Jaenelle considered the snake tooth for a while. “Your finger isn’t hot. What does it mean if your finger gets hot?”

Saetan’s amusement fled. So this wasn’t idle curiosity after all. “It means trouble, witch-child. If the venom isn’t used, the snake tooth has to be milked every few weeks. Otherwise the venom thickens. It can even crystallize. If it can still be forced through the snake tooth, it will be a painful procedure at best.” He shrugged his shoulders unhappily. “If it can’t, removal of the tooth and the sac would be the only way to stop the pain.”

“Why would someone wait to milk it?”

Again Saetan shrugged. “Venom needs venom. After the venom sac fills, a Black Widow’s body craves poison of some kind. But what’s taken into the body must be taken with care. The wrong poison can be as deadly to a Black Widow as poison generally is to the rest of the Blood. The best poison is your own. Usually Black Widows milk the sac right before their moontime so that during those days when they must rest, their bodies, stimulated by a few drops of their own venom, will slowly refill the sac with no discomfort.”

“And if it’s thick?”

“No good. The body will reject it.” Saetan reclaimed his hand and steepled his fingers. “Witch-child—”

“If you can’t use your own venom, is there a safe poison?”

“There are some poisons that can be used,” he said cautiously.

“Could I have some?”

“Why?”

“Because I know someone who needs it.” Jaenelle stepped away from him, suddenly hesitant.

Saetan’s rib cage clamped around his heart and lungs. He fought against a desire to sink his nails into flesh and tear it. “Male or female?” he asked silkily.

“Does it make a difference?”

“Indeed it does, witch-child. If the distillation of poisons isn’t blended to take gender into account, the effects could be unpleasant.”

Jaenelle studied him, her eyes troubled. “Male.”

Saetan sat still for a long time. “I have something I can give you. Why don’t you see what sort of snack Mrs. Beale has for you? This will take a few minutes.”

As soon as Jaenelle was distracted by taste-testing Mrs. Beale’s offerings, Saetan returned to his private study in the Dark Realm. He locked the door and checked the adjoining rooms before going to the secret door in the paneling beside the fireplace. His workshop was Gray-locked, a sensible precaution that kept Hekatah out but still allowed Mephis and Andulvar to reach him. He flicked a thought at the candle-lights at the end of the narrow corridor, locked the door behind him, and went into his Widow’s den.

This was the place where he brewed his poisons and wove his tangled webs of dreamscapes and visions. Going to the worktable that ran the entire length of one wall, he called in a small key and opened the solid wood doors of one of the large cupboards that hung above it.

The poisons sat in neat rows, their glass containers precisely labeled in the Old Tongue. Another precaution, since Hekatah had never mastered the Blood’s true language.