“This,” Beatrice announced to the gathered guests, silencing the chatter, “is a Thorne family tradition. It’s a warm milk blend, steeped with special herbs and crushed almonds. My mother made it for me when I carried David, and I made it for David’s sisters. It ensures the baby is born with a strong mind and a calm spirit.”

The guests, a collection of high-society wives and David’s business partners, cooed in unison.

“Oh, how thoughtful!”

“Beatrice is such a saint!”

“Tradition is so important these days.”

I moved closer, stepping into the circle. As Beatrice poured the steaming white liquid into a heavy crystal glass, a scent wafted toward me on the summer breeze.

It was sweet. Cloyingly sweet. But underneath the comforting aroma of warm milk and vanilla bean, there was something else. A sharp, metallic tang. A volatile top note that hit the back of my throat.

Bitter almonds.