“I’ll befine?I drank poison—” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “And why exactly are you sipping on herbal murder?”
I hesitated, the words sticking in my throat. How do you explain something like this without sounding unhinged?
“It’s something my mum taught me.”
He blinked. “She taught you to poison yourself?”
The corner of my eye twitched. Of course he misunderstood.
“She taught me to protect myself from everything,” I said pointedly. “There’s a difference.”
If someone tried to poison me, they’d be pleasantly disappointed I’d already made peace with the taste of death.
I turned my attention back to the envelope. Lines were appearing now—faint, hidden beneath the tea stain, as if summoned by the candle’s warmth. So it truly was invisible ink.
“Which Nightshade was it?” Preston asked, shifting closer.
“Tuesdays are for Bittersweet Nightshade,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at the message slowly blooming in front of me.
“Tuesdays are for—” Preston’s voice was hoarse. “What’s Wednesday? Hemlock with a side of heartbreak?”
“Belladonna.”
A beat of silence passed. “Of course.”
I pressed my lips into a thin line. The message was ruined. Most of the words melted away, leaving only fragments:
I swallowed my disappointment.
“Thursday?” Preston pressed.
I slammed the letter down. “Monkshood. Stop interrogating me.”
He leaned back in the chair like a cat who’d caught a scent. “So many deadly secrets, poison. One for each day of the week.”
Suddenly, he began coughing. I froze.
The sound was raw, like pounding on a closed door. I glanced at the teacup. Had I miscalculated the dosage? No, I’d been doing this since I was little. Panic surged at the edge of my vision?—
Preston took a deep breath, bowing his head, his light waves falling forward, shadowing his face.
I swallowed. “Are you alright?” I asked, in the piercing silence.
His eyes rose to mine, half-hidden beneath his dark lashes.
“Brilliant,” he said, his voice hoarse from coughing.
He leaned back, blowing out a long breath, his head tipped to the side. I looked away, drowning the rising guilt. No one asked him to drink from my tea.
“You look like her a lot,” he rasped. My head turned toward him, curious, but I didn’t meet his eyes.
“Your mum.”
I flinched, glancing at the photo on my nightstand. I’d hidden it from him before, but now it was back in its place. My mum’s wide smile made my stomach flutter with warmth and clench at the same time. I didn’t know what to say. So instead, I nodded then marched to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.
“How did you even get in here?” I muttered, the chill biting deep into my skin. I was pretty sure I’d locked the door.
“We all have our secrets, don’t we?” he replied, his voice teasing.
