Ansel's head had ached as he'd tried to absorb the new information, but he hadn't tried to object. Instead, he'd nodded, encouraging Baldric to continue.
"Ten years ago, when I accidentally discovered who Elspeth truly was, it was like a sign from me father," Baldric had explained. "And since then, I've been actin' with them, feedin'them information where I could, doin' whatever I can tae mitigate me uncle's terrible actions."
A realization had struck Ansel like lightning. "Ye kent," he accused. "Ye kent who Neala was."
Baldric hadn't dropped his eye contact. "I did, though she had nae idea about me. It was Elspeth's secret, ye see. And I couldnae tell ye. I love ye with all me heart, but I didnae ken if I could trust ye—nae until I figured out that ye'd let her go."
Ansel had jerked in surprise.
His cousin had smiled. "The others believed ye, but I've kent ye most of yer life. That day in the rain, I finally saw ye takin' the chance tae be who ye really are. And now–now ye ken whoIreally am. And it seems that the White Sparrows and the McNair princess have saved yer life. So me question is, Ansel, now that ye ken the whole truth, what will ye do?"
That question had haunted Ansel for a few days until he'd come up with the plan. He'd known it was the riskiest thing he could do, and he'd even told Baldric not to get involved, but of course his older cousin was having none of it. Ansel and Baldric had plotted right under the king's nose, and tonight they were pulling it off. Tonight, Ansel would defiantly act against his father, protect the White Sparrows who had protected him, and most importantly, repay Neala for everything.
He could not change who he was. Ansel was still his father's son and heir, and he would never be able to change that. He could not be a revolutionary. He was not Baldric.
But he could do this one small thing.
Now, he strained his eyes, peering out into the darkness, waiting with held breath for Baldric's signal. When he saw it, he'd know that their daring, reckless plan could be successful. There would be consequences and fallout from this, but both Ansel and Baldric had experience of covering their tracks whenthe king was involved. He was sure that they would make it out of this unscathed so long as everything went to plan.
Still, he waited. It was going to be a long night.
"Neala? Are ye in here?"
Neala jolted awake, dropping the diary in surprise. She wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep. She quickly got to her feet and scooped the little book off the ground, tucking it safely away in the chest.
"I'm here!" she called back.
The owner of the voice came into view. It was Ewan, an understanding smile on his face as he peeked around the slightly open door. "Readin' yer mammy's diary again?" he guessed.
"Ye caught me," Neala admitted. "I wish I'd kent her."
"I'm lucky I did," Ewan replied. He beckoned, and Neala exited the little room to stand beside him. "She was one of the finest women I've ever kent in me whole life. I respected yer father and cared for him, of course, but it was yer mother who made me the most proud to be a member of their household. Ye're a lot like her, ye ken."
Neala shook her head. "Nay. Everyone says Cailean is like her."
"He is," Ewan agreed. "In his face and his eyes and in some of the ways he makes decisions. But ye, Neala? Ye have her heart."
Saying that, he held out a folded piece of paper. It had no seal upon it, but it was clear that it had already been read.
Neala took it. "What is this?"
"It's a message from Blackthorn Castle, presumably from yer cook friend who still works there," Ewan explained. "Or that's what the messenger said anyway. Though I'll admit, I read it—under orders, I'm afraid; we need tae make sure that more than one pair of eyes fall upon any messages from that place—and it doesnae seem like it was written by the woman tae me."
Neala frowned. She didn't like that her private correspondence was being read, even if she understood why. She didn't object, though, instead unfolding the letter and reading over the contents.
Her heart stopped as she recognized the writing. She tried very, very carefully not to let her expression change, knowing that there was no way that she could possibly explain to Ewan why she was so shocked. Thankfully, if her emotions had shown on her face, Ewan didn't seem to notice. In fact, he patted her once on the shoulder and turned to go.
"I'll speak with ye more at dinner, aye?" he said, then strolled away, apparently blissfully unaware.
Neala didn't answer. Her hands shook as she stood stock still, waiting until he was completely gone before she let her eyes flick back down to the note.
It was Ansel's writing. He hadn't signed his name, nor had he used his seal, but it was unmistakable anyway. She'd seen his precise, sloping words too many times to mistake them for anything else. She winced as she remembered the last time she'd read words written in his script—on the plans for the catapults that were meant to slaughter her brother and his entire rebellion.
But he'd still let her go. She'd seen him that day, the real him. Hadn't she?
She'd sent the antidote and the message with one thought in mind: she could not bear to be in a world where he was gone. But what did that mean in the long term? The rebellion could not succeed while an Ashkirk lived.
Troubled, she finally let herself read the words.
