Something nagged at Adrian. Before the healer left, he stopped him. "What's in that broth?"
"A thousand-year ginseng," the healer replied. "For Sylvia's palpitations."
"Cost?"
"Three hundred silver per root."
Adrian's mind flashed to the maid's death. "Are her palpitations that severe?"
The healer blinked. "Not really. A few days' rest would do, but Sylvia insisted on the best herbs. I checked with her first."
Adrian's voice hardened. "I see. Go."
The healer left, but Adrian's unease grew. Isabella's departure, the maid's suicide, the herald's mockery—it gnawed at him. He needed answers.
Returning to Sylvia's room, he found her resting. "I'm heading to the palace. I'll be back soon."
Sylvia bit her lip. "Why? To ask about Isabella? I knew I wasn't first in your heart."
Normally,
