The Bedchamber

The curtains rustled in the summer breeze. The prince laid asleep, taking shallow breaths. Rosalyn slid from bed onto light feet, as to not disturb him. Sweat beads, scintillating diamonds on milky white skin, flashed when she crossed the moonlight to her dress. With care and haste, she donned slip then dress, silently buttoning up her back. Catching her flushed features in a mirror, she smoothed her unruly hair of time spent in bed. Once out the servant’s entrance, she smiled. The slow poison was deadly; there was no antidote, no signs. The prince would be dead inside a month.