Food and Poison
Not a metaphorical poison, but the real deal—deadly, silent, creeping through the delicious aroma of whatever feast is laid out in front of you. It's a tricky situation, especially when you don't know who did it.
The cooks?
The maids?
Or maybe some unseen hand you've never met.
And here you are, the Prince Consort, sitting in a chair you never really asked for, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, trying to decide whether to take a bite.
Mikhailis stared at the breakfast tray in front of him, his fingers tapping the edge of the wooden table rhythmically.
The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows in the room, and the soft clatter of dishes being set on the table echoed faintly.
The maids worked silently, their expressions neutral, but there was something… off.
He couldn't quite place it.
But there it was.
A tension in the air.
His usual carefree smile stayed plastered on his face, but behind it, his mind was already working, piecing together the puzzle.
He had learned long ago to trust his instincts, especially in situations like this. Something didn't sit right. The faint bitterness in the aroma of the soup, the slight sheen on the surface of the fruit slices—small details most wouldn't notice.
But he wasn't most people.
His eyes flickered to the maid closest to him, Lira, standing just a few steps away, hands folded neatly in front of her apron.
She seemed fine.
A little stiff, maybe, but she was always like that.
No, it was the other maids, the ones he didn't know, the ones who had arrived just this morning.
There was a slight tremor in the hands of one as she poured tea. Her eyes didn't meet his.
Interesting.
<Traces of arsenic in the soup,>
Came Rodion's voice, soft and cold, as if reading the situation right alongside him.
<Not enough to kill you immediately, but over time...>
Mikhailis hummed lightly, pretending to take in the scent of the tea.
<The fruit slices contain nightshade. Curious. It's not common here, but lethal. Again, enough to kill you right away. Whoever planned this wanted it seem... subtle.>
Mikhailis raised his cup, swirling the liquid around, watching as the sunlight hit the surface.
"Well," he muttered quietly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "This takes me back."
His mind drifted, though his eyes never left the maids, who were watching him out of the corner of their eyes. He had been here before, hadn't he?
In a setting just like this.
A breakfast.
Poison.
And a bunch of suspects pretending everything was normal.
What would you do, though, if you're a twelve-year-old sitting at the royal family's dining table, and you spot poison in your own meal?
Mikhailis smiled at the thought, taking a long sip of tea, even though he knew better than to swallow it.
"This reminds me of home," he said suddenly, his voice light, drawing the attention of the maids.
"Back in Ruslania, I had this cook. Oh, she made the best dishes. But you know, every now and then, someone would slip a little something extra into the food. Arsenic, maybe. Nightshade. Always fun to figure out who it was. Kept me sharp."
He let the cup rest back on the saucer with a gentle clink, his eyes now fully on the maid pouring his tea.
"You know what the trick is?" he asked, leaning forward slightly, his grin widening.
The maid froze, her hand trembling ever so slightly as she placed the teapot down. She didn't meet his gaze, and for a moment, the air thickened with an unspoken tension.
Rodion's voice hummed in his ear.
<I suspect it was her. The hesitation in her movements. increased perspiration. Classic signs of guilt.>
Mikhailis chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair.
"The trick," he continued, "is to pretend you don't notice. Makes everyone uncomfortable."
His mind flashed back to that one breakfast, years ago, when his parents had first noticed his knack for analysis.
___
He was twelve years old, sitting at a grand table with his family, dressed in a stiff suit that pinched at the collar. His brother Dimitri was across from him, already regal, already confident, while Mikhailis had been more concerned with the pile of books waiting in his room.
The meal had been laid out before them, an extravagant spread of dishes that looked more like art than food. Everything was perfect. Or so it seemed.
Mikhailis had noticed the bitter tang in the air the moment the soup was served. It wasn't strong, just faint enough to blend into the rich aroma of the broth. But to him, it stood out like a flashing neon sign.
He remembered glancing at his parents, wondering if they had noticed. His father, the king, had been deep in conversation with a visiting dignitary, while his mother had been quietly observing the guests with her usual serene smile.
No one else seemed to notice.
Rodion hadn't been around back then, but Mikhailis's mind had always worked like a machine. Cold, calculating. He had watched the maid as she poured his soup, her hands steady, her expression calm. Too calm. The way her eyes darted to the side, just for a second, when she thought no one was watching. It had been subtle, but not subtle enough.
A game, then. He had decided to play along.
With a bright, innocent smile, Mikhailis had picked up his spoon, pretending to take a sip.
"Delicious," he had said, his voice bright and cheerful. "But you know what would make it even better?"
The maid had blinked, confused.
"If you had a taste too," Mikhailis continued, his smile never wavering. "You've been working so hard. You deserve it."
The dining hall had gone silent. His parents had looked over, curious but not alarmed. Dimitri had raised an eyebrow, clearly unsure what his younger brother was up to.
"I insist," Mikhailis had added, gesturing toward the soup with a flourish. "Join us. It's only fair, right?"
The maid's face had gone pale. A slight tremor had passed through her hands as she set the soup ladle down. And then, just for a second, she had hesitated.
That hesitation had been all Mikhailis needed. In a flash, he had leapt from his chair, grabbing the maid's wrist with surprising strength for a twelve-year-old.
The rest of the dining hall had erupted into chaos. Guards had rushed in, his parents standing in shock as Mikhailis calmly pinned the maid down, his face still wearing that same innocent smile.
"The soup's poisoned," he had said casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. "I'd check the other dishes too, just in case."
And that had been that. The maid had been escorted out, her guilt written all over her face. The investigation that followed had revealed a plot, a subtle attempt on the royal family's lives, all hidden behind a charming smile and a bowl of soup.
His parents had been both horrified and impressed. His father had called him reckless, while his mother had simply looked at him with a mixture of pride and concern.
"You have the mind of a king," she had said later, her voice soft as she knelt beside him in the quiet of the palace library. "But be careful, Mikhailis. There will be many who will want to use it."
He hadn't really understood the weight of her words back then. He had just shrugged, more interested in the book on entomology he had been reading.
But now, years later, sitting at another table, in another kingdom, with poison once again in front of him, he finally understood.
___
Mikhailis blinked, bringing himself back to the present. The maids were still standing there, their eyes on him, waiting for his next move. He could feel the weight of their gazes, the subtle tension in the air, but he remained calm, his grin never faltering.
"Well," he said, picking up his spoon and twirling it between his fingers,
"I suppose it's time to eat."
But instead of taking a bite, he set the spoon down again, his eyes locking onto the maid who had poured the tea.
"You know," he said, his tone light, almost playful,
"I always prefer to share my meals. It's so much more fun when everyone gets to taste the same thing."
He gestured to the tray of food in front of him, offering the maid a wide smile.
"Why don't you join me?"
Her face paled instantly, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the table. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation.
<There it is,>
Rodion's voice whispered in his ear.
<The hesitation. Classic.>
Mikhailis leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Well?" he asked, his voice still light but with a hint of steel beneath it.
"Don't be shy. After all, it's just breakfast, right?"
The maid swallowed hard, her eyes darting to the other servants in the room, looking for some kind of escape.
But there was none.
And Mikhailis knew he had her.