Page 47 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Nineteen

ELIZABETH

A week had trickled away like sand through my fingers, each grain a moment stolen from me—a moment I hadn’t spent with Amir.

The herbs I had left him—a desperate concoction of comfrey and willow bark—were nothing more than a feeble balm, a temporary salve for wounds that demanded something far darker to heal.

I knew the truth.

I had always known it.

He needed to kill. He needed to consume souls.

And I had promised him I would bring him the worthless—the men who deserved no mercy.

But time, that unyielding thief, had slipped through my grasp.

The masquerade loomed just days ahead, approaching like a rising tide, swallowing me whole.

My father had chosen me as the organizer of the affair, not out of trust or admiration but because he knew my dutiful nature would ensure his grand vision came to life.

So, my days were spent wading through the suffocating tedium of preparations.

And my nights—my nights belonged to the poison.

A lethal elixir, crafted under the hush of candlelight, a silent assassin waiting to be unleashed upon those who had orchestrated Amir’s suffering.

I was the conductor of this firestorm.

The household erupted into a frenzy from the moment my father announced the date—a Thursday, to avoid clashing with the Countess’ ball.

Servants scurried through the halls, each seeming to grow an extra pair of hands.

Invitations were sent within the week.

Handwritten by Mr. Gainsborough, his script was flawless, and every swirling letter sealed fate upon fate.

Each envelope bore the family crest in red wax—an emblem of power, dominance, and the illusion of control.

But they had no control.

Not over me.

Not over what was coming.

The estate, though grand, could scarcely contain the flood of Timehunter guests and their insufferable “plus ones” who had eagerly accepted our invitation.

Thus, Kew Palace was chosen—an opulent jewel on the outskirts of London, a venue renowned for its grandeur, gilded excess, and deceptive beauty.

A place fit for kings and queens.

A place that would soon become a graveyard of the unsuspecting.

As I entered, the chandeliers dripped with light, diamonds splintering across the polished floors. Servants bustled like ants through golden corridors, ensuring that every detail—from the placement of roses to the arrangement of seating—was executed with meticulous care.

A spectacle of perfection.

It was a performance for those who had no idea they were walking straight into the final act of their existence.

The palace itself became a stage.

Garlands of fresh greenery—rosemary for remembrance, lavender for fleeting peace—were woven through the balustrades, filling the air with a false sense of serenity.

The silver was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the faces of men who believed themselves untouchable.

The chandeliers in the grand ballroom were cleaned, new candles refitted, ready to cast a golden glow upon the unwitting damned.

Outside, I commanded the footmen to sweep the front drive until every speck of gravel was aligned.

Carriages would arrive one after another, delivering lambs to the slaughter.

And I would be there, smiling, welcoming them to their fate.

My attire took no small effort.

Madame Beaulieu, London’s most sought-after modiste, had sent her assistant for the final fitting of my gown.

A vision in pale-blue silk.

Pearls embroidered along the bodice—tiny, delicate things, like tears frozen in time.

Exquisite.

Restrictive.

A masterpiece of beauty meant to suffocate.

Mrs. LeClair, my hairdresser, promised to arrive early on the day of the event to sculpt my hair into an elegant tower of ribbons and feathers.

I would be painted, adorned, and transformed into the perfect image of grace and poise.

It was a beautiful lie.

For beneath the lace, beneath the silk, beneath the carefully applied powder and rouge?—

I was a storm waiting to break.

Yet, before the storm could come, I had to perfect the illusion.

The menu planning became my battlefield, a silent war over silver platters and gilded table settings.

The cook and I debated for hours.

Should the pheasant be roasted or braised? Would a venison pie be too rustic?

Would they suspect poison in the turtle soup?

Ultimately, we settled on roasted peacock, turtle soup, and decadent pastries that rivaled the king’s table.

But the true indulgence?

Fresh strawberries.

It was outrageously expensive this early in the season, but I dismissed the cook’s protests with a flick of my wrist.

“It will set the right tone.”

Death deserves a touch of luxury.

The music had to be perfect.

Musicians were hired—not just any musicians, but the best.

A quartet for dinner, a harpsichordist for the dancing that would follow.

I designed the dance cards, embossed with gold filigree, a small extravagance justified by the deception at play.

Still, I would not allow innocence to suffer alongside guilt.

The musicians would be gone before the poison touched a single goblet.

There was no sense in spilling blood that did not deserve it.

In the solitary confines of my cottage, I toiled.

The flickering candlelight bore witness as I worked, its feeble glow illuminating the cold alchemy of vengeance.

The grind of the pestle against the mortar was a slow, rhythmic dirge—a death knell in motion.

Every grain crushed, every liquid distilled, was another step toward the inevitable.

And yet, as my hands moved with practiced ease, my thoughts drifted.

To him.

To the dungeon’s cold embrace, where Amir languished.

I could almost feel the chill of the damp stone against his skin, the bruises forming beneath the weight of his chains.

I ached to go to him.

To press the vials into his trembling hands, to whisper promises of escape against his fevered skin.

But the dungeon was forbidden to me.

Sealed off by my father’s iron decree.

“Elizabeth,” he had said, his voice a steel trap snapping shut around me, “your place is here, overseeing the final touches. We cannot afford distractions.”

Distractions.

That was what he called Amir.

As if he were a mere inconvenience. As if he were not my very heartbeat.

Though spoken under the guise of concern, his words were nothing more than chains—meant to keep me locked away in duty.

But shackles could break.

And soon, very soon—they would.

I retired to my room each night, but the rest never came.

The weight of longing pressed against my chest like an iron shackle, unrelenting.

I yearned to slip through the shadows, vanish into the night, and find my way to him.

To Amir.

He was trapped in that dungeon, and yet, it was I who felt imprisoned.

I was a prisoner in my own home, bound by duty and expectation—by the hidden eyes watching my every move, whispering my father’s will.

I fought in the quiet hours before dawn when the world held its breath.

Fought the war between responsibility and love.

The masquerade demanded my focus.

But it was Amir’s suffering that claimed my soul.

And with every beat of my heart, it murmured a promise.

Find a way.

Find him.

The masquerade loomed over me like a tempest cloud, its preparations an intricate dance of deception and death.

But death required meticulousness.

I unlatched the weathered door to my alchemist’s cottage, slipping inside the only place where I could shed the facade of the dutiful daughter and embrace the monster I was becoming.

Upon the workbench, the Noctyss poison lay in wait in the dim candlelight.

Nearly complete.

All but for one final, crucial ingredient.

The blood of darkness.

A chill ran down my spine.

There was only one way to obtain it.

Mathias was beyond my grasp—a phantom lurking in the periphery of shadows.

But Amir…

Amir was close.

Amir’s blood would serve as the key.

I inhaled, my decision forged in the fire of necessity.

Under the cover of night, I would seek him out.

I would draw forth the darkness from his very veins.

For the poison to be complete—he must bleed.

Days blurred together, an endless tide of orders and arrangements.

And then, my father presented a solution.

A solution as twisted as it was fortuitous.

“We have new hands to assist us, Elizabeth,” Father announced, his voice curling with amusement, his eyes gleaming with something cold, something cruel.

“Lord Winston’s staff will join our ranks.”

A slow, dark smile curled at the edges of my lips.

Perfect.

“Surely, Father, their number is insufficient for grandeur as you envision,” I countered smoothly, feigning concern as my mind sharpened with purpose.

I knew full well what Lord Winston’s servants truly were.

Creatures whittled from the same rotten wood as their master.

Men soaked in sin, stained beyond redemption.

“Ah, but they are well-versed in our... unique requirements,” Father assured me, his words slithering through the air like serpents.

A plan unfurled within me, slow and deliberate, like the petals of a night-blooming flower.

A plan steeped in dark promise.

“Perfect,” I murmured, my heart quickening with wicked anticipation. “I shall see to their integration myself.”

A simple sentence, innocuous in sound—but beneath it lay an unspoken vow.

I would bring them to Amir.

The very filth that served Winston, that obeyed without question would serve another purpose now.

Their tainted, corrupt souls would be his sustenance.

And then—he would rise.

The masquerade would not be a triumph of social graces.

It would be a reckoning.

With the stage set and the players unknowingly cast, I retreated to my chambers, the weight of my carefully woven deception pressing against my skin like a velvet shroud.

Each tick of the ornate clock upon my mantel was a heartbeat?—

Counting down.

To the moment I would unleash Amir’s might upon them all.

That night, I stood at my chamber window, watching.

My father. Mathias. Lord Winston.

Three monsters cloaked in wealth and power slipped into their carriage like vipers retreating into the dark.