Читать книгу The Arsonist's Song Has Nothing to Do With Fire - Allison Titus - Страница 12
ОглавлениеThe wafers were arranged like pocketknives on the heirloom doily and delivered, as was customary, at tea. Little did Viv know the cakes were laced with arsenic. That one mouthful would loiter, hot, at her throat. By the time the fever tucked into her lungs, a small fire, it was too late to remedy the oversight. The assistant would be stripped of his badge and escorted from the building, but not before Vivian died. The doily was woven from horsehair and patches of Spanish moss tugged from oaks shading the town’s cul-de-sacs and cemeteries and parks. When the assistant used the doily to mop urgent and rough at Vivian’s face, small scratch marks hatched pink across her pale skin, there and there and there.
