Breathing deeply, head tipped over the bucket, the storm in his belly began to calm. “I was… poisoned?” he managed to say, swallowing down the acid that threatened to rise up.
“The gardener says so; the physician was uncertain,” his mother replied. “Personally, I am inclined to believe the gardener, and I am even more inclined to believe that your wretch of a wife did it.”
Albion raised his head. “What?”
“Well, it is rather too coincidental, is it not, that your wife should vanish just a few hours before you collapsed from a suspected poisoning? And I have been told about everything she has been doing at this manor. I know all about her despicable little poison garden,” his mother huffed.
“She has done this to you,” Constance raged on, “and I shall kill her with my own two hands for it. Indeed, she had the gall to inform amaid, and the housekeeper, that only they were allowed into your bedchamber! She meant to keep me from you so I would not suspect her, the evil beast. Of course, I told the maid and housekeeper that if they tried to keep me from you and iftheytried to enter your chambers, I would send them away immediately! They were not so bold then—no, indeed!”
Albion’s head reeled as he pushed the bucket away and began crawling toward the edge of the bed, away from his mother. “Where is… she?”
“I neither know nor care,” his mother replied. “She will be hiding, undoubtedly, wherever that impertinent maid found her. All I know is, it is far from here, though not far enough!”
He made it to the edge of the bed and paused, heaving in breath after strained breath, his entire body shaking. Matilda would have known why he felt burning hot and deathly cold, all at once.
“Get back into bed, darling,” Constance urged. “You are to rest.”
He gripped the mattress, gritting his teeth as he propelled himself upward. His legs buckled and swayed as he lumbered toward the post at the corner of the bed and clung onto it for dear life, waiting for the unsteadiness and the swirling in his head to subside.
“I need to… find her,” he growled. “She… wouldn’t have left without… telling me. No matter how… angry she was. She isn’t safe… out there. This is my… fault.”
Constance scoffed. “That harpy tried to kill you!”
“I don’t… believe it,” he replied without a shadow of a doubt. “It isn’t in her… nature.”
After a couple of minutes, he managed to shuffle toward his armchair, retrieving the trousers that were draped over the back. Huffing and puffing the entire time, digging into the upholstery so hard with his free hand that he poked a hole in it, he managed to get his trousers on. The rest did not matter.
“Get back into bed, Albion,” Constance insisted as Albion started a slow shuffle toward the door.
She tried to grab his arm, but he shook her off. “I am… going to find my wife.”
“You are not well, Albion. Why would you want to find that vile witch when she is the one who has caused you such suffering? The gardener himself said that the poison had come from one of her plants in the greenhouse. It isevidentthat she has done this, Albion. She has never liked you, she has never wanted this, and now, she has taken her revenge.”
Albion whirled on her. “You do not know her, Mother! She wouldn’t… do this. But someone… might wish harm upon her—the same… person whohasdone this to me.” He glowered at her. “Who is to… say it was not you? Who is to say that… you have not framed her as… revenge?”
“I should have known you would be incapable of reason,” she spat, folding her arms across her chest. “Nevertheless, I will not let you chase that viper across the country. You will return to bed at once, and you will rest until you are better.”
Albion’s eyes hardened. “If she… has left this manor, she has left… because of me. I will retrieve her… before any harm can befall… her. If it takes my last breath to… do so, then so be it.”
He staggered to the door, determination in every ragged breath. His mother walked with him, keeping the slow pace in an almost mocking fashion as he managed to make it out into the hallway.
Poisoned…The word echoed over and over in his head, but his mind could make little sense of it. It was akin to someone telling him that it had rained overnight while he was asleep; he could not verify it, he could only accept the information he was given. Although, the burning in his gut was certainly an evidentiary puddle.
“She is not worth you killing yourself when you are not well. Look at you! You can barely stay upright!” Constance said, once Albion had clawed and battled his way to the landing, now facing the steep descent of the staircase.
He gripped the banister, catching his breath. “She is worth every… step I take, even if I must walk… thousands of miles.” He stared at his mother. “My temper sent her… away. My stubbornness. My… cowardice.”
“You, a coward?” Constance scoffed. “Did she call you that? I shall smack her if I ever see her again.”
“Yes, she called me… that, and I deserved it,” he replied unevenly. “She wants children, Mother. I told her no. I said… I would never give her that. I can… only assume that is why… she has gone, unless… the same person who poisoned me… has taken her. Either way, I will not stop… until she is found.”
All of the bluster vanished from Constance’s demeanor. “Shewanted children, and you refused her?”
“I said… many things I am… not proud of,” he replied. “But nothing… bad enough for her to… poison me. You may be assured of that. Her departure is… coincidental, I admit, but… I would stake my life on it not being what you… think it is.”
Constance grabbed his arm as he began to descend, supporting him while he gripped the banister with his other hand, his progress so painstaking that a snail could have overtaken them.
“She wanted children,” his mother murmured, almost to herself. “You refused because of… your father. You think you will be like him.”
