I watch as he sips at his tea.
It's too hot, he complains. He pulls a face. And it's not the usual flavour. It tastes... bitter.
Like you, I think.
But I say nothing. I smile and keep my face as still as possible. My hands are knotted together. I don't want to show my nervousness.
He continues to sip at the brew.
I want him to hurry. I want him to gulp the drink down.
But I dare not encourage him.
I don't want him to become suspicious.
At last, he drains the cup, and there is a clatter as he drops it into the saucer.
I don't like it, he says. But my wife says it is good for me, so I drink it. Isn't that so?
I nod and reach out to clear the crockery. But he stops me with a gesture.
Don't go yet, he says. I want you to sit with me.
This interferes with my plans. I want to be out of the palace before the poison starts to work. I don't want to be anywhere near his advisors or his guards.
Not before the revolution starts and the new regime takes over.
...