I couldn’t help but smile.

Why, for my assassin to be a fair maiden with a kindly exterior, all I could feel was bemusement and a slight tingling in my nose as I held back a public sneeze. Something far more harmful to me than any concoction she hoped me to drink.

After all, few things were as familiar to a princess as the aroma of freshly laced poison.

Ohohoho … truly now? 

A drop of nightbloom essence?

How very novel … were I just born into the world.

Why, the insult was palpable! Here was a poison so common that roadside bandits used it to smother their rusting knives! 

In all my hours spent picnicking at Reitzlake’s botanical gardens, few were dedicated to studying the decaying leaves of the wisteria from which nightbloom essence was extracted. And the reason was clear.

It was the definition of dull. 

No, my time was spent admiring the colours of the plagued scarlet lilies as they grew upon blood quartz dredged from the abyss, or the molten mandrakes as they set even the stone they were placed upon into flames, creating a heated plate perfect for warming the tarte aux pommes à la confiture de myrtilles Florella would sometimes bake.

Now those were poisons of note. 

Flamboyant. Theatrical. And very messy. 

Veins immediately erupting into flames. Eyeballs popping out to an eruption of blackened blood. Throats ripping in two as half the poison seeped through bone and skin.

But nightbloom essence?

Pedestrian. 

A modest amount of blood and bile no different to what could be achieved through the thrust of a kitchen knife. Not to mention, it took at least two minutes to function. 

Of all the unseemly ways to die by the scheming hand of a baroness and her henchwoman, to do so while having enough time to be mocked while my forehead was drawn upon with a quill was a fate worse than the death taking far too long to arrive.

Thus–no.

I refused to accept such a morbidly embarrassing way to meet my end. If I were to be poisoned, then let it be so fantastic a spectacle that it would permanently haunt the minds of my assassin and all the mob watching with glee. A final curse which would never be forgotten. 

A higher bar than those with no imagination could perform.

A beautiful maiden bearing the guise of a kindly matron? 

She should be relieved I wasn’t one to scorn the classics. At least not without a crate of rotten fruit by my side. The only thing this maiden managed to assassinate was creativity. Were this to take place upon the stage of the Royal Arc Theatre, I would have run out of enough fruit that I’d need to begin importing it during the rest of the performance.

A 2.5/10 to match the tea, then.

One which could climb to a 3/10 should she amuse me even further. 

Thus, I raised the cup to my lips, and pretending to drink, I–

“Uwaaaah~ this is really good!”

I blinked.

Then, horrified, I turned to my loyal handmaiden beside me.

She brought down her emptied cup and smacked her lips, sponging up every last drop of the lethal poison. My smile froze as I stared wide-eyed at Coppelia.

Disbelief filled me at once.

I … I could not believe it.

Coppelia … she’d enjoyed it!

How could she?! … The quality of this tea was awful! 

Why, such a reaction was reserved for what awaited her at the Royal Villa! To demonstrate joy at anything else was anathema to my soul!

“C-Coppelia! You must remember etiquette!”

“Eh? But isn’t liking something being polite?”

“Polite to who? Certainly not the squires who unofficially roam the tea fields of foreign nations to collect leaves in the guise of a noble quest. This is an insult to all who rob for us without their knowledge! There is an acceptable reaction to drinking shoddy tea. This is not it.”

“I feel like I learned something just now. And if you give me a few moments, I’m sure I can find a way to use that information for money.”

“Good. Because the money you wish to extort from me can be used to purchase bergamot oil freshly squeezed from the hands of indentured nuns instead. They visit us ceaselessly. The quality is middling, yes, but it’s a baseline standard.”

“I feel like you’re not as aghast when I like other things. Like grass from the ground.”

“I can do nothing about that. Both the grass from the ground and the brown things in a bowl which I can only remember through brief traumatic flashbacks are things you were already subjected to before. But of your taste buds still unwarped, I shall boldly attempt to save.”

Coppelia gave me a look of unadulterated joy.

It wasn’t a very accurate look of unadulterated joy. But since she couldn’t possibly be making any other expression, that is what it was.

Before me, the failed assassin coughed as she held her own teacup in her hands. 

She didn’t drink hers either, knowing as much as I did that the obvious bitterness would kill her long before the poison did.

“R-Really! You haven’t even tried it! While it seems you’ve some experience with tea blends, you can trust in my judgement.”

I responded with a polite smile, all the while I raised my cup again.

“My apologies, matron. It’s as you say, I consider myself quite the connoisseur. Yet it’d be disrespectful of me to give an opinion without sampling a taste myself.”

Thus, I tipped the cup, angling myself to the exact degree to feign the liquid reaching my lips. 

And then with the poise of a seasoned actress, I utilised all my years of subtlety and discretion to toss the teacup behind my shoulder, allowing it to shatter upon the wooden floorboards.

I gave a nod.

“Hmm. Better than expected.”

The young woman’s smile never wavered.

“Perhaps another cup, then?”

“Not unless the tea has been brewed by one with a different nose. The aroma profile is overly pungent. A natural effect of the emulsification of poison and clumsiness. But one still avoidable.”

“I see. Did I perhaps brew it for too long?”

“Too long and too high a temperature. Bergamot and nightshade bloom are not wholly different. To extract both the delicate oils and the lethal toxins without inducing bitterness, a gentle steep of 3 minutes at a temperature of 94.8°C is required. And no stirring. It is a tea, not a toy.”

“Thank you. I’ll take your advice to heart.”

“Excellent. But my advice is never free. And neither is my mercy. You may inform me of the whereabouts of this baroness. I’m curious why her patronage permits you to serve such distinctly unique tea blends for your guests.”

The young woman offered a tilt of her head and a flutter of her eyelashes instead. 

“The baroness is a busy girl with many charitable ventures beyond a simple orphanage. I could not claim to know how she goes about her day, other than when she visits to play with the children.”

“My, she must have quite the impressive schedule, to poison those who inquire after her.”

“Not at all. This is merely a show of faith on my part. Although rude of me to guess her mind, she’s been extremely accommodating to my time. Time which I have promised in return. I consider answering unwelcome queries by adventurers an advance on that promise.”

“Is that so? A curious ally for this baroness to have. But I suppose one with knowledge of poison would have its uses. A way for her to discreetly exit the stage, rather than face the judgement which awaits her.”

The fair maiden wore a bemused look. 

“I’d like to think I have more talents than that. I run a relationship advice service outside of orphanage hours. Do you have any star crossed lovers you’re interested in knowing about?”

“Yes. I would love to know how to avoid them.”

“Shall we book in a session?”

“Unnecessary. You may dispense advice while my loyal handmaiden bundles you on her shoulder and carries you to the nearest guardhouse.”

A laugh was her response. Sweet and melodic. And far more dangerous than any poison.

It was the sound of songbirds. And yet the leaves of the apple tree, imprisoned within this wooden cottage, shuddered as though slapped by a whip.

“I shall not be going anywhere. And nor, I believe, shall you.”

“Excellent. Shall I call for the children first? The world is a tragic place filled with fools and what happens to them. It would be best to scar their memories early and set expectations accordingly.”

“I’d prefer not. Children are as temperamental as the orchids. And the quality of their powdered toenails drops precariously should they be anything less than dancing with joy.”

I blinked.

And then, I leaned away from the teapot in a way which poison couldn’t do.

“... By any chance, is the lingering odour I’m unable to identify powdered toenails?”

“Quite so.”

The beautiful maiden smiled as she sat back, her palms raising outwards.

“After all, this is more than an orphanage.”

And then–

She lightly clapped.

Pwam!

All the doors snapped to a shut, joined by every window shutter.

Only the light streaming through the broken rooftop offered a reprieve from the shadows which now surrounded us, highlighting a face far too comely for any commoner to possess. 

But then again, this was hardly any ordinary woman.

If she was, the warmth in her eyes wouldn’t be replaced with an altogether different hue. One as wilted as the leaves of the apple tree as they began to crumble in her presence, before the ashes fell like icing upon the surface of her untouched tea.

Raising a fingertip, she levitated the cup to her lips, before sipping the beverage with abandon. She relished the poor quality of both its leaves and its poison no differently than all the other concoctions she used the toenails of children for.

And in that, she revealed what lay beneath the guise.

A cabin in the woods.

A fondness for the laughter of children. 

And a flickering green flame now appearing at the tip of her fingertip. It oozed with no heat, but a cold touch of death to match the smile upon her face.

“... Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, into my cabin, you’ve sealed your woe. A hag’s realm, so dark and deep, into my cauldron you’ll come to sleep~”

A hag of the woods.

Famed crones of wicked hearts and wicked minds. 

Powerful enchantresses who wore a maiden’s guise. Women who’d sold their souls to creatures long forgotten outside of the deepest nightmares. Leading lost lambs within the walls of their cabins, they wandered the forests as sorceresses and more. 

Except this one had disguised not only herself, but her home of horrors as well.

An orphanage with its own welcome sign. And here the lambs came of their own accord.

I slowly raised my hand, covering my mouth in horror.

“You’re a hag.”

“I am.”

“One who has dedicated her life to the darkest arts to be found in the bottom of a cauldron.” 

“I try.”

“And yet even still … you cannot even correctly make a cup of tea.”

The hag’s smile twitched.

And then–

She pointed a darkly flaming fingertip towards me.

“[Necrotic Hexblast].”