~ • FLASHBACK: A Few Hours Earlier • ~
The drug, ’Drear’s Folly’, was slow-acting, designed to be ingested over ti, to slowly and gently lull its victim into a deep, unshakable sleep.
Senna, as the perfect, gracious hostess, had poured glass after glass. "I toast to you," she had said, her voice a soft, sympathetic purr. Marissa had played her part.
"I toast to you again," Senna said, her amber eyes soft with a false, sisterly apology, "to apologize for the Grand Duke’s behavior on your wedding day."
She drank her cup in one, smooth motion. Marissa smiled, a polite, empty mask. "That is in the past," she’d said. She raised her own cup to her lips, tilting it back. The sweet, heavy, drugged wine filled her mouth.
She did not swallow.
As Senna bent, her eyes on the table for a mont as she reached for the decanter to pour another glass, Marissa brought her thick, linen handkerchief to her lips, as if to politely pat them dry. It was a gesture she had repeated with every "sip." With her head bowed, she spat the mouthful of wine into the already-damp, absorbent cloth.
She had faked the growing dizziness, her words becoming slightly slurred, her movents a little clumsy. She had "accidentally" spilled one glass, a perfect excuse to purge the contents of her mouth into the handkerchief under the guise of cleaning the ss.
By the ti she "stood up" and "fainted," she had ingested almost none of the drug. The rest was a performance. She had forced her body to go limp, her breathing to go deep and even. She had fought every instinct in her body as Senna and the maid, Es, had dragged her to the bed.
The hardest part, the part that had filled her with a cold, murderous rage, was lying perfectly still as Senna’s cold, triumphant fingers had unlaced her bodice, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. She had listened to every gloating, hateful word. She had felt the cold, sharp thunk of the dagger as it slamd into the mattress, just an inch from her face.
And she had waited.
Now, Marissa stood on the other side of that sa parlor door, her own dress now perfectly laced, her gloves back on, her hair neat. She listened.
"Let go!" Senna’s voice shrieked from behind the door. It was no longer the soft, purring, confident voice of the hostess. It was a high-pitched, terrified sound. "Take your hands off !"
Marissa heard a low, slurred, drunken laugh. Lord Ashford. "Don’t make rip off your dress, my pretty," his voice rumbled. "Be obedient and I will go easy on you."
"Don’t touch ! Help! Soone help ! Get him off !"
Marissa leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, a small, cold, and deeply satisfied smile on her lips. She would let this play out. She would let Senna feel, for just a few monts, the sa terror and helplessness she had planned for her.
Far below, in the dark, chaotic street, a frantic lathered horse, skidded to a halt. Derek, still in his torn and bloody disguise from the monastery, got down. His arm was a throbbing, fiery agony, the cloth he had tied around it now soaked through with dark, sticky blood.
He looked up. He saw the lit-up window of Senna’s private parlor. He did not go to the front door. He was a wanted man, his identity must not be known to the Royal Guards who were, even now, likely swarming the city, looking for the "fugitive" who had escaped the monastery.
He moved into the shadows of the alley, his movents the silent, fluid grace of an assassin. He found the trellis, the one he had used many tis before. He began to climb, his wounded arm screaming in protest, his teeth gritted against the pain.
At that exact mont, a carriage, this one emblazoned with the silver crest of the Royal Guard, clattered to a stop at the end of the street. The Captain, the sa man from the monastery, stepped out, his face a mask of cold fury. He had lost his target, and his failure would be reported to his masters in the palace.
He looked around, his n getting down from their horses and fanning out, searching. His gaze fell to the cobblestones. There, glinting in the torchlight, was a single, fresh droplet of blood. And then another. And another. A trail, leading from a dark alley, directly to the front door of the Golden Swan.
"He is wounded," the Captain hissed, his eyes gleaming. "He’s in here." He raised his hand, his voice a sharp, commanding bark. "SEARCH INSIDE!"
The main doors of the Golden Swan burst open. The music stopped. Patrons scread. The Royal Guards, their swords drawn, poured into the establishnt, a wave of silver and blue, turning over tables, their shouts echoing up the stairs.
Upstairs, in the parlor, the chaos from below was a distant, muffled roar. Senna had just smashed a heavy, porcelain vase over Lord Ashford’s head. The drunken nobleman had collapsed to the floor like a felled ox, a small trickle of blood matting his hair. He was unconscious.
Senna was breathing hard, her hair a wild ss, her beautiful dress torn at the shoulder where he had grabbed her. She ran to the door. She twisted the handle. It was locked.
"Help!" she shrieked, pounding on the solid wood. "Soone help ! Let out!"
The lock clicked. The door swung open.
Marissa stood there, her face a mask of calm, polite inquiry. Her eyes, however, were smiling. "You are free now, Lady Senna," she said.
Senna, still terrified, her body shaking, stumbled back. She stared at Marissa, her mind trying to process the impossible. The drug... the locked door... "Why?" she gasped, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Why would you... harm like this?"
Marissa stepped into the room, her gaze falling on the unconscious, snoring form of Lord Ashford on the floor, then at the shattered vase. "Harm you?" she repeated, her voice full of a faint, mocking surprise. "Lady Senna, you prepared such a big show for . It was all so elaborate. The thief on the street. The ’chance’ eting. The drugged wine. The half-undressed body. The drunken lord who was supposed to find ."
She looked at Senna, her smile fading, replaced by a cold, sharp intelligence. "If I didn’t join in the plan, wouldn’t that just waste all of your hard effort?"
The blood drained from Senna’s face. She understood. She had not been the predator. She had been the one being hunted, from the very beginning.
Senna scoffed, her terror and confusion quickly morphing into a new, cold, and deeply respectful hatred. She straightened her dress, pushing her hair back from her face. She walked slowly, deliberately, until she was standing directly in front of Marissa.
"Before," she said, her voice a low, intense whisper, "I underestimated you. I thought you were just a lucky, provincial noblewoman." She looked Marissa up and down, her amber eyes blazing with a new, dark light. "Turns out, you are better at acting than even I am."
She leaned in, her lips almost touching Marissa’s ear. "Not a bad opponent, Duchess."
Marissa’s face, which had been so cold and mocking, went completely, utterly still. The air around her seed to drop ten degrees.
"Lady Senna," Marissa said, her voice a low, dangerous growl. She moved, her hand shooting out, not to slap, but to grab. Her fingers clamped around Senna’s throat, her grip like a steel vise. She slamd Senna backward, pinning her against the wall with a thud that shook the small pictures hanging nearby.
Senna gasped, her eyes bulging, her hands flying up to claw at Marissa’s wrist. She was a dancer, she was fragile, but Marissa’s strength, was sothing else entirely. It was absolute.
"I never ant to be your enemy," Marissa hissed, her face inches from Senna’s, her eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury. "Your relationship with the Grand Duke, your little gifts, your sad, pathetic need for his attention... it has nothing to do with ."
She slamd Senna’s head against the wall again, hard. A small, choked whimper escaped Senna’s lips. She was whimpering, her feet kicking uselessly, trying to find the floor.
"But today, you made it my business," Marissa snarled, her grip tightening. "You used . You drugged . You planned to humiliate . You are just like all the others. A snake. Don’t ever involve in your gas about the Grand Duke," Her voice dropped to a final, deadly promise. "And don’t you ever provoke again."
She looked at the terrified, choking woman in her grasp. "You are not my match. You are not even a worthy opponent."
She released her grip, not gently, but with a final, contemptuous toss, throwing Senna aside. Senna collapsed to the floor, a gasping, weeping, humiliated heap.
It was at that exact mont that the hallway window, which Senna had locked, shattered inwards.
Derek, his arm bleeding, his disguise removed, leaped into the hallway. He had just climbed up from the alley, and he had heard the slam, the choke, the final, terrible confrontation.
He landed in a low, defensive crouch, his sword raised, ready to fight.
He saw Marissa. They stared at each other. Marissa, shocked to her core. Derek, his mind a complete, disbelieving blank. The sounds of the Royal Guards, now on the stairs, shouting and getting closer, was the only sound in the room.
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