How to Poison Your Husband [COMPLETE! Cozy Romantasy With A Dash Of Murder]

Step 3: Pick the perfect poison

Despite Ivelle's confidence in the amnesic powers of mandragar, she was decidedly on edge the next morning. She jumped when Anabelle leaned into her line of sight to offer her some biscuits, and nearly spilled tea on herself when she a platoon of guards hurried past the kitchen where she was taking breakfast with the servants.

It wasn't just Ivelle who was jumpy. The entire castle was on high alert. Rumors swirled among the servants that someone had tried to break into the Royal Treasury last night. "I heard the thief put a magic spell on the guards and put them to sleep," Ivelle overheard Anabelle telling Alfred in hushed tones. "And now the queen is punishing a bunch of guards for falling victim to the magic. And the queen is having the rest of the guards search the palace for the thief."

That certainly tracked with why none of the guards had come running when Prince Eirifold had called for them in the garden yesterday. Ivelle slurped her tea and tried to reassure herself everything would be fine. After all, she hadn't gone anywhere near the royal treasury, she hadn't put any guards to sleep, and she hadn't left any traces in the royal wing of the palace (she hoped).

She had only been seen by the prince.

A prince high on drugs at the time.

No one would believe anything he said.

...Probably.

If Ivelle was uneasy, her anxiety paled in comparison to Ash's, whose pacing had reached record heights. He'd been beside himself when she'd materialized in their room the night before, swearing and dripping blood over their undoubtedly valuable carpet.

"What do you mean the prince bit you?" he'd screeched, as she rummaged around for a healing potion and some better bandages than the torn strips of cloth from her skirt.

"He took a nom out of my hand with his teeth."

"Why were his teeth anywhere close to your hand!?"

"I was trying to stop him from shouting for help." (She avoided mentioning the panic-snogging. Ash was already in a tizzy as it was.)

"He'd better not have fucking rabies!"

"That's what I said!"

"I'm never letting you go anywhere without me again!"

It had taken a while for Ash to calm down, and even longer for him to stop chewing her out for not simply offing the prince while he was drugged out of his mind. Ivelle's vague explanation that "the timing was wrong," wasn't enough to satisfy him.

"Look," Ivelle had huffed finally. "Lillian's life might be better if we kill Prince Dingbat after they get married, you know? It should be up to her. I mean, we should at least discuss it with her. She is the client, after all."

Ash had shut up after that. But he continued to send her salty looks that morning as she nibbled her breakfast croissants in the servant's quarters. He seemed somewhat mollified though, when Anabelle brought a small bowl of fruits and seeds over to the table "for the good crow to nosh on."

Ivelle was too wound up to eat much. It wasn't until a servant popped his head into the kitchen and summoned them both to the shelter of Lady Lillian's tearoom that she finally began to feel some semblance of calm.

To Ivelle's relief (and Ash's profound annoyance) Lillian seemed far more interested in the mechanics of poisons than in the nuances of their gimmicky 12-step plan. Ivelle laid out her array of potions on the princess' private table, and for a time they went through the glittering vials one by one, with Lillian oohing and aahing at appropriate moments.

Ivelle was pretty pleased with her potion collection. Amassed over a decade, it spanned a wide array of different concoctions, from the incredibly functional to the exceedingly deadly. Most of the nastier potions had been inherited when her mum died. A couple – like her Healing potion, which would rapidly heal any scrapes (crucial for a carpenter!), or her Doggify potion, which would turn the drinker into whichever dog breed best matched their personality – were specialties she'd mixed up herself.