Chapter 4 #2
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 claimed it 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 Castle Blackthorn, 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."
"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 prince by 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.