"P-Poison?"
The words left Penelope’s lips in a horrified breath. Her gaze flew instantly to Vincent’s shoulder, where the dark stain on his shirt now seed to gleam with a sinister, oily sheen under the moonlight.
"No, no, no... what do we do?"
She looked up at Elias, her eyes wide with a frantic appeal for answers. Elias stood frozen, equally unsure of what step to take next as the heavy weight of the revelation settled over him.
But while Elias’s mind raced through the impossible logistics of the situation, one thing remained absolutely certain to him: they could not kill the assassin. Not yet.
"Dagger," Vincent whispered. His voice was raw, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped as he fought everything he had to stay conscious against the blackness creeping into his vision. "Elias... dagger, now."
Aware imdiately of the brutal protocol his master intended to follow, Elias didn’t hesitate. He drew the silver-hilted dagger from his belt and pressed the grip into Vincent’s trembling but determined hand.
Vincent didn’t waste another second. Summoning a final, agonizing burst of focus, he raised his left hand and dragged the razor-sharp edge across his palm in one clean, deep motion.
Penelope gasped, but Vincent didn’t flinch as the fresh, crimson blood welled from the cut, mixing with the dark dirt on his skin.He closed his fist tightly, letting the sharp, biting pain of the wound serve as a brutal anchor to force his mind awake and slow the venom’s progression through his bloodstream.
Dropping the blade into the grass, Vincent looked up at Elias, his sweat-sheened face grim and deathly pale.
"We need to leave," he commanded, his voice tight but unyielding. "Now."
"I’ll use the horse," Martha said quickly, her practical nature overriding her fears. "You can ride with My Lady in the carriage."
Elias nodded sharply, recognizing the efficiency in the plan.
Both Penelope and Elias braced themselves, hoisting Vincent’s heavy, weakening fra between them. With careful haste, they guided the fading Marquis across the clearing and helped him into the plush interior of the carriage, where Penelope imdiately took the space beside him to keep him upright.
Outside, Martha stayed back with the assassin. The rogue was still smirking, entirely too pleased with the leverage he thought he held over the house of Devereux. He looked up at the maid, ready to spit another mocking taunt.
Martha simply stared down at him, her expression completely flat.
"Ti to sleep," she said.
And with the practiced force of a woman who had spent her youth dealing with n like him, she delivered a brutal, no-nonsense punch straight to his jaw.
The assassin’s eyes rolled back, his smirk vanishing instantly as he slumped unconscious onto the grass. Martha didn’t waist a second: she hauled the deadweight of his body towards the rear of the carriage to secure him for the ride, before swinging herself up onto the captain’s horse.
The carriage soon started its journey back to the Devereux estate, the wheels rattling violently against the uneven road.
Inside the dim, swaying carriage, Penelope moved with a desperate haste. She tore a long, thick strip of wool from the hem of her dress, wrapping it tightly around Vincent’s sliced palm to arrest the flow of blood.
Vincent watched her through heavy-lidded, unfocused eyes, taking in the raw panic etched across her features and the tears pooling in her eyes. Every labored breath he took was a testant to the venom coursing through him, yet his gaze remained fixed entirely on her.
"You’re going to be okay," she murmured, her voice trembling as she finally t his fading gaze. She cupped his cheek with a trembling hand, her fingers catching the cold sweat of his skin. "I promise, I’ll get the cure, okay? I won’t let any harm co to you. Just hang on a bit longer for ... please."
The corner of his lips twitched into a faint, ghost of a smile. He rested his back against the velvet cushion, his jaw tightening as the agonizing heat of the toxin circled his insides, tearing at his remaining strength.
"I’m just glad you’re okay," he managed to whisper, his voice rough and laced with exhaustion. He looked at her as if she were the only thing anchor-holding him to the world.
"I’m glad."
Penelope sniffled, a stray tear spilling over her lashes and catching the dim light of the carriage lamp.
To Penelope, it felt like that horrible night all over again.
"Stop crying," Vincent’s soft voice made her look up at him, and his hand made a weak, futile attempt to lift and brush the moisture from her cheek. "I’ll be fine."
But as soon as the promise left his lips, the final reserve of his strength gave out. Vincent’s hand dropped heavily against the seat, his eyes slipped shut, and the suffocating darkness claid him completely.
"V-Vince?" Penelope called out, her voice dropping to a fragile, frightened whisper.
When he didn’t answer, the silence inside the carriage beca deafening. The tears spilled over completely now, hot and unbidden, blurring her vision as panic seized her throat. Desperate for any sign of life, she threw herself across his chest, pressing her ear firmly against his doublet over the heavy thud of his heart.
It was there. Weak, and sluggishly fighting against the poison, but still beating.
A ragged sob escaped her lips. She wrapped her arms around his broad, uninjured shoulder, hugging him tightly, burying her face into his neck as if she could physically hold his fading soul inside his body.
A crushing weight of guilt settled over her chest. It was a mistake coming here.
They needed to make it back to the estate on ti. Every second the carriage wheels rattled against the stone road was a second closer to the venom claiming him entirely.
Penelope squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt with a fierce, terrifying desperation.
"I can’t lose you again," she whispered into the dark of his shirt, the hidden weight of a past life’s agony bleeding into her vow. "Not like this. Please, Vincent... hang on."
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