Valentino frowns. “Not that I know of. Though, to be honest, none of them is a particularly original thinker.”
“We thought someone might have goaded them into it,” Iván says.
I open my mouth and barely stop short of suggesting that maybe his own father is to blame. I don’t want to put Valentino on the defensive too soon, because we have an even more important question yet to ask.
“You might be right,” Valentino concedes. “Though I’m not sure it matters now.”
Iván says, “It matters because if someone else was behind this, Red could be attacked again.”
“Oh, that’s a good point.” Valentino takes a deep breath, releases it in a heavy sigh.
The servant returns with three glasses balanced on a silver tray, and he hands one to each of us. I give mine a subtle sniff—no telltale cinnamon scent. Still, I wait for Valentino to sip and swallow before following suit.
It’s delicious. I swirl my glass around a moment before softly asking, “What was it like? To be poisoned, I mean?”
Valentino sips his milk then says, “It was the most awful thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“We were really worried about you,” Iván says.
“At first it was just like being drunk—all happy and dizzy and painless. Then it got harder to breathe, and my heart started beating faster than bees’ wings. And that’s all I remember until I woke up with the worst headache of my life and a belly that wouldn’t keep down food or drink no matter what it was offered. The physician inserted a small tube directly into a vein and gave me water that way.”
Iván’s eyes widen. “I’ve never heard of that!”
“Doctor Enzo, the royal physician, published about it in the Journal of Medical Anomalies. Our own physician said the technique saved my life.”
“Enzo is brilliant,” I say distantly, because I’m thinking about Captain Bolivar, and how even Doctor Enzo couldn’t save him. Maybe he won’t be able to save Fernando either.
“Valentino,” Iván says, sitting forward on the divan. “We have to ask . . . how did you come to be poisoned? What poison was it? Who gave it to you?”
Valentino sets his glass on a side table and folds his hands together in his lap. “I thought you might ask.”
When he doesn’t offer more, I add, “We fear others in the Guard may be in danger. Anything you can tell us—”
He says, “It was an accident.”
“Oh?” says Iván.
“It was sweet dream, that syrupy stuff coming from down south. Like duerma leaf except stronger.”
Iván and I exchange a quick glance. This is exactly what we suspected.
“I thought it would help with the pain in my kidney.”
I wince.
“Anyway, I won’t tell you who I got it from.”
“Why not?” I say, even as Iván says, “Please, Valentino.”
Valentino shakes his head. “The person who gave it to me has apologized profusely for giving me the wrong dose and is making amends. I have accepted their apology. Therefore, I consider the matter closed.”
We can’t tell him about Captain Bolivar or Fernando—we can’t tell anyone without possibly warning Rosario’s enemies. But we have to make him see the danger. I say, “What if—”
Valentino shakes his head. “It was an accident. It won’t happen again. The Guard is safe.”
“Assuming the person who gave you the sweet dream is telling the truth,” Iván says.
“Everyone makes mistakes, Iván. And that’s all it was. A mistake. This person promised to do better, and I believe them.”
“I don’t know that I could be so gracious in your shoes,” Iván says.
I couldn’t either. Valentino is better than I am. Too good to be the son of Conde Astón, at least. I mutter, “I can’t believe you share blood with the high conde.”
“What?” Valentino says, eyes widening. Iván shoots me a warning glare.
I blurt, “It’s just that your father seems to hate the empress and all she stands for. He levels insults at every opportunity, and he never forgives a slight. He’s not like you at all. You’re so . . . honorable.”
“Please forgive Red,” Iván says. “She has a terrible habit of letting any old thought spill from her mouth.”
I consider apologizing, but what is there to apologize for? I only spoke the truth.
Valentino has the grace to smile. “She is honest and blunt, just like the Invierno ambassador.”
“She is.”
“Red, you’re not wrong,” Valentino says, and suddenly his gaze seems far away. “I know my father’s reputation. It’s not unearned. In fact, we disagree on many things.”
“Like whether or not Elisa is a good ruler?” I prompt.
Valentino doesn’t rise to the bait. “Many things. Contentiously. It’s why I went to the Guard. He got his peskiest son out of his hair, and I got to do something that would bring honor and reputation to my family that I felt good about. It seemed like such an elegant solution at the time.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out better,” I tell him.
“Me too.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Iván asks.
Valentino is so sophisticated and well-mannered, even when convalescing, that it’s a bit of a surprise to see vulnerability flash across his face. “I would like it very much if you came to visit me again sometime,” he says, unable to keep the wistfulness from his voice. “I’ve read through our entire library. It will be months before I can join the army.” He stares off toward the writing desk. “Frankly, I’m bored.”
I grasp his shoulder. He feels bony and frail. “We can definitely do that,” I say.
He brightens. “That would be wonderful.” His gaze shifts back to the writing desk.
“Did we interrupt some correspondence by coming here?” Iván asks.
“No. It’s just . . .”
“Valentino?” I prompt.
He looks back and forth between Iván and me. Back to the writing desk. Back to me.
“If you decide you want to tell us who gave you the sweet dream poison,” Iván says carefully. “You know where to find us. But we won’t press you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Iván sets his glass on the side table and stands, and I follow his lead. “I wish we could stay longer, but Red and I have to get back to the barracks before our free time is up.”
Valentino gains his feet with the help of his cane. “I understand. Do you mind seeing yourselves out? I’ve already done quite a bit of walking today.”
“Of course,” I say. Iván and I turn to go.
We are nearly to the door, when Valentino calls out, “Wait!”
We turn.
Valentino appears stricken. “There’s something . . . Maybe this is a huge mistake, or maybe it’s nothing . . .”
I peer closer. Stricken, yes, with a healthy pinch of fear for spice. “Valentino, are you in trouble?” I ask. “Do you need help?”