“It’s poisoned,” said a voice from her bathroom. She’d read in Manual of the Somatic Mind that the character of a man could be divined from how he startled—toward a door, toward a weapon, or toward nothing, a prey animal’s petrified freeze. Whether it was the wine or all the dreams she’d had of a moment like this, she only drew a sharp breath and set the wineglass down. She discovered that she could still think through her fear. He would have killed her already if he wanted to. He wouldn’t have revealed the poison if he meant for it to work. She was safe. Unless this was an act of cruelty
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