Ansel smiled. "I ken. As I say, I'm tryin' tae change it, little by little. They say the original McNair library was a sight tae behold, filled with books and stories from all over the world. Of course, most of those tales were burned away in the flames twenty years ago, and the library itself was mostly destroyed as well. This room was rebuilt from the ashes upon my command, but it's been very slow to be refilled."
Neala could imagine it. She could picture how warm and beautiful this room had once been, and how filled with wonder.She imagined her sister, the real Abby, cuddled up on their mother's lap while she read a story. Little Graham, making too much noise while he was being taught to read by a despairing Morag. Barry, by the fireplace while his father read out their family's history, being instructed on how to be king.
Her family had been alive here once. This whole castle had been alive. Once. Before the False King had burned all that life away.
Neala steeled herself, knowing that she could not allow herself to get lost in emotion. She was running out of time to get the information she needed, and here she was now, alone with Ansel, surrounded by records that might be invaluable. She needed to get something out of him while she still could.
"The rebels will be here soon. Today, maybe, or tomorrow at the latest. Are ye nay worried they may burn the library all over again?" she asked as casually as she could muster.
Ansel gave her a piercing look. For a moment, it seemed he wouldn't answer, but eventually, he did. "They're nae threat tae us. Firstly, they willnae attack the castle. They simply will try tae overcome what they believe are simple soldiers in trainin' and claim the place as their base, but there's nae way they'd destroy this place. Their leader is too sentimental."
Neala dropped her gaze, pretending to be examining a book, careful to not let him see her expression. "Their leader? Why would he be sentimental? Yer father says he is a false McNair."
"Hmm," Ansel agreed in a flat tone that gave nothing away. "Indeed. That's what me father believes."
Anxiety spiked in Neala at the implication, her blood pumping faster. Did Ansel suspect the truth? What did that mean? What did it change? She quickly got her heartbeat and breathing under control, using the techniques that Laura had taught her.
"Besides," Ansel went on, apparently not noticing her reaction, "They willnae get near the castle, regardless. As soon as their army is in sight, we'll activate the catapults. I'm sure ye saw them along the walls."
He led her over to another shelf as a knot tightened in Neala's stomach. Ansel pulled out a collection of sketches and lay it down on a desk, opening it up and beckoning her over to see. Neala obeyed, and there they were—the catapults she'd noticed on the battlements, vividly drawn to emphasize their deadly power. There were scribbled notes beside the drawing, indicating the use of flames and burning oil to make them even more dangerous.
Neala swallowed. "Ye'll wipe them out."
"That's the idea," Ansel agreed idly. He spoke not like a bloodthirsty warmonger, but more like a scholar grappling with a particularly difficult theory. "I will say, if the McNairs had employed such weapons twenty years ago, it's likely me father would have never stood a chance, even with all of the conspirin' he had done beforehand."
She moved forward, hiding the shaking in her hand, and flipped to another sketch, then another. The battle plans were more detailed than she had ever dreamed.
"These are… well-thought-out," she said after a moment. "And artfully explained."
Seeming pleased, Ansel replied, "Thank ye for noticin'. I tried me best. I believe there should always be beauty, even in warfare." He tilted his head to the side. "Would ye like tae see somethin' else?"
Part of Neala screamed inside her. She didn't want to see anything else. She didn't want to know anything else. She couldn't bear it.
And yet, instead, she forced a smile on her face. "Please," she agreed.
Ansel took her hand so casually that it felt like he'd done it a thousand times before. Despite her mounting horror, her hand still felt all-too-comfortable in his. He led her to the far end of the library, and pushed a switch behind a book. One of the shelves immediately began to move, slowly opening to reveal a hidden door.
Neala stared, stunned by the reveal. "How many hidden doors have ye got spotted around this castle?" she demanded, thinking of the one in her own room.
The prince laughed. "There are a few. Many of them were already here. The McNairs loved their secret passageways. This is one of them; the queen used it tae store her secrets. It survived the flames, but I had it reinforced."
He pushed open the door, and she followed him inside. Neala turned back to close the door behind them, but Ansel caught her hand and stopped her.
"Dinnae do that," he warned. "If the door closes, it can only be opened from the outside. One of me men is under orders tae check this room once every two days just in case of accidents, but, while I enjoy yer company, I dinnae think bein' trapped in here would be a good use of our time."
Neala drew back from the door, swallowing slightly at the thought. If she'd have trapped them in there… what would have happened next?
She forced her thoughts away, instead examining her surroundings.
And froze.
There was very little in the room, but it was dominated by a large metal chest emblazoned with a depiction of a bird in the woodlands.
"A capercaillie," Neala whispered.
"The symbol of the McNairs," Ansel agreed. "I always found it an interestin' choice. The chest was already here when Idiscovered this room as a bairn, and I never told me father about it."
Spellbound by the sight, Neala stepped forward and slowly opened the chest. Ansel didn't try to stop her. Inside was filled to the brim with various items—scrolls, books, sketches, pressed herbs, small statues, even a few toys. Many of them were decorated with the symbol of the capercaillie.
