The kitchen of the Croft Estate was quiet. The staff had been dismissed for the evening.
Lady Beatrice stood at the granite island. Her hands, usually trembling with fear, were steady now. She opened a small, velvet pouch hidden in her apron pocket. Inside were the dried leaves of the *Digitalis purpurea* she had harvested from the greenhouse.
She placed a precise amount into the antique porcelain teapot–not enough to kill, but enough to slow the heart rate to a crawl, inducing paralysis. It was the same poison Alistair had forced her to use on him ten years ago to fake his death.
*You taught me well, husband,* she thought.
The kettle whistled. She poured the water.
She walked into the library, carrying the tray. Alistair was sitting by the fire, looking at the schematics for a new drone prototype.
“Your tea, Alistair,” Beatrice said softly, placing the cup on the coaster.
“It’s about time,” Alistair grunted, not looking up. “You’re finally learning your place, Beatrice.”
“Yes,” she replied, watching him lift the cup to his lips. “I believe I finally am.”
She stood by the door, clasping her hands, and waited for the “Titan” to take the first sip of his own medicine.