile. “I really am terribly sorry. I just wanted to help.” She gestured again, a little too wildly, and this time her hand brushed against a jagged splinter from the broken branch. A thin line of blood welled up on her palm. Beatrys winced, genuinely this time, but quickly remembered her role. Maartin’s gaze dropped to her hand. He took a step closer. His eyes, the color of wet slate, held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher. Concern? Annoyance? It wasn't the explosive temper she’d heard whispered about in Goudhaven circles—the one that had allegedly ruined a business rival’s career over a single mismanaged deal. “Let me see that,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He took her wrist, his fingers firm and warm against her skin. Her pulse stuttered, unexpected and unwelcome. She had anticipated a sharp word, a brusque dismissal. Not this. Not the steady warmth of his touch, the intensity of his gaze as he examined her palm. He released her wrist and turned to his basket, retrieving a clean, folded handkerchief from his pocket. “Hold still.” He wrapped the cloth around her scraped palm with methodical precision, his movements slow and deliberate. His proximity was dizzying, the scent of fresh apples and something musky, undeniably male, filling her senses. Beatrys found herself genuinely flustered, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. His touch carried steady pressure, bypassing her guarded facade. She was supposed to be in control, orchestrating this interaction, not feeling this raw, exposed vulnerability. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice a little breathy. His eyes met hers again, and for a fleeting moment, the mask he wore seemed to slip, revealing a depth of loneliness that mirrored her own. “Watch your hands, Beatrys Vossen,” he murmured, his gaze holding hers for a beat too long before he turned back to his apple picking. The use of her full name, uttered so casually, so naturally, sent a fresh prickle down her neck. It was a mirror to Ouma’s earlier warning, a reminder that her carefully curated anonymity was an illusion here. The intimacy of the moment vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp edge of calculation. Hours later, as the midday sun began to burn off the mist, Beatrys found herself drawn to the cluster of small, wooden cabins nestled deeper in the farm’s sprawling acreage. Maartin’s cabin, she knew from discreet inquiries, was the one farthest from the main house, tucked behind a stand of ancient, gnarled oaks. It was an unassuming structure, indistinguishable from the others, yet it hummed with an unseen significance. She waited until the farmhands were gathered for their midday meal, the clatter of cutlery and muffled laughter drifting from the main house. The coast was clear. Her heart beat a steady, controlled rhythm against her ribs. This was her element, the silent dance of infiltration and extraction. With a swift, practiced movement, Beatrys produced a set of lock picks from a hidden pocket in her borrowed work pants. The simple latch on the cabin door offered little resistance. A soft click, and the door swung inward. The cabin was sparsely furnished: a narrow cot, a rough-hewn table, a single wooden chair. A small, built-in shelf held a few worn books and a stack of papers. Beatrys moved with the quiet efficiency of an intruder, scanning every surface. She ignored the few personal effects—a crumpled shirt, a half-empty mug—her focus narrowed on anything that hinted at the metropolis, at the syndicate, at *her* bloodline. Her gaze snagged on a sturdy wooden chest tucked beneath the cot. It wasn't locked. Inside, neatly stacked, were several thick manila folders. She pulled out the top one, her fingers steadying as she recognized the stylized crest on the cover: the Vossen heraldry, a coiled serpent around a blooming orchid. Her throat tightened. This was concrete proof. She opened the folder. Inside, detailed financial reports chronicled the collapse of Vossen Enterprises. There were old news clippings, some dating back years, others disturbingly recent. And then, there were photographs. Her father, her mother, even her younger sister, pictured candidly, sometimes with dates stamped beneath them, sometimes with locations. They weren’t old keepsakes. They were recent surveillance. Maartin Kest wasn't just observing the syndicate; he was actively tracking the scattered remnants of her relatives, the survivors of the very ruin he had a hand in. His secrets were far darker, far more intertwined with her own, than she had ever imagined. Beatrys clutched the dossier, her knuckles white. The chilling realization settled deep in her bones. He knew. He didn’t just know *about* them; he knew *them*. He was watching them. What was his game? Was he protecting them? Or was he waiting for the opportune moment to strike again? Just as the questions swirled in her mind, a soft, almost imperceptible creak echoed from behind her. The cabin door, which she had left slightly ajar, was slowly closing. And the handle, dark iron against the rough wood, began to turn.

Apples and Arsenic