Sera woke up to a sliver of sunlight burning her retina. Her neck was stiff from the uncomfortable Victorian sofa. She stayed perfectly still, listening.
The rhythm of breathing from the bed was uneven. Rapid. Shallow.
She sat up slowly. Harrison was asleep, thrashing slightly under the silk sheets. His forehead was slick with sweat.
Sera moved silently across the carpet. She needed to confirm her diagnosis. She leaned over him, her hand hovering inches from his face.
Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyes were darting frantically. REM sleep, but too intense. His skin had a grayish undertone, and there was a distinct, sweet chemical smell on his breath.
Neurotoxin, she thought. Atropine derivative, maybe. Or something synthetic.
Harrison's hand shot out and slapped hers away.
Sera jumped back, her heart leaping into her throat.
I was just... the blanket was falling, she lied.
Harrison didn't wake up. He groaned, turning onto his side. It was a reflex.
Sera exhaled. She backed away, looking for the bathroom. As she scanned the ceiling, a faint, circular distortion in the paint of the corner molding caught her eye. It was almost perfect, but the light from the window reflected off it with a subtle, concave gleam that was different from the flat matte of the ceiling. A lens.
She kept her face neutral, stretching her arms over her head like a bored, tired girl. She scanned the rest of the room. Another glint above the door. Another by the wardrobe.
Three cameras. No blind spots.
He wasn't the master of this house. He was the specimen in a jar.
She went into the bathroom and turned the faucet on full blast. The noise covered the sound of her own voice.
They're watching him rot, she whispered to her reflection. If I cure him... he becomes the weapon.
She washed her face. When she came out, Harrison was sitting on the edge of the bed, fumbling for a white cane. He looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept at all.
Sera picked up the cane from the floor and held it out. Here.
Harrison froze. He reached out, his hand brushing hers. His skin was burning hot. He snatched the cane.
Don't touch my things.
A knock at the door. The housekeeper entered with a silver tray. Breakfast, and a terrifying array of orange prescription bottles.
Time for your medication, Mr. Sterling. The housekeeper stood there, arms crossed. She wasn't leaving until he swallowed them.
Sera watched closely. Vitamins. Sedatives. Anti-psychotics?
Harrison opened his hand. The housekeeper dumped a handful of pills into his palm. He threw them back and swallowed dry, his throat working convulsively.
Good, the housekeeper said, and left.
As she turned, Sera spotted a small white pill that had fallen onto the duvet cover near Harrison's leg.
She waited until the door clicked shut. She walked over, pretending to fluff the duvet. With a sleight of hand she had perfected in medical school to steal supplies, she palmed the pill and slipped it into the cuff of her sweater.
Do you trust your doctor? she asked quietly.
Harrison let out a harsh laugh. Trust is a luxury for people who aren't worth a billion dollars dead.
Sera looked at the camera in the corner.
So is privacy, apparently.
Harrison turned his head sharply toward her. What did you say?
Nothing, Sera said, pitching her voice higher. Just that I hope we can get along.
Downstairs, a commotion erupted. A shrill, imperious voice echoed through the floorboards.
Harrison's face went pale, then hard.
Damn it, he hissed. The Witch is here.
