38 You Are The Cure

"What is that god-awful smell?" The skin between Princess Cordelia's eyebrows was knitted tightly together, her fingers blocking her nostrils as she glared hard at the bowl of bubbling, unknown liquid in Daphne's hands. "Are you trying to kill the king with this foul concoction?"

"Excuse me, I take umbrage with that statement." Daphne sniffed haughtily, purposely walking closer so that she was in between her lying husband and this interloper. Cordelia scooted back, nearly retching at the smell, and Atticus had all but plastered himself against the headboard of the bed, as though this would allow him to escape.

Foolish man. Daphne would rather down the entire tonic herself than to let Atticus off the hook. If she had to kill off her own sense of smell to get even, then so be it!