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

Step 9a: Don't get caught...

Ivelle fell to the ground beside Eirifold, barely managing to catch his head in her lap before it collided with the ground. "No," she muttered. "Nononononono. Eirifold, stay with me. Eirifold..."

His hazel eyes fluttered weakly, then fell shut again. One of his hands lifted, fingers ghosting across her cheek—and then his hand flopped limply to the ground.

A flash of silver lace entered Ivelle's peripheral vision. "Doctor!" cried Lillian—at least, Ivelle thought it was Lillian. The world was spinning. Everything around her seemed to be happening far too slowly, but also way too fast. "Please," said Lillian. "Please help—we need a doctor—"

Abruptly, there was a flurry of sound and action. Ivelle was pushed aside to make way for a veritable onslaught of medical personnel. She huddled next to the wreckage of the soupy table, trying to still her shaking hands.

She didn't know how much time passed. It might have been minutes; it might have been hours. Vaguely she registered other voices nearby: the queen's sharp voice ("Secure the perimeter!"), the distraught gasps of Mariel in the background, the guards herding the shocked guests into various parts of the room for interrogation, the court doctor barking commands to his underlings as he performed what seemed to be a barrage of diagnostic spells on Eirifold.

These sounds entered her mind and then dissipated, without her processing them. In truth, she could not bring herself to care. All that mattered was Eirifold — Eirifold, lying limp upon the ground beside the shattered china, tea staining his priceless wedding suit, his eyes closed, his face bloodless, his chest rising slower with each breath...

A rational person might have tried to diagnose him, tried to discern what sort of poison had been used to determine an antidote. But right now, Ivelle was neither logical nor rational, and even if she had been, she knew most poisons didn't have antidotes, and most antidotes didn't work once you were comatose.

She felt like her chest was splitting open, like her heart was being crushed beneath a wave, a tsunami, an avalanche of grief.

He was going to die.

She was too late, he was going to die, and she had supplied the poison that had killed him.

One of the court doctors appeared at her shoulder. "Ma'am, I was told you were the first person to witness him collapse." Her voice held the exhausted overtones of a woman who is Having A Very Bad Day. "I need you to tell me exactly what you saw."

Why bother? Ivelle thought dully. What difference will it make at this point? We all know how this is going to end.

But she opened her mouth and said numbly, "He just collapsed suddenly, right where he's lying now."

"Did he do anything else before he collapsed? Did he give any indication that he was in pain?"

"He was clutching his chest. He looked dizzy."

"Are there any medications that he takes on a daily basis?"

"Alcohol," said Ivelle.

"That's a substance, ma'am—do you know if he takes any medications?"

"Nasal spray? I don't... I've only known him a few months. Maybe you should ask one of his guards..."

"Thanks, I'll do that." The doctor hurried over back to the other medics clustered at Eirifold's side, and Ivelle was left staring at her hands once more, grief settling back over her like a cloud.

The mage-doctors were moving Eirifold's limp body onto a stretcher. In the distance, another group of medics was carting away the king. Ivelle struggled to her feet. She'd been crouched on the floor for so long, her legs had both gone numb. Uncertainly, she tried to follow the group carrying Eirifold away but found her path blocked by a wall of guards.