He smiles then, a quick fey thing that displays the small dimple I have seen only twice before. Nearly stupid with relief that he believes me, I smile back. His hands reach out and cup my face. “I should not have doubted you,” he whispers, then he lowers his mouth to mine.
The taste of poison is strong on my lips and yanks me back to the matter at hand. “Are you sure you haven’t eaten any food or wine other than what I gave? Did you notice any strange taste?”
He snorts. “No and no. If so, I would not have eaten it.”
But of course, there are hundreds of poisons, many of them too subtle to be detected by the tongue. Others are administered by different means. “Then perhaps it passed through your skin.”
He holds his arms out to his sides. “As you can see, all I have left to me are the clothes on my back.”
“I know, and that is what I would like to inspect.”
"What?”
“Poison can be placed in your gloves, on the inside of your doublet, your shirt, your hat, anything that touches your skin.”
He blinks, at last understanding what I am saying. with a sudden movement, he reaches down and tears the gloves from his belt and throws them on the floor. Frantic now, as if his clothes are coated in stinging nettles, he pulls off his belt, then yanks his doublet over his head and tosses it onto the chair.
I hurry over to inspect each piece, all of them still warm from Duval’s body, but there is no trace of poison. No waxy residue, no trace scent.
“There is nothing on any of these,” I tell him. “May I see your boots?”
He recoils in horror. “You are not going to smell my boots,” he tells me flatly. He tramps to the chair, drops into it, and pulls off his boots. "What would it smell like?” he asks.
I shrug, hating this helpless feeling. “It depends on which poison was used. It can smell sweet as honey or like bitter oranges. Some have a metallic tang.” My heart falters at all the possibilities, for how can I cure him if I do not know what is being used?
He sticks his nose into his boot. “They smell nothing like that,” he says.
I am not sure if I should take his word, but he looks ready to come to blows over it, so I let it be for the moment. “Here, let me hold that one while you check the other.” I brace myself for another argument, but he grunts at me and shoves the boot into my hand. while he is busy with his other foot, I let my fingers brush against the inside of his boot. There is no tingle, no numbness, nothing.
“This one is fine too,” he says, shoving his foot back into it. He holds out his hand for the other one and I return it to him.
“Now your shirt, my lord.”
He gapes at me. “You want to examine my shirt?”
I let my impatience fill my words. “Did you not just hear me say it could be on anything that touches your skin? There are no end of ways to poison a man. You must trust me to know this better than you.”
However, there is another reason I wish him to remove his shirt. I need to see if he bears a marque.
His eyes on mine, Duval rises to his feet, undoes the lacings of his shirt, then pulls the fine cambric over his head.
I swallow back a gasp, my eyes fixed on the map of silvery white scars that crisscross the left side of his rib cage. A deep, puckered scar sits just inches from his heart. Unthinking, I step closer, my fingers reaching out to touch the pale tracks some keen blade left. He flinches as if in pain. “Do they still hurt?” My voice comes out as a whisper.
“No.” His voice sounds strained.
I trace the longest of the scars that spans his chest. “How close you came. How very, very close.” I shiver, unbearably warm and chilled at the same time. Surely Mortain did not spare him then only to have me kill him now.
His skin under my fingers twitches and suddenly I no longer see the scars, but the shift of taut muscle and the broadness of his shoulders. Heat rushes into my cheeks and, unable to stop myself, I look up to meet his gaze. He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Dear, sweet Ismae.”
The longing and wanting that rise up inside me is as sharp as any blade and cuts as deep. It is also more terrifying. I snatch my hand out of his grip and turn to fumble for the shirt he has so carelessly dropped on the floor.
I busy myself with picking it up and turning it inside out. I can feel his eyes on me, the room full of unspoken dreams and desire. I concentrate on the shirt, checking the seams carefully, the cuffs, any place a smear of poison might hide. However he is being poisoned, it is not from his garments.
“It is clean,” I say, then slowly turn around to hand the shirt to him.
Duval is all business and takes the shirt and slips it over his head. I use that moment to inspect him for a marque. Other than his scars, there is nothing on his chest or his throat, which confirms he has not eaten nor drank this poison. But the room is lit only by the fire and a brace of candles, so I cannot tell if the grayish pallor to his skin is due to the poor light, the effects of the poison, or the marque of Mortain. But of course, it does not matter. I cannot kill him, marque or no.