You note a black-clad saucier adding a finishing touch to a platter on the staging-counter where the royal meal is being arranged on the finest dishware in the land. You crane your neck to deduce which serving-dish the portion just transferred to the royal platter was from. "Ah, the large casserole," you murmur to yourself, moving to the mighty vessel whence the royal portion was drawn.
A new smell in the kitchen wafts through the air and strikes your nostrils like a savage's blowgun dart. Childhood memories rise up unbidden, startling you. Why on earth would you be thinking of the farm at a time like this? Is it that smell?
You cast your memory back, trying to determine what you're experiencing. Your well-organized memory, trained to handle your extensive repertoire, serves you well. That bizarre smell, so out of place 'midst all the others in the kitchen, is…
"Water Hemlock," you gasp aloud.
Onward