Chapter 5 - The Test of the Flame
I walked over to the table and picked up the piece of plaster. Even in the dim lamp light, I could see the greenish-yellow tint bleeding through the rear side of the white gypsum chalk.
"Copper acetoarsenite," I murmured, holding it near the lamp. "Paris Green. It was used as a pigment in nineteenth-century wallpapers, but when it's mixed into modern oil sealants and heated by an adjacent chimney flue... it off-gasses arsine vapor."
"Inaudible, odorless, and completely undetectable in standard blood panels unless you specifically test for heavy-metal toxicity," Emilio added, his voice low and vibrating with cold rage. "Dr. Prentiss was testing my blood three times a week for 'autoimmune markers,' ensuring he controlled the narrative while my liver and lungs slowly shut down."
"And the sandalwood diffuser?" I asked.
"A masking agent," Emilio said, taking a slow, measured breath. "It contained a mild bronchodilator that gave me momentary relief for twenty minutes after inhaling it, convincing me the machine was helping me, while simultaneously carrying the arsenic particles deeper into my lung tissue."
He looked at me for a long moment, the silence stretching between us while the rain lashed against the tall library windows.
"Why did you notice?" Emilio asked suddenly. "Out of forty servants, six doctors, and twenty guards who walked through that room every month... why you?"
"Because I grew up poor, Mr. Corsaro," I replied simply. "When you don't have money to hire specialists, you learn to look at walls, smell damp wood, and notice when things don't add up. Rich people look at doctors; poor people look at the ceiling."
Emilio let out a dry, raspy laugh that turned into a brief cough, though it lacked the wet, suffocating rattling I had heard from him weeks ago.
"Sit down, Etta," he said, gesturing to the armchair across from him.
I hesitated, then set my canvas bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the leather cushion.
"My brother Rafe has already mobilized his partners," Emilio continued, his face hardening into lines of iron. "He knows the conservatorship papers won't be signed now. He knows Dr. Prentiss has fled the city—Marco checked his clinic an hour ago; the building is empty."
"Then Rafe will move fast," I warned him. "A man like that won't wait for you to regain your full strength."
"No," Emilio agreed. "He won't. He has called an emergency meeting of the Corsaro Syndicate Directorate for nine o'clock tomorrow morning at the docks in Algiers. He intends to present Dr. Prentiss's signed medical affidavit claiming I have suffered a total mental and physical breakdown, declaring himself acting head of the family."
"What will you do?"
May you like
Emilio reached down, picking up his heavy silver-headed cane, his fingers tightening around the wood until his knuckles turned white.
"I am going to that meeting, Etta," he said. "And you are coming with me."
