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“If they don’t release you soon, send your deofol,” said Saophal. “Xanthe will go directly to the Wessexian queen. There’s no proof of your involvement in this mess. They can’t hold you long.”

The axolotl disappeared. Aurienne the Murderer stewed in more guilt. Mordaunt sauntered towards the table where his pilfered bottles of Scotch still stood.

“Really?” said Aurienne. “You’re going to have a drink? Now? Between interrogations? A dead man’s stolen Scotch?”

Mordaunt wiggled a bottle at her. “I’m a bon vivant.”

“You’re a common thief.”

“Common?How dare you?”

Mordaunt found a goblet, opened one of the bottles, and inhaled.

Aurienne anticipated much waxing eloquent on the Scotch and, wrestling with her own agonies over Wellesley’s death, made a swift remark about how it smelled like Malfeasance and Acts of Unwarranted Brutality—but Mordaunt coughed and gagged and cut her off.

“What the hell is this?” he asked of the bottle.

“If it’s gone bad, it serves you right,” said Aurienne.

Mordaunt tilted the bottle to peer at the liquid therein. “No—it’s not Scotch at all.”

He passed the bottle under Aurienne’s nose. The smell was lightly chemical, acidic, and familiar. It took Aurienne two or three sniffs to place it.

Then, with a gasp, she recognised it: “That’s sophoglycolate broth.”

“Sack the chef. I’ve never smelled a worse broth in my life.”

Aurienne snatched the cork from Mordaunt’s hand and popped it back onto the bottle. “It’s a liquid media, a mix of stabilisers and pH buffers. Never mind the details—sophoglycolate broth is used to preserve viruses.”

Aurienne plonked the bottle on the table next to its twin.

She and Mordaunt stared at it.

At length, Mordaunt asked, “I was about to drink a virus?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why’s Wellesley got viruses in his cellar?”

“I don’t know.”

“What virus?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve got a shrewd guess.”

“The Pox?”

“The Pox.” Aurienne picked up both bottles. “I’m going to have these tested.”

“Oh, sonowwe’re smuggling bottles out of the Keep,” said Mordaunt as Aurienne stuffed them into her satchel. The black kitten was still within; it hissed at her—she had interrupted its nap.

“Were there other bottles?” asked Aurienne.

“There was a whole cellar full,” said Mordaunt.

“You said it was unusually well guarded?”

“Yes. Sixteen men.”