Polidori set his quill beside the inkwell and reached into his frock coat pocket to extract his flask. He took a deep draught, grimacing at the bitter taste of almonds. Arsenic. He had increased the percentage of the tincture—still minimal, less than a drastically diluted, precisely measured drop, but more than he had previously dared—determined to become immune to its effects. Death.
For hours he sat at the feet of his charges, deep in thought, contemplating the things they now would never do, that he had never done. And might never. He remained there, even after the lanterns had exhausted their oil and guttered, plunging the basement into almost absolute darkness. His vision adjusted to the shadows, the silhouettes around him somehow more comforting without the distraction of the flicke
