"Oh, my, mm!" One servant moaned, smacking his lips together.
"This is the best thing, Elian. Truly!" Another gulped down her drink, closing her eyes.
Elian smiled politely. "Yes, yes, please enjoy." He slowly moved toward the door, closing it with his heel.
For a moment there was only the ordinary noise of a kitchen at rest—cups, laughter, the scrape of a stool.
Then it stopped.
A cup slipped from a woman's fingers and did not smash so much as tilt, forgotten, as her body locked mid-breath. The man who had been praising the wine went rigid, eyes wide and unseeing. One by one they froze—spines snapping straight, hands still curled around clay—and then their knees gave out.
They dropped.
Not in a heap of panic. In a strange, heavy unison, as if the floor had called them and they had no choice but to obey. Bowls rolled. A ladle clattered. The last standing maid folded down with a soft, startled sound that died in her throat.
Elian's polite smile vanished.
