If those bees attack my uncle one more time, the old keeper will be dragged away in chains for treason, my cousin whispered as we stood on the portico of Elmwood Manor.
The murmur of officers’ voices drifted from the dining room, a low hum of silverware against porcelain. Outside, the Virginia sun beat down on Elmwood Manor, deceptively peaceful.
My uncle, Julian Montgomery, was at the luncheon. It was my chance.
His fine wool coat, the one with the distinctive velvet lapels, hung on a peg by the grand staircase in the foyer. The same coat that had drawn the bees like a magnet.
I crept closer, my heart thudding against my ribs. The heavy, sweet-bitter fragrance I’d noticed on him before was undeniable now, clinging to the fabric itself.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the coat, feeling the luxurious weight of the velvet. This was a dangerous thing I was doing.
I pushed my hand into the interior breast pocket, searching for anything unusual. My fingertips brushed against something small, hard, and smooth.
I pulled it out. It was a glass vial, no bigger than my thumb.
It was coated in a dark blue, almost black, botanical resin. The scent it emitted was intense, overwhelming – the sharp, acrid smell of freshly crushed Monkshood stems, far stronger than anything I’d encountered in the greenhouse.
A cold dread spread through me. This wasn’t just a plant growing wild. Someone was actively extracting its deadly essence.
Julian wasn’t merely cultivating a dangerous flower; he was manufacturing a weapon.
My mind raced, connecting the dots: the bees, the greenhouse, the terrifying strength of the poison in this vial. It was all deliberate.
I had to put it back. No one must know I had found it.
Just as I moved to slide the vial back into the pocket, a heavy tread echoed on the polished floor behind me.
“Nurse Albright.”
The voice was deep, laced with an unmistakable edge of authority. My hand froze.
Major Donald Pryce stood in the archway leading from the administrative wing, his uniform perfectly pressed. His eyes, cold and assessing, fixed on me.
He carried a stack of military requisition folders, their official seals glinting. He did not look pleased.
“Is there a reason,” he continued, his gaze dropping to my still-outstretched hand, “a civilian nurse is rummaging through a commanding officer’s private effects?”
The vial felt impossibly heavy in my palm. The scent of Monkshood seemed to bloom, thick and cloying, in the sudden silence.
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