The court ladies' gathering was meant to be routine.
Six cushions. Two trays. One lacquered tea set brought out only for the higher-ranking guests.
I was to serve silently, without eye contact, hands folded when not in motion.
I didn't mind. I preferred silence. It gave me time to see.
I arrived early, as instructed.
The tea set was already laid out on the side table lid slightly ajar.
That wasn't normal. The supervisor of linens always locked it until the last moment, to avoid dust or wandering eyes.
But she wasn't there.
Just a kitchen girl I didn't recognize, carefully folding napkins with her back to me.
Too careful.
I said nothing.
Instead, I checked the rim of the teapot.
A thin residue clung to the spout barely visible, a faint shimmer under the morning light.
But I knew that shimmer.
Oil of monkshood.
Diluted. Dried. Invisible to anyone who didn't know what to taste for.
Not enough to kill.
But enough to numb the mouth. Muddle speech. Induce tremors.
Enough to humiliate someone at court. Or cast suspicion.
I didn't touch the pot.
I let the linen girl finish folding.
Then I carried the set calmly to the gathering chamber.
And, just before entering, I replaced the poisoned pot with a backup one kept for spills.
No one noticed.
But as I served, I looked back once toward the corridor.
The unknown kitchen girl was gone.
And where her hands had pressed the napkin—
a faint print remained.
Sticky. Faintly sweet. Laced with camellia oil, the binding agent used in certain herbal poisons.
They were testing me.
Not just watching.
Testing.
And now, I'd passed.
Which meant they'd come again.