My ER brain began to cycle through a Rolodex of toxins, a reflex honed by years of late-night overdoses and accidental ingestions. Cyanide? No, that smells strictly of almonds, but this had a floral undertone, something earthy and root-based. Strychnine? Too bitter to mask completely. Maybe just too much nutmeg?

“Here, darling,” Beatrice said, handing the glass to Emily with a two-handed grip, as if offering a chalice. “Drink it while it’s warm. It binds the nutrients. Every drop is essential.”

Emily, my sweet, naive Emily, smiled. She looked so tired, the third trimester taking its toll on her ankles and her energy. She trusted everyone because she had never seen the things I had seen. “Thank you, Beatrice. You’re too good to me.”

She raised the glass to her lips. The steam curled around her nose.

My body moved before my brain signed the permission slip. It was the same autonomic reflex that made me catch a falling scalpel or step between a delirious patient and a resident. I lunged forward, feigning a clumsy trip over the uneven flagstones of the patio.