Poisoned.
“Croi, stad.”*
Flecks of dull light fell from her hand and into the bowl over which it was posed as the last of the strange words were uttered. When the lights touched the surface of the black liquid they flickered and seemed to melt, becoming small dots of silver in a dark sea. She quickly stirred the concoction with a wooden ladle and it changed from black to a deep shade of grey. Perfect, this meant that all was going as it should.
The woman who stood before the old wooden table on which this bowl was situated was garbed in a black cloak that fell to the floor, under which she wore a coarse black dress. Around her neck she wore an assortment of necklaces with curious carvings on their jet black beads. The coarse brown hair that grew from her scalp fell in a tangled mess down her back, like seaweed clinging to a rock face by the sea. Her pale eyes shone with a mysterious vigour as she poured the contents of the bowl into a small cauldron which hung by a metal rod over a fire. The liquid from the bowl began to boil almost immediately, sending up a foul-smelling fume. The pop-hiss of each bubble seemed to whisper the woman’s name.
Maurice. Maurice.
Maurice de Laire; that was her name. To her the fumes smelled as sweet as lavender. The bubbling and hissing was music to her ears. Death was her profession, death and suffering. And it was for death that she laboured now.
Further down on the table, by a mortar and pestle, there lay an assortment of dried herbs. Maurice took the mortar and pestle as well as one herb, a shrivelled up sprig of Bracken. This particular plant was well-known in Britain, as it could have a negative effect on the health of plough-horses if they were stupid enough to eat it. However, there was another use for the plant, one that not many knew of. In its dried state, it removed the odour from most anything. A very useful plant to use with poison.
Using the mortar and pestle, Maurice ground the bracken into a thin powder and watered it down with liquid from an old earthenware pitcher. Raising her hand over the moistened herbs, Maurice said the following words in no more than a whisper.
“Glan mar uisce, glan mar aer, Beidh tú.”**
After a couple seconds the air shimmered around the moist herbs before they melted into the water, causing the mortar to contain nothing by a clear liquid. Maurice grumbled about the delay. Back before the Loredaens, her magic had worked instantly. But now…
Maurice picked up the mortar and poured its contents into the cauldron. From the moment the clear liquid touched the black, the darker began to fade. As Maurice stirred the liquid in, the contents became clearer and clearer, until it looked just like water. Maurice smiled. It was perfect!
She fished a vial out of her robe pocket and dipped it into the cauldron, filling it to the brim. She had special plans for the contents of this vial.
They are becoming numerous again, she thought to herself. If too many are alive at a time, we might be outnumbered. But I can’t kill them all until I know! Not until I know where it is! It cannot happen again! Fingers white as paper gripped the table so tight that the thick nails scratched through the surface of the wood. Memories of the last time she brewed this very potion flooded her mind. The woman who died then was the wife of Lord Archibald Loredaen. But then, her husband had died. Oh, what an uproar was caused by that horrific event. But that wouldn’t happen again. Not again.
“But how do I find out? They are already suspicious, always watching!” Maurice mouthed to herself, staring fixedly at her reflection in the now-still contents of the cauldron. The fire had subsided to embers, with barely any flame to speak of. But the room was not dark, for a candle was lit upon the table. She looked down at the vial in her hands, and cradled it in her fingers, as if it were a thing of great value. “I must catch them off-guard,” she said, smiling a little as her mind wandered. “They can’t see me coming. This should be enough to distract their attention!” She put the vial back in her pocket. “Watch out, Loredaens. We are not beaten. We will be liberated!”
The fire died, and a stray wind blew the candle out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
~
“Supper for you, ma’am.”
“Oh, thank you, Elise, I really do appreciate it!”
The maid set the tray upon the old woman’s lap, and curtsied before leaving the room. Muriel Loredaen smiled after her. She liked that maid. ‘Always cheery, eager to please Elise’, Muriel chuckled. She looked down at the tray of food that lay before her, and her smile widened. If there was anything that could cure the aches of old age, it was a well cooked chicken with a cup of mulled cider.
Muriel picked up her knife and fork and eagerly cut a slice of the meat. It seemed to melt in her mouth, and a satisfied smile lit her face as she reached for the cider to wash it down, little suspecting that the contents of the cup wasn’t just cider. Just one sip, it was all it took. Maurice was a master at her art. Lady Muriel Loredaen was dead before the cup had left her lips.
The next morning her body would be found, the doctors would investigate, but all the evidence would point toward a heart attack, which would not be suspicious in the least, what with the old woman’s weak heart. Though quite a few rooms away, Maurice could feel the old woman die, and she smiled a cruel, twisted smile. That much closer to achieving her goal.
*heart, stop
**Clear as water, clear as air, You will be.
I'm really wondering just if the translations were necessary, if maybe they could be left up the the reader's imagination. I know that when I read a word or phrase from another language in a story, unless it's dramatically needed, it adds an exotic flair to the selection. 
