Chapter 13

What do you plan to do with her once your men have the physician under watch?” Lady Vetta asked, her voice smooth as silk yet sharp with intent. She stirred her steaming tea with a delicate spoon, eyes fixed on Sandra with unsettling calm.

Sandra, restless, sneered. “I’ll pay him to get rid of her. I can’t stand that wench! We should have finished her off the moment we switched the wolf aura. Her very existence haunts me—sometimes I can almost see her ghost tormenting me!”

Lady Vetta’s brows arched as her lips curved into something between a smile and a warning. “And what of the child she carries? Why not rid them both at once?”

Sandra blinked at her mother. “What do you mean? How could we even use him without his knowledge?”

“Simple,” Lady Vetta replied, her tone like a teacher guiding a slow pupil. “Find where the physician sources his herbs and medicines. We’ll pull the strings through the apothecary. Slip him doctored remedies—nothing traceable. The apothecary will hand it to the physician, and the physician to her. The poison will pass like shadow, and none will suspect you.”

Sandra’s eyes gleamed, admiration shining.

“I’ve always told you, child,” Lady Vetta continued, sipping her tea with poise, “never act in haste where the blade can swing back at you. Always stake others before yourself. Here, the apothecary risks much, the physician more, and the maid who carries our word knows well she’ll be protected if trouble brews. When blood is spilled, yours must remain unstained.”

Sandra clapped her hands together in delight, her lips curving into a wicked grin. “Mother, you are brilliant!” she cried, excitement rushing through her. She immediately began scribbling messages and summoned her servants to fetch heavy purses—pounds of silver and two talents of gold, drawn boldly from the royal treasury.

The treasurer dared to ask what purpose the fortune would serve. Sandra did not answer. She did not need to. Royals had unlimited access to the treasure, and she would waste none of her breath on justifications. Whatever the cost, Lois’s death would be bought.

That night, Rita approached Sandra, her face flushed with excitement. “My lady, I’ve sent your word. The apothecary owner agreed to meet. He’ll see you at the tavern in the city.”

Sandra tilted her head. “And the price?”

“I paid for discretion, my lady,” Rita replied eagerly.

Sandra’s eyes narrowed. “With what?”

Rita lifted her chin, proud. “All my savings.”

Sandra smirked faintly. She could almost taste the girl’s desperation. Rita’s hunger for power and favor was obvious—her dreams of replacing Berra as Sandra’s personal attendant blazed in her eyes. The girl would crawl through mud if it meant gaining influence, her own chamber, and more pay at the consort’s residence. That ambition made her useful.

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Evening fell dark and busy in the city. Sandra rode in a veiled carriage, cloaked heavily, flanked by her attendants—Rita and Berra—and two discreet guards keeping their distance. They halted at a bustling inn, and Berra whispered the agreed signal to the tavern master. Within moments, they were ushered into a quiet back chamber where the apothecary waited.

He rose swiftly as Sandra entered, his eyes widening at her presence. He didn’t know who she was, but his gut told him she was no ordinary noblewoman.

Sandra didn’t sit. Instead, she stood tall, veil shadowing her face. Rita stepped forward and dropped a treasure chest upon the table with a resounding thud. The lid fell open, spilling golden light into the dingy room. The apothecary gasped, his jaw slack.

“My lady… I—I don’t recall ever earning such wealth,” he stammered. “What is it you wish me to do?”

Sandra’s lips curved faintly. “Doctor the medicines of a certain physician. He is your client. He fetches special remedies for a pregnant woman at Lord Barbara’s mansion.”

Recognition sparked in his eyes. Greed quickly followed. “I know the man,” he said hurriedly. “He comes often. What do you require of me?”

Sandra stepped closer, her voice like cold steel. “Make the patient die. How you do it matters little. What matters is that it is done. Fail me, and the gold becomes your coffin.”

The apothecary swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he bowed. “It will be done, my lady.”

Sandra turned on her heel, her cloak swirling behind her. “Good. I will be watching you closely.”

Her attendants followed, leaving the apothecary staring at the treasure, his mind already scheming.

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Three days later, Lois’s personal physician arrived at the apothecary’s shop as he always did. The man greeted him with an uncharacteristic grin, his hands already presenting neatly packed teas and powdered herbs.

“Your usual, my friend,” the apothecary said cheerfully.

The physician raised a brow. “No need for explanations. Remember, it is the physician who instructs the apothecary, not the other way around.” He chuckled, half-teasing, and the apothecary laughed along nervously.

Inside, however, the man’s thoughts were dark. I’m no fool. I won’t poison outright. That would expose me instantly. Better to lace the remedies with a slow toxin—death stretched over weeks, months perhaps. Subtle, invisible, final.

The physician left, medicines in hand, and made his way to Lord Barbara’s mansion. As always, Lady Barbara herself supervised his work, watching as he checked Lois’s pulse, studied her condition, and prepared the decoctions in the kitchen.

Unaware that death had already slipped into her veins.