"Yer betters?" Ansel asked, his expression inscrutable. "Is that so?"
"It is, yer highness," she replied eagerly, feeling like she'd managed to catch onto something. "I would be happy tae serve ye in whatever way ye wish." She tried to add a flirtatious twist to the last words, but she had the feeling she hadn't done it particularly well. She had no experience of such things, after all.
He moved closer, towering over her, and Neala did everything she could not to take another step back. Her heart hammered as he looked her over, and she wondered what he would do—and wondered what she would allow.
"And ye truly wouldnae mind swearin' yerself tae serve a killer?" he asked softly, looking down at the blood on the floor. "After what ye have seen?"
Neala didn't know what to say. She had already sworn to serve a killer when she had taken a job here to work for the False King, after all. Instead, she resolutely shook her head.
"Hm," Ansel replied. He was so close now that she had to tip her chin up to look at him. He raised a hand, and for a moment, she thought he was going to touch her cheek. Instead, though, he pointed past her at the floor. "Does it bother ye?"
Finding her mouth and throat feeling dry, it took Neala a few seconds before she was able to force out an answer. "I… does what bother me, yer majesty?"
"Call me Ansel," he replied. "The blood, I mean. Does the blood bother ye?"
Neala sensed some sort of trap in those words. She did not know what would happen if she went around calling the princeby his first name, but she knew that it would not be good. On the other hand, she didn't dare contradict him. Instead, she just focused on the second part of what he'd said.
"Aye," she admitted because lying about it would not help anything. She had the strangest feeling that he'd be able to tell if she did. "Aye, it bothers me."
He made a "hm" sound again, then nodded, taking a step back. Neala's breath came a little easier, as though her lungs were now able to take in more air after she'd been released from some spell.
"I will leave ye tae yer work, then." Ansel paced his way across the room toward the waiting thrones, picking up the cloak he had clearly forgotten there. He strode to the door, then turned back and looked at her curiously once more. "Try yer best so ye dinnae break anythin' else, aye?" he added. A slight smirk played on the corner of his lips, and then he disappeared through the doorway.
Only when the door was closed behind him could Neala relax a little more, feeling the tension seep out of her muscles. She felt her heart rate return to normal, though her hands were still trembling. The encounter had been more intense than even her experience when Edric Ashkirk had directly confronted her before. She took a few deep breaths, trying to gather the mess of her thoughts, and turned back to the bucket and bowl.
Steeling herself, she made to kneel and return to her work, but she heard as the door swing open behind her once more. She turned, alarmed, expecting to see Ansel again, but instead, a guard entered the room, looking surly about something.
"Ye, lass, go and make yerself useful elsewhere," he ordered. "Leave the cleanin' tools."
Neala blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Ye heard me," the guard grunted. "I have been ordered tae take care of this mess."
She hesitated. "Ye? Why nae–why nae one of the other maids? Or meself?"
He shrugged. As he got closer, Neala saw that this man was young, maybe her own age. He must have grown up under Edric's rule. Did he support the False King, she wondered, or was he just another person trying to make his way in the world as it existed?
"I ken better than tae question orders," the guard told her. "If ye ken what's good for ye, ye'll learn the same lesson quickly. Now, go."
Neala nodded, understanding the undercurrent to his tone. She hurried out of the room, leaving the guard alone with the blood and the cleaning supplies, and made her way along the corridors.
She would avoid Jessie for now; she supposed that the head maid would not be happy to find that her punishment had been overturned, even on orders. She would make herself scarce in the stables, helping out with the horses for a while until it was safe to return.
As she went, though, she could not help but wonder: had Ansel been the one to order the guard to clean the mess? Had he done it because she'd said the blood had bothered her? It didn't make any sense, and the more she thought about it, the more uneasy she became.
Best to let it be for now and not overthink it. She had plenty more to focus on than the whims of the strange prince and his gold-flecked eyes that seemed to study her very soul.
5
The arrow shot across the wooden clearing, firing toward the makeshift target at top speed—and missed. It hit the tree, at least, but it was so far from the tiny marked target that Breana let out a cry of frustration. She'd been practicing endlessly over the last several days since they had set out from Bruce Castle, shooting again and again every time there was a pause in their journey, desperate to improve her skills as quickly as she could.
Startled by her shouts, the horses looked up from the small stream where they were drinking water but soon returned to what they had been doing, uninterested in her anger about the situation.
Muttering darkly to herself, Breana lifted the bow and nocked another arrow, firing it once more. It went even further afield, disappearing past the tree. Grumbling, she stormed off through the bushes, looking for the lost arrow, determined not to waste any of their resources. She found it after a few moments, sticking hard into the roots of a nearby tree, and tugged it out.
When she returned to her practice spot, she saw that Eoin had stopped what he was doing and now stood nearby. She tried to ignore him and prepared her weapon again, firing. This onehit the tree, but right next to the first arrow, again too far away from her target.
Conscious of Eoin's eyes on her back, her frustration mounting. Breana fired arrow after arrow, getting off four shots in quick succession. Only one got near the target, while the rest scattered. Her hands hurt from the string, and the icy coldness of the air today made them ache even more. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep this up.
