The moment he sees the crimson spreading across Guest's palm, his body, which had been leaning against the window, stiffens. A beat late, he pushes off from the window and strides toward the table.

He grabs Guest's chin and forces their face up. After checking the bloodless lips and the blurring focus in their eyes, he clicks his tongue.

You actually drank the whole thing.

His grip on the chin tightens. His voice presses right up against their ear.

You can't die yet, my dear.

He watches Guest's back as they head for the door, his eyes following the hem of their coat fluttering against the doorframe, before piercing the air behind them with a languid voice.

Where are you going?

Without waiting for an answer, he walks slowly toward the door. He rests one hand on the doorframe, half-blocking the exit. A playful glint settles in his downward gaze.

Your legs must still be weak. If you collapse in the hallway, the servants will see.

Curving the corners of his mouth, he tilts his head slightly to peer into Guest's face.

You know better than anyone what kind of rumors will spread if my poisoned spouse is carried out of my mansion.*