Lady Clarence shook her head, sure of herself. “He asked about it, to which Miss Berkwell immediately claimed it as her own. She said they’d been in the library so he could show her a newly acquired tapestry, as she claims some recent interest in the textile arts. And she could hardly reveal that he shared of her drink, could she? For then it would be clear they were doing more than just enjoying his art.”

“And the jar?” I asked. “You hid it somewhere, or destroyed it?”

“Oh, yes. My lady’s maid put it on a shelf at the very back of the cellar. Only the cook has any reason to go digging back there. I’ll dispose of it as soon as I am able to sneak down there. Tonight, perhaps.”

I exhaled a small sigh of relief, grateful that the canister remained hidden. But even if it were found, not all would be lost; this was precisely why the jars and vials about my shop were naked, save for the small engraving of the bear. “Though it is not traceable to me,” I urged, “best to get rid of immediately.”

“Most certainly,” she said, chastised. “Anyhow, I thought it curious you would have engravings on the jar.” She delicately wiped her nose, composing herself. A lifetime of rigid manners could not be so easily forgotten.

“Just that of a little bear,” I said, pointing to a small canister on a nearby shelf. “Like that one. So many jars are similar in appearance. Imagine if someone were to administer a drop from the wrong bottle, and the wrong person—” I stopped myself, ashamed of what had nearly slipped from my tongue, given the story she had just told.

But she didn’t seem to notice as she frowned and walked to the shelf. She shook her head. “My jar had this image, but there was something else.” She lifted the jar and turned it on its side. “No, these aren’t the same. My jar has something on the other side of it. Words, I’m sure of it.”

A faint rumble crawled through my belly, and I let out a nervous laugh. “No, you must be mistaken. What words would I dare place on a jar of poison?”

“I assure you,” Lady Clarence said. “There was something written on it. Jagged letters, as though it had been etched into the clay by hand.”

“A scratch, perhaps? Or dirt, just rubbish,” I suggested, the pressure in my stomach rising upward into my chest.

“No,” she insisted, irritation in her voice now. “I know words when I see them.” She threw me an exasperated glance and returned the jar to its shelf.