Wife Reclaims Her Life

Three days after Milana's humiliating retreat to the east wing, I was reviewing shipping manifests in my study when screams erupted from the garden.

I set down my pen with deliberate care. The sound was theatrical—high-pitched, desperate, designed to carry through open windows and summon witnesses. I'd heard Milana practice less convincing performances in her sleep, back when Philip still bothered bringing her to court functions.

Joelle appeared in my doorway, her face carefully blank. "My lady, Miss Bradley has collapsed in the rose garden."

"Has she." I stood, smoothing my skirts. "How unfortunate. Send for the physician."

"His Lordship is already with her."

Of course he was. Philip had returned from the barracks early today—I'd seen his horse in the stable yard. Milana's timing was impeccable.

I made my way to the garden at a measured pace, refusing to run despite the continued wailing. A small crowd had gathered: household staff, two guards, and Philip kneeling beside Milana's prostrate form on the carefully manicured lawn. She lay draped across the grass like a broken doll, one hand pressed to her chest, the other clutching a white handkerchief.

Philip's face was taut with concern—an expression I'd once yearned to see directed at me. Now it simply looked like a weakness I could exploit.

"What happened?" I asked, injecting just enough worry into my tone.

Milana turned her face toward me, and I had to admire the artistry. Her skin had gone genuinely pale, whether from held breath or some herbal preparation. Her eyes glistened with tears that hadn't quite spilled over. When she coughed, her whole body convulsed.

The handkerchief came away stained red.

Gasps rippled through the servants. Philip's jaw tightened, his hand moving to support Milana's shoulders. She coughed again, producing more blood, and sagged against him as if the effort had drained her completely.

"Blood," one of the maids whispered, horrified.

"I told you," Milana said, her voice barely audible. She looked up at Philip with those wide, helpless eyes. "I tried not to burden you with it. But the sickness... it's getting worse."

"What sickness?" Philip demanded. "You said nothing about illness."

"I didn't want you to worry." More tears, these ones spilling over in perfect crystalline trails. "The physicians in my village called it the wasting disease. They said..." She broke off, coughing again. This time she turned her face into Philip's chest, hiding the handkerchief from view. "They said without the proper treatment, I have perhaps months."

The drama was magnificent. I watched Philip's expression shift from concern to something harder, more determined. He was a man who controlled armies, who bent the realm to his will. The idea that death might claim something he'd decided to possess would be intolerable to him.

"There must be treatment," he said.

"Only one." Milana's voice trembled. "A root called Crimson Heart. It grows only in the Ward family's private conservatories. But it's rare, precious..." She looked at me then, and beneath the tears I saw calculation. "I couldn't possibly ask."

Ah. There it was.

In my past life, this moment had destroyed me. Philip had commanded me to surrender the Crimson Heart root, and I'd refused, unwilling to give Milana anything that might strengthen her position. He'd called me heartless, cruel, willing to let an innocent woman die out of petty jealousy. He'd taken the root by force and used my refusal as justification for every cruelty that followed.

But I remembered something else too: Milana's miraculous recovery three days after consuming the medicine. How she'd bloomed with renewed vigor, laughing and dancing at the Queen Mother's garden party while I stood in disgrace. The wasting disease had been remarkably convenient, remarkably well-timed, and remarkably curable.

"The Crimson Heart root," I said slowly, as if considering. "Yes, we have some in my private collection."

Philip's head snapped toward me. He'd clearly been preparing for a fight.

"Oh, my lord," I continued, moving closer. I let my voice rise with apparent distress. "Why didn't you tell me she was dying? A life is worth more than any plant, no matter how rare."

Milana's eyes widened. Philip's expression shifted to confusion.

"I'll fetch it immediately," I said, pressing one hand to my heart. "Please, get her inside, make her comfortable. Joelle, help me—we must hurry."

I turned and swept back toward the house, not waiting to see their reactions. Behind me, I heard Philip giving orders to carry Milana to her rooms—not the east wing anymore, I noted. The master suite, just as she'd planned.

Let her have it. The bedroom was the least of what I'd take from her.

Joelle followed me to my private apothecary, a small room off my study where I kept the Ward family's medicinal herbs. I locked the door behind us and moved to the cabinet containing the Crimson Heart box.

"My lady," Joelle whispered, "she's lying. I saw her palm something before she collapsed. That blood—"

"Is chicken blood, most likely." I opened the box, revealing the distinctive red-veined root inside. "Crimson Heart is powerful medicine, Joelle. For someone genuinely suffering from blood weakness, it strengthens and heals."

I lifted the root carefully. "But for someone healthy? Someone whose blood is perfectly robust?" I smiled. "It causes hyperactivity, racing heart, tremors. Unpleasant but not dangerous."

"Then why—"

"Because that's not what we're giving her." I moved to a different cabinet, selecting a root that looked nearly identical. "This is Firevine. Same color, same shape. But if a healthy person consumes it, thinking it's medicine..." I met Joelle's eyes. "Painful hives. Violent vomiting. Temporary but extremely unpleasant. And very difficult to explain away."

Joelle's expression shifted to understanding. "She'll look like she's poisoned herself."

"Or that the medicine was fake." I placed the Firevine in the Crimson Heart box and sealed it carefully. "Either way, her credibility suffers. And Philip will have questions."

"My lady," Joelle said quietly, "you're brilliant."

"No." I held the box close. "I'm just done crying."