---
"So attacking me is your idea of help?"
The low, booming voice pressed against her like something physical.
"No! Absolutely not!"
Marin shook her head so violently her vision blurred. Cold sweat traced a path down her spine. Every instinct screamed at her to roll the cart backward and flee.
"But you said 'touch the body'?"
"No—I mean, *yes*, but—not like *that*. I meant something else. Specifically—"
Embarrassment strangled her words. She glanced desperately at the bowl of green paste on her tray.
*Focus. Explain. Don't let him twist this into something worse.*
She tried again. "Your Grace, I—"
"So you intend to attack me with *something else*?" He cut her off smoothly. "A knife, perhaps? Knives are the classic weapon of spies, I'm told."
"*Excuse me?*"
Her light green eyes went round as coins.
Marin's hands tightened on the cart handle. Her knuckles whitened.
*If I let go, I might actually punch him.*
Those beautiful, infuriating lips of his curved slightly upward.
"You're confessing, then?"
"No! That's not true! Absolutely impossible! This is entirely my mistake!"
She shook her head with such force that her hair escaped its pins.
*Another misunderstanding. Another disaster.*
"And what exactly is your mistake?"
He leaned back in his chair, the picture of lazy amusement.
"Everything," Marin whispered miserably, her shoulders slumping. "I only wanted to help Your Grace. And somehow I've become a spy again."
"Ahem."
The sound that emerged might have been a cough.
It also might have been laughter.
Marin's head snapped up—but the Duke's face remained impassive as ever. Not a trace of humor.
"Your Grace, perhaps the timing is poor." She gathered the tatters of her dignity. "I should come back later?"
"Without providing your... help?"
"I'm afraid you've misunderstood me entirely. There's no knife—I swear to you—it's only grass."
"Grass."
"Yes! Flowers, crushed into a paste. It brings down fever."
"I don't have a fever," he said flatly.
"It's also excellent for headaches! And even without those, the cooling effect is wonderfully refreshing. Truly, Your Grace, if you try it—"
She heard herself and winced inwardly.
*I sound like a market vendor hawking snake oil.*
If he could see, he would certainly be staring at her with an expression that said: *Where exactly are you trying to sell this potion?*
"I told you. No fever."
"But it's so *cooling*! In some regions, people use nothing else for—"
*Stop talking. Just stop.*
"Temporary."
The single word emerged as a warning.
Marin clasped her hands together.
"Please. Just this once." She poured every ounce of earnestness into her voice. "If Your Grace dislikes it, I won't suggest it again. Please?"
If she couldn't administer Mandrelson internally, then at least she could apply it to his eyes. Even a small benefit would be worthwhile.
Silence stretched between them.
Then:
"*Ha-ah.* Fine. Do it."
"Yes! Thank you! Thank you so much!"
Joy erupted through her—she nearly bowed before catching herself.
*Wait. This is all for* his *sake. Why am I acting grateful?*
She pouted at the injustice of it all and turned her attention to the preparation.
Spreading the paste generously across the thin cloth, she worked quickly. She'd chosen this fabric deliberately—wide enough to cover both forehead and eyes, sheer enough to let the cooling effect penetrate.
The Duke tilted his head back against his chair.
"With your permission, then."
A slight nod. Silent consent.
Marin held her breath and approached.
Carefully, delicately, she brushed back the dark strands that fell across his face. The hair slipped through her fingers like black silk—impossibly soft.
His forehead revealed itself. Smooth. Unmarred. Beautiful in its architecture.
And below it, the black silk ribbon that concealed his ruined eyes.
*If only I could remove that. Place the cloth directly against his eyelids.*
But speaking such a request aloud would earn her accusations far worse than "spy."
She restrained herself.
"I'll apply it now."
The cloth descended—cool, damp, fragrant with Mandrelson's mint-like scent. She smoothed the edges carefully, ensuring nothing would drip.
"Why the eyes?"
"Cooling the eyes is also beneficial. It's folk wisdom. When reducing fever, removing heat from the eyes helps the whole body."
"Does this folk wisdom mention that one shouldn't use it on someone *without* a fever?"
"There. All finished."
She pretended not to hear.
Marin was straightening up when the Duke's hand shot out and caught her wrist.
They were still close. *Too* close. His face filled her vision.
*Don't breathe. If my breath touches him—*
She swallowed and whispered:
"What is it?"
"Examination."
"Oh. Yes."
His fingers formed a ring around her wrist and began their familiar assessment.
Except today, he seemed... thorough. Unusually so.
Her back, still bent at an awkward angle, began to ache.
His lips were *right there*. Scarlet-red against his pale skin.
*He doesn't wear cosmetics like the noblewomen do. And yet that color is so vivid, so beautiful—*
"Still the same."
"I've finished growing. I keep telling you."
"Grow more."
"Yes, Your Grace."
*If management insists.*
She agreed hastily—anything to straighten up faster.
He released her.
Marin retreated several steps and gulped air like a drowning woman breaking the surface.
*I thought I was going to suffocate.*
She retrieved her book from the cart and settled into position.
"Tonight's tale is about a raven who repaid a kindness."
"Does such a thing happen?"
"Yes."
*...No.*
She'd written it herself, actually. From memory. A sheet of paper covered in her cramped handwriting protruded from between the pages.
Marin felt herself to be that grateful bird—except she'd chosen a raven instead of the original magpie.
*Magpies don't exist in this world. Ravens will have to do.*
The original was a brief folk tale. Her version had expanded considerably: the hero's struggles, his unlikely friendship with the clever raven, the bird's dedication despite its deceptive nature.
By the time she finished, nearly an hour had passed.
"*...And though the raven had lied, the count finally understood all the bird had done for him. Having repaid the kindness in full, the raven soared high into the sky. And the count remained grateful to the raven for the rest of his life, living happily until his final days.*"
Marin closed the book with quiet satisfaction.
*The count was the Duke. The raven was me.*
Hidden within the story was a silent plea: *Even if you discover my lies, please don't kill me.*
Of course, the Duke understood none of it.
He sat motionless. Silent.
*Is he sleeping?*
Experience had taught her that the Duke seemed to wake the moment a story ended. That was why she'd chosen longer tales. Why she'd deliberately padded tonight's reading.
*Sleep longer. Please.*
She set the book on the cart and retrieved the damp towel she'd prepared.
Moving with exaggerated care, she approached the Duke's chair.
Still no movement.
*Actually sleeping?*
"I'll remove the cloth now," she breathed—barely audible, even to herself.
Her hand reached toward his face—
His fingers closed around her wrist like a steel trap.
"What is this?"
Urgency threaded through his low voice. Something almost like... alarm.
"I'm sorry?"
Marin's heart stuttered.
"This paste. What is it made from?"
"Just... a weed. The kind that grows along roadsides."
*Why the sudden interest?*
She chose each word with utmost caution.
"The same flower you ate yesterday?"
Ice flooded her veins.
"How did you know?"
"It smells identical."
*That nose. That impossibly sharp nose.*
She marveled silently—but didn't let down her guard. He couldn't be allowed to realize it was classified among poisonous plants.
"Yes. The same flower."
"And this is a folk remedy for fever?"
"Yes."
"What is it called?"
The question hung in the air.
Marin hesitated.
If she named it, he might investigate. Might discover its listing in the herbal compendium of poisons.
But she hadn't given it internally. And Julia truly *had* described it as a folk remedy.
"It's called... Mandrelson."
She watched his face for any reaction.
The Duke reached up and removed the cloth himself—slowly, deliberately. The green-stained fabric came away from his forehead and eyes.
Marin quickly offered the towel.
"Would you like me to wipe—"
"No need."
He snatched the towel from her hands, scrubbed his face clean, and tossed it onto the desk.
Something had shifted.
The lazy amusement was gone. In its place sat something focused, intent—almost predatory.
Marin gathered the soiled cloth and towel with trembling fingers.
"Your Grace, I'll take my leave now."
The Duke said nothing. His brow remained furrowed, his expression unusually serious.
*Something is wrong.*
She wheeled the cart out as quickly as silence would permit.
---
## — After She Left —
"Kay."
The shadow materialized instantly, prostrate before the chair.
"..."
"Mandrelson." The Duke's voice emerged flat. Cold. "Find out everything."
Kay vanished without acknowledgment.
Darkness reclaimed the study.
And the Duke sat alone, the faint scent of mint still clinging to his skin, turning the name of a common weed over and over in his mind.
---