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    Summary

    Claude looks back the way they’d come, then at Lorenz again, and tips his head back in despair. “You breathed it in, didn’t you.”

    “I take it this is poisonous.” Lorenz feels…well enough, mostly. His heart is beating faster, though that could just be apprehension; the air seems warmer than it had before. The scent of cloves is already fading. “Lethal?”

    Claude actually laughs, though without much amusement. “No. It’s, uh, it’s called…a bunch of things. Rose of Bassarid?”

    Lorenz shakes his head. It is more than just apprehension driving his pulse now, sending a feverish tingling through his veins. Of all horrible times—it must be the fear of whatever is to come that has his attention lingering on the column of Claude’s throat, half-hidden by his collar and a carelessly-tied neckcloth. He disciplines his attention, ruthlessly. This is not lethal, therefore he will endure it; since it is not lethal, he has no need for any final—whimsy.

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