The cook caught her looking and winked. No words passed between them, but Neala silently thanked Elspeth for her subtle intervention. The cookhadbeen the one to get Neala the job—because what Neala knew that the rest didn't, was that Elspeth had no loyalty to the False King. She was a White Sparrow, one who had worked in the field for almost the whole time that the group had been together, and she had taken it upon herself to keep an eye on Neala. Elspeth had never been able to get close enough to get the kind of information that Neala was here to retrieve, but it was thanks to her and those like her that the Sparrows had managed to succeed in as many ways as they had for as long as they had.
Now, it was Neala's job to tip the scales in their favor for good.
Elspeth waved her on without a word, and Neala hurried off toward the great hall. She still had a job to do.
Neala stood over the wide puddle of dark, sticky blood that had leaked into the spaces between the stones making up the floor, fighting down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. She had watched James O'Sullivan's death—hisexecution, no matter how armed he had been—from the dark shadows of the throne room, and though she knew that O'Sullivan had been a monster, watching him die was haunting her. She had grown up in the relative safety of the White Sparrows' training base. Though she had treated the wounded and experienced the deaths of some friends secondhand, there was something different about the cold way that O'Sullivan's life had ended right in front of her eyes.
She kept picturing the desperate look on the man's face as he realized that his king was about to order his death, and she shuddered. Had that been how her father looked when he had been murdered? Surely not. But no matter how much of a monster O'Sullivan had been, the last thing he had spoken of was his daughter. He had been human, now dead to this endless war, just as so many had died before him. How so many more would die if Neala was not able to do her job and gather the information they needed to help the rebellion win once and for all.
She glanced toward the throne and the seat next to it, her eyes on the cloak still draped over it, thinking of the words that O'Sullivan had urgently told the False King. She cursed herself for her reaction in dropping the carafe, interrupting Ashkirk's ranting about the leader of the rebels and his widening influence around the country.
Could it be? If the rebellion's leader was telling falsehoods and claiming to be a McNair, why would he not claim to be Barry, the oldest, the one who had been born to be king? Cailean had been the third son, the least known, the least important. For a second, Neala allowed herself to hope.
Then she looked back at the puddle of blood and sighed. No. She could not blame the rebellion for rallying under the McNair name, though it tore at her heart. It made sense that a pretender would choose Cailean now that she thought about it—a name important enough to gather support, but not so inflammatory as to arouse suspicion until it was already too late.
She clenched her fists, then opened them again, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth in a rhythmic fashion, working the emotion out in the way Laura and Morag had taught her, forcing herself to remain calm.
There was no way it was really Cailean McNair who was leading the rebellion, no matter how much her heart longed for it to be true. If one of her siblings had survived, any of them, then Morag or Laura would have told her. Laura had been the one who had saved her all those years ago, even though she'd been unable to save her sister, and Morag had been the one to care for the boys. They'd have known if there was any chance the others had survived, and that meant Neala would have known, too.
She picked up a small bowl of liquid tallow soap, ready to mix it with the bucket of water and then to begin the gruesome task of removing O'Sullivan's lifeblood from the floor.
"It'll take a lot more than soap and water tae remove all of that," a male voice said in low, quiet amusement. Whoever was speaking was so close that he must have been standing right behind her, his voice next to her ear.
Startled, Neala spun in place, dropping the bowl in her haste, and took a few steps back, narrowly avoiding the pool of blood.
He caught the bowl easily, looking down at it for a moment, shaking his head, then offering it back to her. "Ye willnae last long if ye keep droppin' things like this, Abby. That's yer name, aye? I think that's what I heard ye tell me father."
Neala blinked, shock keeping her temporarily frozen in place. Ansel Ashkirk stood before her, tall and rugged with a shadow at his chin rather than being clean-shaven, his short dark hair still showing its waves. He was undoubtedly handsome and very similar in appearance to his father, but different enough to be intriguing. While Edric's eyes were pale and watery, Ansel's were a fascinating shade of green with flecks of bright gold, drawing anyone's gaze just by looking in their direction.
Everything about him radiated power and strength, and though Neala was no coward, she felt part of herself shrinking back. Though he was talking affably, something was undoubtedly threatening about his stance and the sharpness of his features. She could not shake the fact that the last time she had seen him, he had killed an armed man with basically no effort whatsoever.
"Yer… yer Highness," she stammered, remembering herself just in time, taking the bowl back with a nod of thanks.
How had he managed to sneak up on her? She had spent her whole life training in stealth; he shouldn't have been able to get so close to her without her noticing. Was he truly that skilled, or had she just been foolish enough to let herself get caught up in her thoughts? She had the uncomfortable feeling that it was a mixture of both, and she internally scolded herself for her foolishness. She could not allow herself to get distracted like this, not now. Not when her revenge was so close at long last.
Ansel tilted his head curiously, examining her like a bird of prey. Her eyes focused on the long scar along his jawline, and she wondered exactly how he had managed to be wounded in such a way. How many battles had this man fought? "I asked ye yer name."
"Ye had it right," she replied quietly, placing the bowl carefully on the floor next to the bucket. "Abby. Abigail, if ye prefer." It had been her only sister's name, and she had claimedit to protect herself, holding her family close as a talisman as she understood this dangerous mission.
As she lowered the bowl, she caught sight of the blood again, and she shuddered.
Straightening up, she saw Ansel's expression, which was even more intensely focused on her. He was clearly studying her, trying to understand something that was puzzling him.
"Ye've never seen a man die before, I take it?" the prince asked her.
"I've never seen a man murdered before," Neala replied sharply before she could stop herself.
Ansel did not look offended. If anything, he looked more interested in her answer. "James O'Sullivan was not murdered. I gave him a sword. I gave him a chance tae fight back. He failed."
Neala disagreed heartily. What she had witnessed was no less than a slaughter at the king's command, no matter what Ansel might say. However, she had managed to collect herself enough to know that arguing would not only be pointless but dangerous. She was supposed to be keeping a low profile, and being a good, obedient maid. It was imperative to her mission, and she could not let herself forget that just because the talk of her supposed brother had thrown her off.
So, instead of replying, she simply bowed her head. "Forgive me. It was… much tae witness."
When she looked up again, Ansel was nodding. "Death is a sight that is difficult for many, Abby," he told her almost conversationally. "But perhaps this isnae the place for ye if it is gonnae affect ye so much. I could have ye reassigned somewhere more gentle. Many of the maids prefer tae go elsewhere after a short time. Service under me father can be… difficult, especially once he has taken notice of ye."
Alarm shot through Neala as she realized what he was suggesting. He was planning to send her away from CastleBlackthorn, and her mission would be over before she had even managed to achieve anything.
"I can adapt quickly," she told him. "I havenae lived all these years as a servant without kennin' how tae make meself intae the person my betters need me tae be."
