The real Arinel was late for work. Usually, scullery maids must be ready at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast for the lord and his family, but Arinel was exhausted after catering to the lavish evening celebrations, and Gretella allowed her poor lady to sleep in, sending Haselle in her place.

After scolding her nurse (who was also her grandmother) for spoiling her, Arinel dashed out of her room and hurried to the underground kitchen. She was a mere step away from the door when a mysterious hand reached out from the shadows and dragged her down a different hallway.

“Wait—where—” Arinel had barely begun protesting when the being in the bedraggled black cloak pushed open a slab of nondescript wall and slipped pass the gap inside, yanked her in after it, then shut the secret door.

Arinel whirled around in total darkness, preparing herself for a fight for survival.

“Who are you? What do you wa—?” A rough, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth.

“Shhh! Lady, it’s me; Meya.”

Hissed that familiar voice. Arinel’s shock morphed into confusion. Meya freed her mouth. The space lit up to reveal gray stone walls flanking a narrow passage leading away behind them. Meya stood before her, holding a candle on a metal stand.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Coris?” Arinel hissed back.

“He’s gone back to sleep.”

Meya wasn’t paying much attention as she rummaged in her dress pocket with her free hand. Under the ragged black cloak she had worn during the journey, she’d already had on a beautiful red-and-gold silk dress, and her hair was braided; she was dressed for breakfast but was using the cloak as camouflage. She handed Arinel a piece of torn parchment and a pencil.

“Listen, I don’t have much time. I need you to write me a letter. Now.”

“What?” Arinel made no move to take them, so Meya pushed them into her hands.

“I think I know what the bandits are looking for. I need to warn Coris.”

"Warn him? But aren’t you working for Gillian?” The brusque explanation only served to confuse Arinel more. Meya rolled her eyes at the ceiling, a growl of exasperation in her throat.

“I’ll answer your questions later. Just write down what I say, quick!” Steering Lady Crosset by the shoulders, Meya spun Arinel to face the wall then began dictating, raising her candle so its light fell upon the parchment, ”From Arinel. Me and my folk—”

"I and my men—” Arinel objected as she wrote, moving the parchment to avoid the space between bricks, writing as neatly as she could on the craggy surface.

“Whatever.” Meya hissed, but complied nonetheless. ”I and my men forced to steal dowry. Bandits disguised as guards. Don’t put up fight or hide dowry. We and bandits poisoned each other and need antidote in one month."

Arinel scribbled as fast as she could while correcting Meya’s childish, peasant-like vocabulary and grammar. Meya might not care, but if she wanted to keep her cover, then she’d better send a message Coris will believe was written by an educated noblewoman.

“Very well. Done.” Arinel flourished the last letter and inked the last dot. Before she could hand it over, Meya swept it right out of her fingers, swift and silent as a gust of wind.

“Didn’t know nobles could write so fast.” She noted in her characteristic flat, dry voice. Once she had stuffed the note into her generous cleavage, she bolted away into the dark, tossing Arinel a harried word of gratitude.

“Now, get out of here quick. Thanks!”

By the time Arinel spun around, Meya had already vanished, her soft but rapid footsteps echoing further and further up in the tower above, headed towards the Great Hall.

⏳

Three hours had passed since Arinel’s puzzling run-in with her nemesis. The disgraced lady had since gone back to the kitchen and joined Haselle, assisted with breakfast preparations, and sent it off hot and steaming to the dining hall for the lord and his guests.

After the lord’s table had been cleared, it was the servants and guards’ turn to dine. At long last, after every subject in all parts of the castle had been served their share, the scullery maids could finally sit down for a rest, and wait to sup on whatever is left.

Arinel looked up when the plump maid helming the kitchen banged on the enormous metal pot she was stirring, then hurried to join the other young girls who grabbed their bowls and lined up.

In her first day here, she was still reluctant and embarrassed to do so. It reminded her of the poor, famished beggars and lepers queuing with their bowls before the charity tent set up in front of Crosset Castle, waiting for the monthly free servings of gruel. However, by the time she was preparing food for last night’s celebrations, she was too tired and starving to care.

As Lady Crosset, she’d always woken up to food served to her bed on days she was unwell, or sitting ready on the table the moment she set foot into the Hall, at the precise same time daily.

Now, her mealtimes were delayed by hours, and she could feel her stomach growling, burning and writhing when it did not receive sustenance on the time it was accustomed to.

So, this was what it was like to be hungry. This was what the peasants had been through during the Famine, Meya and her family included. So did the other maids. How many of them had lost relatives back then?

Arinel was only ten in the year of the Crosset Famine. Back then, her father was a marquess. Her family was powerful and rich enough that she could beat even Lady Agnesia of Graye to become Coris’s betrothed.

It all came to an end one innocuous spring. For many months each year, Arinel and her father would reside at the Crosset estate in Icemeet, where her clan originated.

Her father would leave the manor’s day-to-day management to Bailiff Johnsy. Behind their backs, Johnsy sold the storehouse grain in cheap prices to manors in other regions, lining his own pockets with gold. At first, he had only meant to sell the excess grain, but man’s greed knew no limits, and the amount kept growing.

One spring, a peasant girl was discovered to have disguised herself as a boy to work in the lord’s land. Crosset law still forbade women from working in the fields then, fearing they would taint the rice and anger Freda, leading to a famine.

It was an offense punishable by death, but as the girl—Meya, was only ten, her father pleaded for her life, and she was subjected to flogging and the Liar’s Bridle instead.

Arinel was there to witness the punishment being meted out. She remembered the bright red blood trickling through Meya’s lips and dripping down her dress. The whip’s force sent her small body jolting against the chains, and the bridle’s bit scratched her tongue. She remembered those flaring green eyes of hatred directed at her father. The girl did not shed a tear nor let out a whimper.

Not long after that, while Arinel and her family were once again in Icemeet, their fears came true. A wet and stormy summer was followed by swarms of locusts lasting through autumn.

It was a terrible year for crops. The storehouse grain—or rather, what was left of it—was not enough to sustain the manor through winter. A famine befell them in no time. Neighboring manors were just as tight in food as they were, and couldn’t send relief.

Bailiff Johnsy blamed Meya for the famine, leading Meya to flee into the forest. He then invited Lord Coris to hunt game in the Lord’s forest, and manipulated the peasants to kidnap him, hoping to demand Baron Hadrian send food to Crosset as ransom.

Under obscure circumstances, Coris managed to escape into neighboring Manor Truncale then back to Hadrian. News of the famine reached King Alden, who demoted Arinel’s father to the lowest rank of Lord, then added Crosset to Baron Hadrian’s demesne.

Bailiff Johnsy was hanged. With the arrival of spring, every free and able hand must plow and till the fields to feed hungry mouths, so the law was amended. Women were allowed to join farming, though they were still paid a smaller wage than men.

Would you care to heed the voices of those still alive here, if they still want to die in the rotten name of Crosset?

Meya’s scathing remark rang in her ears, and it was because Arinel understood the reason behind the people’s disdain that shame burned like acid on her face.

It was all she could do to slap the girl and stop her words before her fragile mask of aloof dignity shattered to smithereens. Seven years later, she still had not gotten over the fact that countless lives under her family’s responsibility had starved to death because of their neglect.

Arinel winced as she levered each overflowing spoonful of the lumpy soup into her mouth. Her hand trembled from both mental and physical pain. Her fingers were sore and blistered from hard work, and they seared she held the wooden spoon.

The gruel tasted and smelt awful; leftover vegetables and meat shavings thrown in with oatmeal, boiled in whey and seasoned with the tiniest whiff of salt. The slice of bread also came from the burnt and hard-as-rocks loaves; the ones unfit to be served to nobility. She learned from watching the other maids that she had to leave it to soak in the gruel before taking a bite, lest she pull out her teeth along with it. Yet, the other maids fell on it without fuss.

After the head maid had left, the nine young women scrambled to the pot, jostling each other for seconds and thirds.

“I’ll go get you some more.” Haselle whispered then swept off to join the war on food, before Arinel could express her reluctance. Sighing, Arinel swallowed her disgust and focused on downing the rest of her gruel.

Something moved in the corner of her eye. She glanced at the door, then her blood froze.

One of the bandits. The hulking, stupid-looking one—Trunt, stood in the dim, torch-lit underground hallway, decked out in a Hadrian Red guard uniform. He gestured for Arinel to come outside.

Arinel shot a covert glance at the other maids as she rose to her feet. They were still gathered around the pot, arguing over who gets the ladle first. She picked her way out of the cluttered kitchen.

Her first foot was just halfway out the door when Trunt grabbed her arm, pulled her to the same hallway Meya had taken her to, then ushered her into the same secret passageway. Arinel knew enough to feign utter surprise when the wall tilted open.

Trunt was in such hurry, he didn’t bother closing the wall all the way. With his back against the swinging wall, he thrust a cloth pouch into Arinel’s hand.

“Put that in this evening’s food.”

Arinel felt the mysterious bundle in the dark, her heart thundering.

“What is it?”

“Sleepin’ draught. Obviously.”

Trunt snapped back. Arinel thought fast. During the wedding celebrations, Meya and Gillian had planned to use their maids’ station in the kitchens to put the castle’s occupants to sleep by spiking their food, if necessary.

But Meya had warned Coris about the heist. Perhaps she’d changed tracks and was finding a way to thwart Gillian. And, perhaps, Arinel herself should try as well.

“We haven’t started preparing tonight’s meal yet.”

She tensed as Trunt’s raucous laughter rang in the dark, followed by a snarl which sent her jolting out of her skin.

“Yer think we so stupid, lass? Of course ya gotta have some stew or soup boiled overnight. Put it in something everyone would eat. Got it? Now git!”

Once he had sprayed Arinel with his stinking, rotten spit, Trunt shoved Arinel out into the open with such force, she pitched headfirst towards the floor. As she regained her balance and began walking, Trunt’s whispery threat chased after her.

“And dun ya think of throwin’ it away neither. I’ll be watchin’ ‘ere. Put it in righ’ away before them Hadrian maids get back.”

Sighing, Arinel strode back towards the scullery. However, curiosity soon took hold, and she couldn’t resist pulling off the string for a glimpse.

The bag was filled with a brown powder with a distinctive odor that Arinel recognized at once. It wasn’t sleeping draught at all, but something much more malicious.

Powdered aconite. One of the deadliest poisons in Latakia. Death was not immediate but certain. A drawn-out, torturous one.

The bandits had never meant to put everyone to sleep.

Was there a political motive to this? If lords of other manors were poisoned to death in Hadrian, there was no question about what would follow. A war on all fronts for Hadrian, at worst. And who was to guarantee Arinel and her men would live to see the day that happened? It was clear Gillian was not planning to leave witnesses.

How in the three lands could she warn Meya? How could she stop this massacre?

“What’re yer waitin’ for? Move!”

Arinal had no choice but to rouse her frozen limbs. With trembling hands, she tied back the pouch and forced her numb legs to life, dragging her feet as slowly as she dared back towards the kitchen door.

By the time she returned, the other maids had already noticed her absence. They stared, puzzled, as Arinel moved as if she was being turned to stone towards the far wall of the kitchen.

There sat three enormous pots as wide as her arms outstretched and as tall as her chest, filled with simmering meat stew. With a shudder, Arinel closed her eyes and tipped the content of the bag into all of them.

Once she had emptied the last dregs of poison into the last vat, she turned back to the door where Trunt was still standing, arms crossed, watching. After a curt nod, he lumbered away back to his post. Arinel allowed her legs to give way and sank to the floor.

“What is it, Lady?”

“What did he want?”

“What did he make you put in there?”

The maids were around her in an instant. Arinel allowed them to heave her up and deposit her on a chair. She drew deep, rapid breaths, hoping to regain control.

“Remember the plan? We might have to put everyone in the castle to sleep while we search.” She whispered. Some of the maids nodded. Arinel raised her gaze to meet their wide eyes, then held up the now empty cloth bag.

“This is supposed to be sleeping draught, but it’s not. It’s poison.”

There was a momentous silence as the young women digested the news, before they erupted,

“By Freda!”

“They’re going to kill the whole castle!”

“What shall we do?”

“Is there an antidote?” Haselle asked, hopeful. Arinel heaved a tortured sigh, her head dipped, and the masked maid’s visible cheek drained paler.

“No, there isn’t.” Her answer seemed to rid the room of hope for a moment, before a shaft of light lit up in Arinel’s brain. She perked up.

“Is there anything served before the stew?”

“No, my lady.” Haselle said. “Every dish is carried out at the same time. First, we would bring out the wine so the guests could drink and talk. Then, we carry out the sugar sculpts to open the feast, then the food.”

“Only the wine?”

Haselle nodded. After a long minute of wringing her brain, Arinel’s eyes snapped open. She sprang up from her seat.

“Gather all the valerian and lavender you can find!” She barked to the maids who scrambled towards the cupboards and out the door, then turned to her trusted servant, whispering now.

“Agnes, you come with me.”

Arinel clambered the stairs up to the buttery, Haselle—or rather, Agnes—hot on her heels. The dim room was lined with three shelves which snaked along the four walls and numerous cupboards lined to the left and right, looking much like a library of stored victual. The stuffy air was waffling with mingled aromas of fruit jams, butter and cheese, wine, beer, cakes and jellies.

The buttery maid and the other older scullery maids were preparing meals for the peasants’ tent in the courtyard, leaving the newest Crosset maids to keep watch over the soups and stews. They had a few hours to brew the true sleeping draught and save the guests from the aconite-laced food.

Yes. She was going with the initial plan. She would put the guests to sleep with the only course served before the food: the drinks.

“What are we looking for, Ari?” Agnes asked, her one remaining eye scanning the contents of the shelves. Arinel swept over to the nearest shelf and began pushing jars aside.

“Henbane. Magnolia. Passion Flower. Laudanum. Any sedating herbs you could find. Coris is sick—They’re bound to keep some.”

They had more than some. The girls located jars filled to the brim with concentrated powdered magnolia bark, essence of henbane and laudanum in no time. Just how much pain was he in? Arinel couldn’t believe she was worrying for the boy she despised.

Still, they needed another ingredient, preferably one as potent as laudanum, to spike as many drinks as possible.

Gritting her teeth against the crushing pressure, Arinel blinked out droplets of sweat from her hairline then went on with her frenzied rummaging. After about half an hour, she found a promising candidate.

Dried plant roots with protruding limbs resembling a human body, laid out in a stack of wooden crates, wedged in the space between a shelf and the wall.

As she lifted a root from the pile, Arinel let out her first smile since leaving Crosset on this ill-fated journey. Mandrake. Just a few roots of this enigmatic plant would be enough to fill her arsenal.

Arinel didn’t allow herself much time for celebration; her work was far from over. She must prepare her array of sedatives for ingestion and determine which refreshment each would be best suited for. Potent herbs must not be mixed with alcohol. Freshness and harvesting season must be factored in for dosage. Arinel prayed her calculations would land the elusive sweet spot between ineffective and fatal.

It was well known that Arinel’s mother had been an alchemist’s assistant before—and even after—she was taken mistress by Lord Crosset. Yet, few outside Crosset Castle would ever suspect that Lady Crosset herself had long cherished a forbidden, burning desire to follow in her mother’s footsteps.

Even when those footsteps had ended with her mother’s fiery demise.