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I arrive at the dining room early and have to make a scene just to give me a moment alone with Eryx’s food. I knock over a glass of wine, which trails onto one of the chairs and the waiting carpet underneath.

While everyone rushes to assist with the cleanup, I unstopper my glass bottle, pour the poison into Eryx’s bowl, give it a quick stir, and return to my former position before anyone else rises off the floor. The table has to be lifted so the rug can be taken out for cleaning or replacement. The chair is ruined, the white upholstery having no chance of recovery from the bloodred stain.

It is just as everything is being set to rights that Eryx emerges with his cronies in tow.

“What is happening?”

“There was a spill, Your Grace,” Xandria says.

“You are kind to cover for me, Xandria,” I say, “but it was my fault. I’m afraid the chair didn’t survive, and the rug isn’t looking much better.”

Eryx pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to insist on spending more money to replace them, aren’t you?”

“Quit fretting like a pauper. Should you like to have a bare dining room? What will guests think when they see an odd number of chairs at the table?”

“That the duchess cannot count?”

“Precisely!”

Eryx smirks as he seats himself. He takes a whiff of the food in front of him. “Smells delicious. Do give my regards to Cook,” he says to the nearest of the kitchen staff.

As I reach for my napkin, I utter the words I prepared for tonight: “You need a haircut.” I glance at the medium-brown mess of tangles atop the fake duke’s head with disdain. (I don’t care if Tomaras says Eryx is legitimate in his claims, he will always be the fake duke to me as the title should be mine.) Talking about future events with a man I don’t plan on seeing in the future only further cements my innocence.

“You need a muzzle,” he replies.

I sigh with feigned impatience. “The wedding is this weekend. You must look presentable. We’ve come a long way with your manners, but your appearance is just as important. Please go get a haircut andnotfrom Argus or Dyson. I doubt either man has ever held a pair of scissors. Go see a barber. Ask him for something gentlemanly. You cannot be seen with that mop upon your head.”

Eryx gives me a look so dark I swear it leeches warmth out of the room.

“Fine,” he bites out.

He sits with his eyes closed, breathing heavily, as though he needs to control his temper before he can even pick up an eating utensil. His temper seems to be getting shorter and shorter of late, though I’ve no idea as to what could be the cause.

I’m already a few spoonfuls into my meal, watching Eryx as I alwaysdo, in case I need to correct his manners. When he faces his food and grabs a spoon, my leg trembles from under the table. My whole body raises in temperature as he brings his first taste to his mouth.

There’s a moment where I doubt. One small moment in which I think to stop him, to call out a warning that he shouldn’t eat the food. A second where I can reverse what I’ve done and stop a man from dying.

And that moment passes right by without me saying a word. Eryx swallows his spoonful, wincing slightly. “Little stronger than I’m used to,” he says, “but I’m sure I’ll acquire a liking.” He drinks some wine before taking another spoonful.

Another.

Another.

My leg shakes all the more fiercely. How long does it take for the poison to set in? I cling to my prepared reaction, readying for my surprise and shock.

Eryx puts a hand to his stomach, and his breathing picks up.

Finally, I think.

A jolt goes through his body, and he reaches for his wineglass again, taking a large swallow. Then he presses a hand to his mouth.

“What are you doing?” I ask him. “Use your napkin, not your hand to wipe your mouth.”

“I’m not—” He convulses again, and something pours from his mouth. At first, I think he might be vomiting, if one were to vomit… black.

And then, I notice that whatever is coming out of his mouth isn’t falling to the ground. Gravity is not claiming it as it would a liquid. Because it isn’t a liquid at all.

Smoke.