The sound, the same snap that had activated the slave mark on Dorin, carried. The butler, his body tensing for the pain, instead felt his throat close. The choking, the 'something-is-blocking-my-airway' choking, made him gag. His hands, going to his throat, clawed. His face, going red, then blue, was a mask of panic.
The gardener, the old one-eyed man who had been standing in the corner, rushed forward. His arms, wrapping around the butler from behind, performed the Heimlich. The thrust, the upward push on the diaphragm, dislodged whatever was blocking the airway. The butler, gasping, fell to his knees.
Viktor, watching, took another bite of bread.
"Sleeping pills," he said. His voice was casual. The 'I-found-the-poison-in-my-food' observation that was delivered like a weather report. "In the soup."
He looked at the three servants. At the butler, on his knees, gasping. At the maid, in her bra and panties, trembling. At the gardener, his one eye wide with fear.
