Moving to the bedside table, Pricilla spotted the potion and a small glass. Funny, she thought she'd looked there. In a fit of sheer madness, it dawned on Pricilla what she must do. With shaking fingers she uncorked the potion. "Maman?" Pricilla asked softly.
"Oui, dearest. My potion. I-I do seem to be having one of my megrims."
Pricilla poured a measure into the glass. Then, lest she stop herself, poured another, then another… She placed the glass to Maman's lips.
Maman drank hungrily.
"Sleep, Maman. Soon you'll feel much better," Pricilla said, softly. She pressed Maman back against the pillows, then brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.
"Merci, darling." Maman patted her cheek. "I have always favored you, you know, ma chère?" She whispered, a smile on her lips. Her eyes drifted shut.
"Je suis desolée, Maman," Pricilla choked out. Her voice sounded rough and raspy to her own ears. "The betrothal ball is on the morrow. You need your sleep, you know." Pricilla grasped Maman's hand and lowered herself onto the mattress, shocked and dry-eyed, appalled by her actions. "I love you."
Maman would not be giving anyone trouble much longer.
Pricilla sat there for a long while.