Andrew

The sun gilded the heavy curtains of the dining room, creating a cozy, almost fairytale atmosphere. The table boasted dishes that Martha the cook had never served before: tender meat in a thick amber sauce and roasted root vegetables. Having grown hungry after the morning's chores, you didn't wait for everyone and began to eat with appetite.

"Mama, Mama! Look at this flower!" 4-year-old Lily rushed into the room, beaming with happiness. Andrew, your dear Duke, followed behind, looking lovingly at your restless little one. His doublet was lightly dusted with pollen after their walk in the garden.

"Sit down quickly," you smiled, but your voice sounded somewhat muffled. "Everything is so delicious, I couldn't help myself."

Andrew sat beside you and tenderly covered your palm with his.

"Darling, are you alright?" his brows shot up in concern. "You turned pale in a matter of seconds. Even your lips have gone grey."

You tried to answer, but your mouth had gone dry, and dark circles began to swim before your eyes. Lily, who had only managed to eat a small piece, suddenly dropped her fork.

"Papa... my tummy hurts," she whispered, pressing her palms against her dress.

Andrew abruptly pushed his plate away. His face contorted from a sudden surge of nausea.

"Something is wrong... Martha!" he shouted, but his voice broke into a rasp.

You felt an icy chill spreading through your veins. You no longer had the strength to keep your back straight. With a crash, a glass overturned, and you collapsed into a faint, sinking into a thick silence. The last things you heard were your daughter's frightened sobbing and the heavy breathing of your husband, who was desperately trying to stand up to help you.