At half one, Lady Clarence arrived, not a tick of the clock late. No pleasantries were exchanged upon her arrival. When she stepped into the room, her lips formed a tight line and her shoulders were pulled taut. “You have it ready?” she asked. Rain droplets slid down her face like tears.

Nella swept underneath the table while I carefully poured the remainder of the powder into the sand-colored earthenware jar I had found in a lower cabinet. I had just finished securing the stopper and the cork was still warm from my fingers when Nella answered her.

“Yes,” she said, while I gently, ever so gently, passed the jar into the care of Lady Clarence. She clutched it to her chest in an instant, hiding it underneath her coat. No matter who would ingest the poison—for my loyalties were not as rigid as Nella’s—I could not help the pride that swelled within me on account of the many hours that went into the preparation of it. I did not recall ever being so proud, not even after composing lengthy letters on behalf of Mrs. Amwell.

Lady Clarence passed a banknote to Nella. I could not see how much, nor did I particularly care.

As she turned to leave, Nella cleared her throat. “The party is still tonight?” she asked. In her voice was a glimmer of hope, and I suspected that she prayed the whole affair had been canceled on account of the weather.

“Would I have rushed over here in the rain if it were not?” Lady Clarence retorted. “Oh, don’t be so foul about it,” she added, seeing the look on Nella’s face. “You’re not the one stirring it into Miss Berkwell’s liqueur.” She paused, pursing her lips. “I only pray she drinks it quickly so we may put this all to an end.”

Nella closed her eyes as though the words sickened her.

After Lady Clarence left, Nella walked slowly to where I sat at the table, lowered herself into her chair and pulled her register toward her. She dipped her quill into the ink with a slowness I had not seen plague her before, as if the burden of the preceding hours had, at last, caught up to her. To think of the countless poisonous remedies she had dispensed, and yet this single one lay so heavy on her heart. I could not understand it.

“Nella,” I began, “you mustn’t feel so bad. She would have ruined you had we not made the beetles for her.” Nella had done nothing wrong in my eyes. Indeed, she had just saved countless lives, my own included. How did she not see it?

Nella paused at my words, the quill in her hand. But without replying, she placed the nib to parchment and began to write.

Miss Berkwell. Mistress to, cousin of, the Lord Clarence. Cantharides. 9 February 1791. On account of his wife, the Lady Clarence.