Chapter 4
"Ye're a fool, ye hear me, Abigail? A fool and a failure of a maid. Ye make me despair of the fact that ye're under me direction, lest his majesty thinks that I've somehow trained ye tae be this way!"
Neala—or more like Abigail for everyone in Blackthorn Castle—stood before the head maid, Jessie, and did not speak as she endured the scolding.
Jessie was a woman in her fifties who had been serving the False King for longer than he had even been on the throne, broad-shouldered, gray-haired, and meticulous.
She was one of the most rigid people Neala had ever known, running the care-taking responsibilities of Blackthorn Castle with an iron fist.
"It was just a carafe, Jessie. Leave her be," the nearby cook, Elspeth, said with a tutting noise. "All yer shoutin' is gonnae ruin the soup."
Jessie turned her angry eyes upon Elspeth, who met her fury with a calm gaze.
Elspeth was a plump woman in her forties who served as the second cook to the False King, and whose skill in the kitchen and standing with the other servants made her one of the few people who did not cower before Jessie's rages.
"Ye keep yer mouth shut, cook," Jessie snarled. "It's yer fault that this waste of breath is here in the first place. Ye're the one who recommended her for the job, and now look at her—destroyin' the king's property in his very throne room!"
Elspeth snorted but turned back to her cooking, making it clear she did not care enough to get involved any further. "Just keep yer voice down while ye're in me kitchen. That's all I ask." She would not defend Neala anymore; everyone knew that Elspeth only cared about her cooking and nothing else.
Jessie rounded back on Neala again. "What do ye have tae say for yerself, then, lass?"
Neala knew that she should be silent, keep her head bowed, and accept whatever Jessie had to say. But before she could control herself, the words slipped out. "It was only a carafe. And the king spoke tae me directly. He didnae seem so upset."
It was the wrong thing to say. Jessie's fury magnified, her already-ruddy cheeks turning an even darker red and puffing up, her eyes narrowing.
"Ye think that pretty face of yers will protect ye forever?
" she demanded. "Ye ken that it's the only reason that his majesty pardoned ye for yer slight.
Perhaps ye're hopin' that he'll take ye tae his bed and see ye risen in favor among us? "
Trying not to shudder at that thought, Neala didn't reply.
"Bah!" Jessie threw her hands up as if the whole thing were hopeless. "Dinnae rely on it so much, if ye ken what's good for ye. Yer bonny figure and lovely face might help ye now, but it'll get ye intae even more trouble one of these days. Ye mark me words."
"I'm tryin' tae cook," Elspeth said, a little more sharply. "Berate the lass if ye must, but take it out of me kitchen. Would ye nae be better served puttin' her tae work as punishment than wearin' out yer voice?"
Jessie shot Elspeth another glare, and she spoke as if Elspeth hadn't made a sound, though it was apparent she actually agreed with Elspeth's suggestion. "There is blood all over the great hall now. The king willnae tolerate such a mess. Ye hear me, lass?"
"I hear ye," Neala replied, more subdued now. She carefully did not glance over at Elspeth as she spoke, keeping all of her focus on Jessie. "Ye wish me tae join the lassies cleanin' the place?"
"Ye'll clean it yerself!" Jessie commanded. "At once! And try nae tae break anythin' else, ye useless thing."
With that, the head maid turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, presumably off to browbeat some other unfortunate maid. Only when her footsteps faded did Neala allow her eyes to flick to Elspeth.
The cook caught her looking and winked. No words passed between them, but Neala silently thanked Elspeth for her subtle intervention.
The cook had been 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—his execution, 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.