Chapter 5 - The Glass of Milk
By three in the morning, I was back in the nursery suite.
I had changed out of my wet clothes, locked the heavy oak door connecting the suite to the main corridor, and sat on the window sill watching the long estate driveway.
A single light remained on in the master wing on the opposite side of the courtyard. Arthur was still awake, undoubtedly reviewing the corporate documents and financial files he had summoned from his office.
A soft scratch sounded at the bottom of the terrace door inside the nursery sitting room.
I stood up, pulled back the heavy velvet curtain, and unlocked the glass French door that opened onto the private second-floor balcony.
Crouched on the wet stone was Duchess.
The black-and-white cat slipped through the narrow opening, her paws wet, her whiskers twitching nervously. She shook herself off and looked up at me with wide, terrified green eyes.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Duchess said, her voice high and panicked. “She came up the back stairs with the heavy silver tray. She’s coming here.”
"Here?" I whispered, my blood running cold. "To the nursery?"
“She put the white powder from the blue vial into the warm milk,” Duchess said, pacing in a small circle on the oriental rug. “She told the night cook that Sophie always sleeps better with warm milk when she’s upset about the cat. She’s coming to give it to the child.”
A cold, blinding rage erupted inside me—a fire so hot it swallowed every ounce of fear I had felt all night.
It was one thing to target a grown woman for money, or a cat to silence a witness. But to poison an eight-year-old girl whose mother she had already murdered was a level of monstrous depravity I could not comprehend.
"Not while I'm breathing," I said.
Footsteps echoed softly down the carpeted hallway outside the nursery door.
I turned to Duchess. "Stay under the bed with Sophie. Do not come out."
The cat darted into the bedroom without a second command, slipping beneath the dark dust ruffle of Sophie’s oak bed.
A gentle, melodic knock sounded at the sitting room door.
"Lily?" Madeline’s voice came through the thick wood, sounding soft, sweet, and deeply maternal. "Are you awake, dear?"
I took a deep, steadying breath, smoothed down the front of my dry sweater, and unlocked the door.
Madeline stood in the doorway.
She had removed her wet rain gear and was dressed in a pristine silk robe of ivory white. Her hair was neatly brushed, her face freshly washed and moisturized. In her hands, she held a silver serving tray bearing a porcelain cup of steaming milk, a small plate of shortbread cookies, and a crystal glass of ice water.
"I saw the light under your door," Madeline said, offering me a gentle, sympathetic smile. "I know today was utterly dreadful for you and poor little Sophie. I had the night cook prepare a warm cup of milk for her, and some tea for you."
I stared at the silver tray.
The white porcelain cup released a thin feather of steam into the cool air of the room. A sweet, almond-like aroma drifted from the liquid—subtle, warm, and lethal.
"That's very thoughtful of you, Madeline," I said, my tone as polite as a polished mirror. "But Sophie is fast asleep. Dr. Pierce said she needed uninterrupted rest."
"Oh, it's no trouble at all to wake her for a moment," Madeline insisted, taking a step into the room without waiting for an invitation. "A warm drink will keep her from having nightmares about the poor cat. Here, let me set it on her nightstand."
She moved toward the bedroom archway.
I stepped directly into her path, blocking the doorway with my body.
Madeline stopped. Her smile twitched slightly. "Lily? What are you doing?"
"I said she's asleep, Madeline," I repeated, my voice dropping into a flat, dangerous quiet. "And she won't be drinking that milk."
Madeline’s eyes narrowed into slits. The maternal warmth evaporated from her face, leaving behind the cold, sharp predator beneath. "Excuse me? You are a hired servant in this house, Ms. Evans. You do not tell me what Arthur’s daughter will or will not consume."
"I do when the milk contains diethylene glycol," I said.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The silver tray in Madeline’s hands shook once—a tiny, metallic rattle of porcelain against silver.
"What did you just say to me?" she whispered, her voice laced with poison.
"I saw you in the stables twenty minutes ago, Madeline," I said, pulling my phone from my pocket and holding the glowing screen three inches from her face.
On the screen was the crystal-clear photo of her crouched in the mud, holding the blue glass vials beside the open drain.
Madeline’s face drained of every drop of color until she looked like a corpse in a silk robe.
"You..." she gasped, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the tray. "You little parasite..."
"I have the photos, I have the video, and I have Duchess," I said calmly. "And in about two minutes, Arthur is going to have them too."
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Madeline didn't scream. She didn't cry.
Instead, her face twisted into an expression of pure, psychotic fury. She raised the heavy silver tray, intending to hurl the boiling liquid and heavy metal directly into my face.
