I had approximately four hours until dinner, which meant four hours to figure out how to prove I wasn't an assassin while also somehow preventing the Duke's paranoia spiral that would eventually lead to kingdom-ending catastrophe.
No pressure.
I found myself back in my assigned quarters—a small room in the servants' wing that was still nicer than my previous apartment in Bangalore. Single bed, washbasin, a window overlooking the gardens. The kind of room that would've cost three months' salary back home.
I sat on the bed and put my head in my hands.
Think. *Think.*
In the game, the secretary's poisoning was never solved. Duke Cassian became convinced there was a traitor in his household, started suspecting everyone, and by the time the heroine arrived at the academy, he was already halfway to his villain arc. The player could try to romance him out of it, but every route still ended with the kingdom burning because the *real* conspiracy—the one that actually mattered—was never addressed.
But what was that conspiracy? The game never explained it. Plot holes big enough to drive a truck through, because the developers cared more about pretty CGs than coherent storytelling.
I needed information. I needed to know who poisoned the secretary, why, and what larger plot I'd stumbled into.
I also needed to not get executed for a crime I didn't commit.
Priorities.
A knock at my door made me jump.
"Arjun? You in there?"
A young voice, male, with a slight cockney accent. I opened the door to find a boy of about sixteen in stable hand clothes, covered in what I desperately hoped was mud.
"Um. Yes?"
"Geoffrey sent me. Says you're new and probably don't know where anything is." He grinned. "I'm Tom. I work the stables. Also general errand boy, occasional spy for Mrs. Blackwood, and professional gossip."
At least he was honest.
"Professional gossip?"
"Best in the manor." He leaned against the doorframe. "For instance, I know that Mrs. Blackwood thinks you poisoned Mr. Wickham—that's the secretary—and that His Grace is either going to fire you or arrest you by week's end. I also know you made tea for Count Rothford without spitting in it, which shows remarkable restraint."
I stared at him. "You know I'm suspected of poisoning someone, and you're just... chatting with me?"
"Well, yeah. I don't think you did it."
"Why not?"
Tom shrugged. "You've got the look."
"What look?"
"The 'I'm so tired I might actually be dead' look. Assassins are usually more alert. You look like you need a nap and a hug."
He wasn't wrong, but I wasn't about to admit it.
"Plus," he continued, "if you were an assassin, you wouldn't have asked about poison so obviously. You'd have kept quiet and let it play out. Asking questions just paints a target on your back." He paused. "Which means you're either really bad at being an assassin, or you're not an assassin."
"Sound logic," I admitted.
"Right? So. Want to know who *actually* poisoned Mr. Wickham?"
My heart stuttered. "You know?"
"Not exactly. But I know he was at Baron Helmore's gathering three nights ago. So was His Grace, but the Duke doesn't drink wine—just that one specific tea blend. Mr. Wickham, though? Drank everything offered. Real social butterfly type." Tom's expression darkened. "He came back looking rough. Said it was just too much rich food. Next morning, he was burning up with fever."
Baron Helmore. That name wasn't in the game. But then again, most of the game's worldbuilding was thinner than rice paper.
"Has anyone else who attended the gathering gotten sick?"
"Not that I've heard. But then, most of the guests were from other houses. Haven't exactly kept tabs on every noble in the kingdom."
I nodded slowly, my mind already working through the problem like a debugging session. Isolated poisoning. Specific target. Administered at a social gathering where multiple people would have access. Classic stuff.
"Tom, do you know who served the wine at that gathering?"
"His own staff, I'd guess. Baron Helmore's pretty paranoid about outsiders in his house. Why?"
"Just thinking." I was doing more than thinking. I was calculating. If the baron's own staff administered the poison, either they were bought off, or the poison was added before the wine reached the servers. Which meant...
"You've got that look," Tom said.
"What look?"
"The 'I'm about to do something stupid' look. I know it well. I wear it often."
Despite everything, I almost smiled. "I need to see Mr. Wickham."
"The dying secretary?"
"The *possibly* dying secretary. If I can figure out what poisoned him, maybe I can—"
"Prove you didn't do it while also solving the mystery and saving his life?" Tom finished. "Yeah, that's definitely stupid. I'm in."
"You're in?"
"I'm bored. Also, if you're right and someone's running around poisoning ducal staff, I'd like to know before I'm next." He pushed off the doorframe. "Come on. Wickham's in the east wing infirmary. I can get us in."
I should have said no. I should have stayed in my room and kept my head down and let the plot run its course.
But the plot's course led to *apocalypse.*
And I'd already died from overwork once. I wasn't about to die from cowardice.
---
The infirmary smelled like herbs and desperation. Tom led me through a side entrance, avoiding the main hallway where Mrs. Blackwood or her deputies might spot us.
"Physician's at dinner," Tom whispered. "We've got maybe twenty minutes."
Mr. Wickham lay in a narrow bed, covered in sweat-soaked sheets. He was younger than I expected—maybe late twenties—with dark hair plastered to his forehead. His breathing was shallow and rapid.
I'd seen this before. Not in person, but in enough medical dramas that my sister watched. Fever. Delirium. Rapid heartbeat.
I pulled back the sheet carefully, checking his arms. No obvious wounds. No rashes.
"What are you looking for?" Tom hovered by the door.
"Symptoms. Signs. Anything that might tell me what kind of poison this is." I checked Wickham's pupils—dilated. His skin was clammy, grayish. "Has he been vomiting?"
"Not that I've heard. Just the fever and confusion."
Not an irritant poison then. Something systemic. Something that attacked the organs slowly.
"Tom, what color was the wine at Baron Helmore's gathering?"
"How should I know? I wasn't invited."
"Fair point." I bit my lip, thinking. In my previous life, I'd worked on a medical billing system for three months. I'd learned more about toxicology than I ever wanted to know, just to understand the diagnosis codes.
Most slow-acting poisons in medieval settings were either plant-based or mineral-based. Plant poisons usually caused vomiting. Mineral poisons...
"Has anyone checked his room?" I asked suddenly.
"For what?"
"For whatever the real assassin planted to frame someone else."
Tom's eyes widened. "You think—"
"If someone wanted to poison a secretary and frame a convenient new butler, they'd need evidence. Something in my room, or something in his, connecting us." I straightened up. "We need to search his quarters. Now."
"That's—"
"Stupid, I know. You said you were in."
Tom grinned. "I did say that, didn't I? Alright. But if we get caught, I'm telling them you threatened me."
"Fair enough."
We slipped back out of the infirmary and made our way to the administrative wing, where the secretary's rooms were located. Tom picked the lock with practiced ease—a skill I decided not to ask about.
Wickham's room was neat. Obsessively so. Books arranged by height. Papers in perfect stacks. The kind of organization that would've made my project manager weep with joy.
"What are we looking for?" Tom asked, closing the door behind us.
"Anything that doesn't belong. Anything that connects him to me, or to—"
I stopped.
On Wickham's desk, half-hidden under a ledger, was a handkerchief. Embroidered. With a crest I didn't recognize.
I picked it up carefully. The fabric was fine quality. The embroidery was professional. And it absolutely did not belong to a secretary.
"That's not his," Tom said, leaning over my shoulder. "Mr. Wickham was particular about his things. He wouldn't use someone else's handkerchief."
"Then why is it here?"
"Maybe someone left it? Or..." Tom's expression shifted. "Or someone planted it. After he got sick."
I turned the handkerchief over. On the reverse side, barely visible, was a tiny stain. Reddish-brown.
Not blood. Wine.
"Tom," I said slowly. "Do you know whose crest this is?"
He peered at it. "That's... wait. That's the Rothford crest. The Count's family."
Count Rothford. The oily nobleman who'd been in the parlor earlier. The one who'd made the colony comment.
The one who'd left his tea half-finished.
"Oh," I said. "Oh, this is bad."
"How bad?"
Before I could answer, voices echoed in the hallway outside. Mrs. Blackwood's voice, sharp and clear:
"—found in the secretary's room, going through his things. Both of them."
The door flew open.
Mrs. Blackwood stood in the doorway, flanked by two guards. Behind them, expression unreadable as always, stood Duke Cassian Valorian.
His eyes locked on the handkerchief in my hands.
"Well," the Duke said softly. "This is interesting."
I was so incredibly, thoroughly, *completely* screwed.
---