The university was bustling with students knocking off from classes by the time Saffron returned. She moved swiftly past the crowds, her fingers clutching the frayed notebook she’d retrieved from Dr. Maxwell’s house. Mrs. Maxwell had been equal parts relieved and distressed by her visit. Once Saffron explained what she needed, however, her distracted chattering gave way to determination. They scoured what was left on the endless dusty shelves of books, files, and notebooks of Dr. Maxwell’s cramped study. The police had already torn the place apart but hadn’t managed to find everything. If she knew anything about Maxwell, it was that he always had more papers squirreled away somewhere, and she’d been right. Within the hour, Saffron had emerged with exactly what she was hoping to find.
Instead of entering the North Wing, Saffron continued past it. Dr. Henry must have told the police that Maxwell was responsible and that in addition to the common knowledge that they had argued, as well as xolotl’s reputation, must have led to his arrest. The evidence against Maxwell was mounting higher and higher, and Saffron had to do something.
Saffron stole into the greenhouses and took a knife from the table. Gloves on, she carefully took a cutting and wrapped it in her handkerchief. She walked back out, casually waving at Mr. Winters as she passed him. She then headed to the staff room in the basement of the North Wing. A few minutes later, she walked cautiously into Maxwell’s office, carrying a glass of steaming water. She wrote a few words on a paper, then moved to prepare the infusion.
Though her hands shook as she placed the venomously yellow leaves into the water, Saffron was confident this would work. All she had to do was drink, then write down faithfully what happened. She already knew, sort of, what to expect. It would be a small inconvenience, she assured herself as she lifted the cup to her lips. Worth it when compared to the strong possibility of Dr. Maxwell being stuck in jail for years.
Saffron had just drained the glass of hot bitter water when a knock rapped on the frosted glass of the door. Alexander Ashton strode into the office a moment later with an armload of books.
Saffron had just a moment to wonder why he’d just barged into the office before his gaze swept over the supplies on the desk. His eyes widened as he took in the yellow leaves in the glass in her hand.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
But it was already done.
He took a step toward her. “Saffron—”
She didn’t hear anything else. A huge, shuddering jolt like a bolt of electricity hit the top of her spine. Her back arched backward and the glass slipped from her hands. Then it was all black.
* * *
“Are you mad?”
Alexander had waited for five minutes to ask this question of Saffron. Despite the immense relief he felt at seeing her eyes blink open, he was furious.
He had her by the shoulders as she slumped onto the couch he’d moved her to when she’d first collapsed. His eyes roved over her pale face. She struggled to speak, finally emitting a feeble, “Bin.” He frowned in confusion briefly before he sprung up, bolted to the desk, and snatched up the rubbish bin before returning to her side. Gingerly, he straightened her up and leaned her toward it. She was sick for a good while before slumping back onto the cushions, her eyes closed and strands of dark hair plastered to her forehead.
Alexander was at a loss of what to do.
The notebook on the desk was of small comfort. In the minute he’d spent searching for answers before Saffron woke, he’d found the partially illegible account scribbled on age-worn pages. He’d scanned the tattered book with a shaking hand. That his hand trembled only made him angrier, even if the words were hopeful.
It indicated that the symptoms would pass quickly, but Alexander wasn’t inclined to trust stories from strangers, although Saffron apparently did. The paper he’d found next to it with her name, the date, and the dosage of xolotl infusion was proof enough of that. How she thought drinking down a tea made with the same leaves the police believed poisoned Mrs. Henry, if the stories going ’round the North Wing were to be believed, would help her professor, Alexander didn’t know. He had a hard time believing she would be so foolish.
He lingered on his knees next to the couch, ready to prop her up again if needed.
Saffron breathed hard through her nose and kept her lips pressed together as if to prevent anything else coming up. She looked miserably ill. Alexander contemplated for the twentieth time his line of reasoning for not taking her to hospital immediately upon finding her. The university’s hospital was just across the street.