Lucía adjusted the pillows, her chest tightening with unease. This had happened before. Several times in recent weeks, Dolores had complained of nausea, dizziness, and moments of confusion. Trevor had arranged medical appointments, and the doctors spoke of age, recovery, anxiety. Nothing definitive. Nothing alarming enough to prompt urgency.
But Lucía noticed patterns.
Dolores always worsened after the herbal tea Felicity prepared for her in the afternoons. A special blend, Felicity said, meant to calm nerves and promote rest. At first, Lucía dismissed her own suspicion as paranoia. Who was she to question the lady of the house. Yet experience had taught her that danger often hid behind pleasant routines.
Later that morning, Lucía nearly collided with Felicity in the hallway. Felicity’s gaze swept over her with detached precision.
“How is she today,” Felicity asked, her tone neutral.
“She did not sleep well. She says she feels sick again,” Lucía replied carefully.
Felicity sighed, irritation flickering briefly across her features. “It is to be expected. Her condition is fragile. I will make her tea later. Consistency is important.”