I opened the door quickly and ushered her in, no longer taken aback by the untarnished silver buckles on her shoes and the scalloped edges of her taffeta gown. But as I gazed over her, I noticed the material at the bottom edge of her skirt was smudged, as though she had traveled part of the way on foot.

“I have not more than ten minutes,” she cried, nearly falling into my arms, “and when I left, it was under pretense, something about the estate.”

I frowned at her nonsensical words, confusion surely writ all over my face.

“Oh, something has gone terribly wrong,” she said. “God, I will never...”

As she dabbed at her eyes, choking over her words, my mind raced with possibilities. Had she accidentally disposed of the powder? Had she managed to rub some in her eye or on her lips? I searched her face for blisters, pockets of pus, but saw none.

“Shhh,” I said, quieting her. “What has happened?”

“The beetles—” she hiccuped, like she had just sucked down something bitter. “The beetles. It all went awry.”

I could hardly believe my ears. Did the beetles cause no harm? I was sure that Eliza and I had gone to the correct field and harvested the blister beetles, rather than their harmless, bluish cousin. Yet it had been so dark, and how could I know for sure? I should have tested a few of them for the familiar burn upon the skin before roasting them.

“She is still alive?” I asked her, my hand on my throat. “I assure you, they were meant to be fatal.”

“Oh.” She laughed, a twisted grin upon her face, fat tears spilling down her cheeks. I could not make sense of it. “She is very much alive.”

My heart surged for a moment. Intermingled with the dismay that my poison failed, I was greatly relieved, too, that a woman did not die at my hands. Perhaps this gave me another chance to change Lady Clarence’s mind. But as I considered this, a knot formed in my belly. What if Lady Clarence thought I’d given her a false poison? What if she meant to reveal my shop to the authorities, as she had originally threatened?

Instinctively, I took a step back toward my register, but she went on. “It is him. My husband.” She let out a wail and covered her face. “He is dead. Lord Clarence is dead.”

My mouth dropped open. “H-how?” I stammered. “Did you not watch your lady’s maid give it to the mistress?”

“Don’t blame this on me, woman,” she snapped back. “My maid put it into the fig dessert liqueur, just as planned.” Lady Clarence fell into the chair and took a steadying breath as she unraveled her story for me.