He hit the service entrance at full speed. The door, blessedly, was unlocked. He sprinted through the kitchen, startling staff and sending a pot crashing to the floor, then took the narrow servant staircase two, three steps at a time. Briggs, the head of security, shouted behind him. Two guards appeared at the top of the stairs, wide and hard-faced, arms out to stop him.
Marcus feinted left, ducked right, slipped under one arm, twisted away from grasping hands, and ran down the hallway toward the nursery.
He threw open the door.
Eighteen heads turned.
The room erupted instantly.
“Who is that?”
“Security!”
“Get him out!”
Arthur Kensington, standing near the crib with the face of a man already half destroyed by fear, stepped forward.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?”
The guards were on Marcus before he could answer. Hands seized his shoulders and arms, lifting him off his feet. But he did the only thing left to him.
He screamed.
“The plant! It’s the plant on the window! It’s poisoning him!”
No one stopped.
“Digitalis!” Marcus shouted, fighting the grip. “The oils are toxic. It’s on the crib, the curtains, everything. He’s breathing it, touching it. Get it out of here!”