He was still upset with her, clearly. Wren knew she deserved it. He’d talked to her as an equal, patiently confronted her on her prejudices, and had begun to work on his own. Wren could not entirely make sense of her heart. She’d resolved to keep him at a distance, to hate him. And yet …

Goddess damn him for making it so hard.

She approached the coffee table, where she’d placed a tray before she’d woken him. Nelly, the cook, gave it to Wren only after she promised to report back how Henry liked her new frosting recipe. Wren wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to deserve doting, but she gave her solemn word nonetheless.

Nelly had truly outdone herself. Alongside a floral teapot were ceramic bowls filled with cream and sugar, as well as a two-tiered stand. Sandwiches with smoked fish and cucumbers nearly overflowed from the first level. On the second were tiny cakes garnished with candied angelica. It was too indulgent for her tastes, but who was she to deny a dying man the comfort of dessert?

Carefully, she poured him a cup of tea and handed it to him. “So, Cavendish. I have your diagnosis.”

Hal took a long sip of his tea. “Do you?”

“It’s goddessblood.” She turned another cup upright in its saucer and poured herself tea. The steam warmed her face with the smell of bergamot and lavender. “You’re poisoned.”

At first, he sat terribly still, his eyebrows drawn low. Then, as if she’d said nothing at all, he heaved himself forward and selected a cake from the display. She observed him incredulously as he popped it in his mouth and chewed solemnly. After what felt like an interminable wait, he swallowed. “I see.”

Days ago, she might have been unsurprised to find him unresponsive, given he’d once displayed the emotional range of a boulder. But today, she hated herself for it. He had to feel something. Where was that flash of hurt from earlier? She pined for that connection between them—that glimpse of his vulnerability before she ruined it. Anything but this.

For now, she had to content herself with watching him, grim as ever, choose petit fours like chess moves. She had half a mind to smack the second one out of his hand.

“I said I would make no promises until I diagnosed you.” He wasn’t looking at her, but rather at the last cake on the stand. As he reached for it, she snatched it and placed it on her tongue, where it dissolved with the flavors of orange zest and honey. This time, at least, he acknowledged her existence with a baleful look. “Goddessblood is the deadliest poison in the world, and I’m no specialist. There’s no guarantee I can save you. I need your information up front if I’m going to sink my time into this.”

“I can’t.”