The night had thinned to a cold gray when she rose from the bed, even though she hadn't slept much the night before, she didn't feel a hint of tiredness in her body. Dawn softly painted the sky, its light stretching through her curtains.
The room still held the sharp reek of the spilled poison and the slow onset of death. Lira lay where she had fallen, jaw slack, eyes clouded. Morena looked at her for a long, even breath then moved.
She took the jug and the cup first, wrapped them in a cloth, and tied it tightly. The scrap of stitched thread she tucked into a small pouch at her belt. She opened the shutters a finger's width to let the air turn, then crossed to the door and listened.
It was quiet.
She moved into the corridor with a slight crack, locked the door behind her, and walked down the hallway.
