The Nix’s chuckle wafted through the air. “As do I. Listen carefully, my Marquise, and we will be done with this thing before daybreak.”

The Nix opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor. Candles blazed all around her, their light so harsh it made her blink. The smoke filled her nostrils. She coughed instinctively, then jumped, startled by the sensation.

She lifted her hands. Human hands, soft and bejeweled. The Marquise’s hands. She flexed, then clenched them. The long nails drove into her palms and she gasped. So that was pain. How…intriguing. She dug her nails in deeper, letting the pain course down her arms. Blood dripped onto her gown. She reached down and touched it, lifted her finger to her nose, inhaled the scent, then stuck out her tongue and tasted it.

The Nix pushed to her feet, wobbled, caught her balance. She’d taken on human form before, but never like this, inhabiting a living being. It was very different. Awkward…and yet interesting.

She lifted her head and sniffed the air. Dawn was coming. Time to get to work.

She carried the soup to the Marquise’s father, bearing it before her like an offering, luxuriating in the heat that radiated through the bowl. It was so cold here, the stone walls leaching drafts at every turn. She’d commanded the staff to light more fires, but they’d only mumbled something vaguely obeisant, then shuffled off and done nothing. Such insolence. If she were their master—but this was only a temporary inhabitation, to test the spell.

As she stepped into the room, she looked at the old man, seated with his back to her. Then she glanced down at the bowl of poisoned soup. The dose had better be right this time. Marie-Madeline had tested it on her maid, Françoise, but the girl hadn’t died, so her lover, Gaudin Sainte-Croix, had adjusted the dosage. But rather than try again on a fresh subject, they’d declared the mixture sufficient.

Lazy, imperfect humans, and their lazy, imperfect half-measures. Like the servants who didn’t wish to venture outside the castle walls and chop more wood for the fire. What lessons she could teach them! Perhaps she would. As she crossed the floor, looking down at the bowl of soup, she realized, with a jolt of surprise, that the next move was hers. She could give the poison to Marie-Madeline’s father or she could feed it to the lazy servants who had ignored her command. For once, she was the actor, not the spectator.