MDCHC 56

chapter 56

“You drank the beverage! At the gladiator’s arena! You drank it all!”

At my words, Ethan followed my gaze to my bag. When he saw the empty container poking out, his face turned pale. He recognized it too.

“What kind of beverage was it?”
“Marigold, lemon, and honey.”
“Does Lord Winchester have any allergies…?”
“No. None. He’s drunk all of these before as tea at home. I made it exactly the same, and I also drank it myself—without any issues. At least when I gave it to Lord Winchester, there was nothing wrong.”

I shook my head firmly. It was an important day, so I hadn’t taken any unnecessary risks either.

“Doctor, please examine this! You might be able to identify the poison. If we know what poison it is, then we can find an antidote, can’t we?”

Ethan rushed forward, practically tearing open my bag, and pulled out the flask I had used to give Lord Winchester the iced tea.

“How long will it take to identify?”
“Well, that… I’d have to run several tests. Two hours or so, perhaps…”

The doctor trailed off uncertainly, glancing at Lord Winchester.

He was clearly calculating whether he would identify the poison and make an antidote first—or whether Lord Winchester would die first.

It was absurd. Just this morning, Lord Winchester had been perfectly healthy. In the arena, it had taken him mere seconds to make his opponent yield.

The strongest man in the Empire—it was unthinkable that he could die so helplessly.

I was stunned, almost hysterical. Even now, the hydrangeas blooming in the garden outside the window were beautiful. That made it feel even more unreal.

The flowers were so beautiful.

And Lord Winchester, lying there so peacefully…

Could it be…?

Looking at him resting as if asleep against the backdrop of the hydrangeas, a sudden thought struck me.

“Please, as quickly as possible,” Ethan urged the doctor.

But while he was speaking, I had already turned on my heel and rushed out.

“Lady Winchester?”

Ethan’s voice followed me as I ran.

“My lady! Where are you going?”

His tone carried reproach—accusing me of abandoning my poisoned husband instead of nursing him.

When I returned to the bedroom, the doctor was gone. Likely to examine the flask.

Ethan remained, staring at me with wide, disbelieving eyes—like I was insane.

And perhaps it seemed so: while my husband lay dying, I had returned from the garden with my arms full of hydrangeas.

“Decorating the sickroom isn’t… a bad idea, but…”

He tried to excuse my actions, but his words fell flat as I suddenly crushed the hydrangeas roughly in my hands.

“W–what on earth…”

Ignoring Ethan’s shocked expression, I headed straight for the table—where Lord Winchester always drank his evening tea. Where I always prepared it for him.

On moonlit nights he drank tea there. On dark, starless nights too. Even when raindrops tapped against the window, he sat there.

But now it might remain empty forever.

The thought made tears sting my eyes.

No. Don’t think that. That won’t happen.

Chiding myself, I pressed the crushed hydrangeas onto a saucer, then grabbed a teacup and mashed them hard. The petals, bruised and broken, turned a deep blue and released their juices.

“What are you doing?”

Ethan’s voice was tight with concern, as if he feared grief had driven me mad. But my mind was clear.

“Hydrangeas are poisonous.”
“What?”

Blinking in confusion, Ethan asked again. I ignored him, lifted the saucer now soaked with flower juice, and walked to Lord Winchester.

“L–Lady Winchester!”

As I tried to pour the dark, sticky liquid into his lips, Ethan rushed forward and grabbed my arm.

“Didn’t you just say hydrangeas are poisonous?”
“Yes. They cause stomach pains and induce vomiting.”

I snapped, pulling my arm free. Once again, I tilted the saucer toward Lord Winchester’s slightly parted lips.

“Are you mad? Feeding poison to someone who’s already been poisoned!”

Ethan’s voice now carried anger. He yanked my wrist with one hand and looked ready to overturn the saucer with the other.

I was only a woman; I couldn’t possibly overcome the strength of a knight, especially one who served Lord Winchester. My trembling hands barely managed to keep the saucer from spilling.

“I told you—they cause vomiting!”

I glared at Ethan, furious at his slowness.

“What?”

Perhaps he finally understood—or maybe he was just thrown off by my anger—but his grip weakened. I seized the chance, pulled free, and pressed down on the crushed petals again.

Thick liquid seeped out once more. I tilted the saucer over Lord Winchester’s lips, and the inky fluid trickled into his mouth.

“W–wait! Please, wait!”

Ethan panicked and tried to stop me, but it was too late. Lord Winchester had already swallowed the hydrangea juice.

The next moments were agonizing. I felt Ethan’s accusing gaze and the anxious stares of the maid, but I focused only on Lord Winchester.

“Ugh…”

A faint groan finally escaped him, about twenty to thirty minutes later.

“My lord!”
“!”

Ethan and I both shot up at once.

“Help me sit him up.”

He was twice my size; I couldn’t possibly lift him alone. Though still doubtful, Ethan obeyed and propped him up.

There was no other choice. The doctor was still absent, and Lord Winchester lay pale as death on the bed.

Doing nothing but watching him was unbearable—I knew that all too well.

“Are you all right? Does it hurt badly?”

I searched his face anxiously. His complexion was still pale. Was it better for him to lie peacefully as before, or to frown in pain as he did now? I couldn’t tell.

“Khht…”

Seeing his grimace deepen, fear gripped me. What if I had made everything worse?

“Urgh!”

His body lurched, convulsing as nausea overtook him. His cheeks puffed up.

“Spit it out!”

Without hesitation, I thrust my hand before his mouth.

“You’ve been poisoned. You need to vomit it out!”

I cried desperately, not knowing if he even heard through his misery.

The maid rushed over with a towel.

“My love!”

I held the towel up to his mouth and urged him again.

“Urghhh!”

And then at last, foul, black vomit burst from his lips. Was it the color of hydrangea juice, or the poison itself? The sour stench—was it stomach acid, poison, or simply the lemon from the iced tea? I couldn’t tell.

“You did it!”

All that mattered was that it came out of him. That he vomited. That he was still fighting.

Relief so deep it brought tears to my eyes.