For a good half an hour now, Emmanuel von Grayford had been going through an instinctive feeling that he had made a colossal mistake somewhere. There was this sense of ‘something-wrongness’ that always popped up in his head whenever he did something extra stupid. Normally, he would not have paid it any heed and continued with his stupidity anyway, but today was different. Today was dangerous. Today, danger had waltzed out of its cave with a dangerous swagger and parked itself right in the middle of the Royal Palace of Triciella. The boy prince decided to listen to his instincts for once.
“Uhh, where are we going, Gail?” He cautiously began.
“To a safer place, Your Highness.” The gardener mumbled vaguely, without breaking his stride. “We don’t want you to be stuck in the middle of a terrorist attack now, would we?”
How do you even know that it is a terrorist attack— is what Emmanuel wanted to ask, but wisely refrained himself. He was beginning to feel mighty suspicious about Gail, which was, in turn, making him more and more miserable— he didn’t like being suspicious about his old acquaintances, dammit!
“….Until the rubble is cleared away from the palace grounds and the terrorists properly apprehended down to the last one, I think we should stay away from the Royal Garden, Prince Emmanuel.” Gail was saying. “I am sure that the news had reached His Majesty already. The men-at-arms under Sir Rylbert must have moved out to surround the periphery of the Royal Palace. It’s not safe to be far away from them when Sir Shawn is busy fighting that masked man, and certainly not when the enemies are probably still hiding somewhere in the vicinity of the Greenhouse. We do not know their motive after all.”
Translation: Shawn cannot do jack-didly-squat to protect you right now.
“Why?” Emmanuel blurted out before he could stop himself. “Do you not trust Shawn?”
Gail paused midway in his rambling and glanced backwards for a heartbeat. A quick flash of anger seemed to cross his face, but it smoothed away as soon as it had come. “What are you talking about, Prince Emmanuel?” he whispered, “Everyone is doing their part— the best they can do in this situation, but it’s still dangerous and unpredictable out there! Several of my colleagues from the Greenhouse have gone missing after the explosion… I have been running myself ragged looking for them! There’s utter pandemonium near the silver fountain and the golden archway! All of us are worried about the Palace staff and His Highness’ safety. We have no way of knowing when the next attack comes.”
That’s a lot of words for not answering my question at all, thought the Emmanuel. He pursed his lips and put on his best ‘I-am-a-naïve-prince’ face, the one that Shawn thought suited him perfectly in all kinds of situations— a sentiment the boy prince had to agree with great reluctance at this point.
“And what if we are ambushed right here, in the middle of the road? You couldn’t have seriously believed that the two of us alone are sufficient to ward off an enemy attack— unarmed and without any reinforcements?”
“With all due respect, such an attack is highly improbable, Your Highness.” Gail flashed a tight-lipped smile at him. “No one but Sir Shawn and Lady Winsten knows that you’re here. As far as everyone is concerned, you are still waiting in the Ice Pavilion with Sir Shawn and your fiancée, isn’t that right?”
“But that also means that even Sir Rylbert is unaware of my whereabouts right now, Gail.” Emmanuel wrung his hands nervously, but refused to let the fear show on his face. He shouldn’t have forgotten his sword in the Ice Pavilion. The lack of the familiar weight of his beloved weapon was making him itchy in his palms. “I don’t think it’s wise to be wandering alone in this part without a bodyguard or any means of communication with the men-at-arms stationed at the barracks.”
The barracks were built at the far end of the Royal Palace, on the other side of the Garden and closer to the King’s Highway. It was often easy to forget how massive the Royal Garden of Triciella had been when it was first built.
“Your Highness Prince Emmanuel.” Gail now fully turned around to face the boy prince straight in the eyes, “…Are you perhaps doubting me?”
Emmanuel abruptly stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding like a jack-hammer.
‘Deny his statement.’ He could almost hear Shawn’s voice in his head. ‘Never let the enemy believe that you are the one doubting him first. Let him think that he has the upper hand till the end.’
Enemy. His stomach churned at the word.
The prince didn’t even have to open his mouth to answer, because Gail had already dropped his act. Emmanuel saw the way his shoulders relaxed, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted in a defiant scowl. There was a slow change unravelling in the man’s demeanor now— a sudden languid cockiness about him, as if he couldn’t be bothered to offer his politeness or courtesies anymore.
You could almost feel the disinterest rolling off him in waves.
“Well, not that it matters right now.” Gail answered his own question. His voice was flippant and easygoing, a sharp contrast from his nervous blabbering just a few moments ago. It gave Emmanuel the distinct feeling of a hunter playfully toying around with his prey before going in for the kill.
“What do you mean, Gail?” The boy thought that he might as well keep up the act, but it was getting futile. Gail obviously saw no reason to entertain him any further. His hands inched towards the hidden blade strapped to the sash on his waist— loving the way the Prince’s eyes followed his movements warily.
Emmanuel von Grayford was now completely at his mercy. Oh, how Gail had anticipated this moment for the last tedious four years! The man shivered in pleasure— it was worth the effort— nothing could possibly compare to this sense of power and superiority he felt in front of a noble brat.
“Your Highness Prince Emmanuel.” He began slowly, relishing how the cumbersome title rolled off his tongue for the first time since he said it. There was a hint of apprehension in the Prince’s face, just a little hint, but it was far more amusing to look at than he imagined.
“You’ll see exactly what I mean in a few seconds. Even if I were untrustworthy, Your Highness, do you really think that anyone’s coming to save you right now?”
Emmanuel von Grayford resisted the urge to groan.
He had always liked to imagine that if he were ambushed, kidnapped or taken as hostage, it would either involve a cool, mustached man with an eye-patch, or an attractive older lady in her thirties with twin daggers strapped to her muscular waist. The man in front of him was neither— and it was a rude awakening from his embarrassing fantasies. The boy prince rubbed his clammy palm on his pants, silently wondering how to buy time for himself.
“You do not mean to bring me to Sir Rylbert after all.” He had known Gail for four years and three months, and for the first time realized that he had never looked at the man straight in the eyes after all.
The sting of betrayal was beginning to feel numb. Emmanuel decided that he liked that numbness.
Gail’s twisted smile answered everything for him. The boy prince idly wondered if he was going to die today, and then wondered why wasn’t he particularly nervous about his impending death yet. “So dramatic.” He imagined Joey saying, her eyes scrunched with blatant annoyance— and then again wondered why the devil was he wondering about Joey in the first place.
If it were Claudius, he would loudly complain about his rotten luck and waking up on the wrong side of the bed today. But Emmanuel wasn’t Claudius, and Emmanuel wasn’t one to discriminate between sides. As far as he was concerned, a bed was only meant for sleeping— sides didn’t matter as long as you did not wake up on the floor. “Ooooh, how innocent.” Claudius had teased when Emmanuel told him as much, and for some reason, his elder brother Alastair had turned away with a polite cough.
Needless to say, that this particular memory resurfaced with a vengeance when Emmanuel had finally learnt about the birds and bees. He hadn’t able to look Claudius in the eye for a good few days after that.
Anyways, the crux of the matter was— Emmanuel didn’t quite believe in luck. If his life sucked ass this particular afternoon, he would have to bear with it. Shawn must have finished his business with the masked man, and if Emmanuel knew anything about his bodyguard— it was the fact that Shawn’s ability to sniff him out in this garden was probably second to none.
------------------------------------------
The Ice Pavilion was completely deserted by the time a panting Joe and an ashen-faced Perry had finally caught sight of it. The place looked like it had got caught in the eye of a tornado and then unceremoniously vomited out of it like a parasite. The chairs were upturned, the cakes and fruits splattered against the pillars, and all their expensive ceramics lay smashed to unrecognizable bits upon the marble floor.
But that wasn’t what unnerved Joe at that moment. No— what had first her eye the second she stepped back into the pavilion— was the dark blood-red stain that spread wide along the pristine floor like an artfully painted mural. Someone had been fatally wounded and then dragged across the pavilion like a rag doll. Joe figured that it was perhaps the remnants of the fight between Shawn and his masked opponent.
Somehow, she was glad that she didn’t stay long to see the aftermath of it.
Perry, who was inspecting a shiny silver fork in her hands, casually swiped a thumb against the bloodstain like she was swiping dust from furniture. “It’s been a while since the bloodshed happened.” She glanced at Joe. “Assuming that the Prince’s bodyguard was involved in this scuffle— I’d say that we have missed him by mere twenty minutes or so.”
Classic Perry— absolutely unfazed even in the face of gory murder scenes. Joe tried to swallow down the rising nausea in her throat and quickly turned away from the bloodstain. There was a mask lying among the heap with the crockery, which she recognized as the accessory of Shawn’s opponent— the bastard of a man who’d set off the chain of events which led to ninety-nine percent of Joe’s current misery. She picked up the mask and slipped it into her pocket after a moment’s thought. Her left arm throbbed in the makeshift sling, and another throbbing began on the back of her head— which she wearily recognized as the sign of an impending headache.
“Then there’s no point in dawdling here any further.” Joe could only hope that Emmanuel had gone off in the direction she’d last seen him. She found his black sword lying against a pillar and gingerly picked it up. It wasn’t as heavy as Nero’s broadsword— the scabbard was sleet black and the hilt carved with gilded letters that were too cursive for her to read. She could only make out a “G” at one end.
Perry pocketed the fork and held up a butter knife in her hands next. “Understood. Where do you propose we search next, milady?”
“Easy.” Piped in the villainess from within Joe’s mind. “Assuming that Gail and the other perpetrators lured away your Prince from his bodyguard, I’d say they either intend to kidnap him, or take him as a hostage.”
‘Well, true’ Joe thought. ‘There’s no advantage in killing a member of the Royal family.’
“And no matter what they do, I doubt they can stay hidden for long right inside the Palace Grounds. Certainly not with Shawn Wicksmann and Rylbert Hawkins sniffing around in search of the perpetrators behind the explosion.”
Not to mention that this place is practically crawling with the palace guards.
“Which could only mean— ” The villainess drawled dramatically, “These people intend to take your Prince outside of the palace walls— possibly all the way to their hideout somewhere in the wild fields beyond. Assuming that is their plan, the first and foremost thing which they’ll need to escape this place—”
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
Joe understood the train of thought. “Horses. They’re heading to the stables, huh?”
The maid raised a single eyebrow. She wondered where that train of thought had come from, and then again wondered how the little noble girl had gotten so smart. Perry quickly discarded that idea. No— Lady Joanna was always smart, maybe smarter than people gave her credit for, but she always seemed to hide her intelligence behind scathing looks and unreasonable demands. Perry was used to dealing with that. But for the past few weeks, the distasteful girl had been becoming more and more reasonable, and the maid did not quite know how to feel about that. Yet.
“Perry?” The aforementioned Lady called softly. “Are you listening? You look like someone who’s suddenly discovered a family of cockroaches living in their closet.”
The maid wiped the nasty look off her face. In the end, how she felt about Lady Joanna mattered little in the grand scheme of things. Perry neither liked nor disliked Joanna— the brat was a troublesome part of the package that came with her job, and had to be dealt with like how you deal with dirty laundry that gets piled up at the end of the week. The maid briefly thought of her beloved paycheck, and returned her mind to more practical matters. Dirty laundry doesn’t wash itself after all.
“Paid it no heed, milady. Let us be off towards the stables, then.”
Joe nodded and followed the maid out of the Ice Pavilion, nervously stepping over the bloodstain like a skittering schoolgirl. “I hope we aren’t too late.” She wasn’t too good at this heroic business. I hope Shawn’s already caught hold of Gail and finished dealing with him before we reach there, a dark part of her mind supplied. She saw Perry quickly pocketing another table knife and several plates in the folds of her dress.
“Wait, Perry! How many of those do you intend to take?!”
----------------------------------------------
Contrary to their belief, Shawn Wicksman was nowhere near where Joe and Perry wanted him to be. To his credit, he actually did manage to see the direction Gail and Emmanuel had taken off to while he was busy trying to fend off his sneaky masked opponent. You see, the bodyguard had very quickly and cleverly surmised that Gail would be taking Emmanuel away from the Royal Palace and soldiers’ barrack, not towards them— but Gail was cleverer. Gail had led Emmanuel through a winding path through the garden, off the usual track, and successfully gotten them lost in a secluded part behind the outer courtyard.
As a result, Shawn was at present fruitlessly wandering about in the garden in search of his golden-haired Prince. He had half-a-mind to just ditch this exercise and send out a full-fledged search party for Emmanuel inside the Palace walls— but the fact that he had uncovered not one, but two traitors within the Royal staff— was sending alarm bells in his mind. If there were more spies among the guardsmen, announcing a search party would be tantamount to yelling out his suspicions for all the enemies to hear. Shawn thought he could do a better job than that, thank you very much.
The bodyguard moved through the bushes in his usual laidback gait— there was no point in stealth anymore. If anyone though they could take him on unawares, they’d be welcome to try. Shawn could do with a traitor or two, especially since he needed more information.
The first person he came upon was not who he wanted to meet right now— it wasn’t the Prince Emmanuel after all, but such thoughts were useless. Shawn gripped his sword for the fraction of a second and then quickly snatched away his hand from the hilt and bowed down before the approaching figure.
“Your Highness Lady Eleanor.”
The first princess of Triciella didn’t miss a beat. “Where is Emmanuel.”
It wasn’t so much as a question as it was a demand. Shawn kept his eyes peeled to his boots; he doubted that the Princess was making a very pleasant face right now. “I am looking for him at the moment.”
“You are his personal bodyguard.” Lady Eleanor’s voice had a barely controlled fury. “That is not what a bodyguard supposed to say.”
“Prince Emmanuel left the Ice Pavilion with Gail a few moments ago. I was preoccupied with fighting a masked intruder who I believe is one of the perpetrators behind today’s attack.” Even Shawn was aware how pathetic his excuse sounded like.
The Princess didn’t ask who the opponent was or where he got such information from. “Sir Shawn. Where. Is. My. Little brother.”
“There, there.” Came a placating voice from behind the bushes, just when Shawn was contemplating grudgingly dropping to his knees and waiting for the Lady’s fury to blow over. “You’re making things difficult for ‘im, Milady. Sir Shawn is already quite worried about Prince Emmanuel’s safety, see?”
One had to marvel the carefree disposition of Zack Matthews, Lady Eleanor’s personal attendant, who spoke to his mistress as if casually reprimanding an old friend. Either he was stupidly brave or naively stupid. Two palace guards followed him out of the bushes, presumably been left behind by her Royal Highness in her single-minded doggedness to find her little brother. But Lady Eleanor paid them no heed, for her narrowed eyes were still trained on the offending bodyguard and his usual unabashed poker-face.
A sudden wave irrational anger washed over Shawn. This is why he disliked interacting with other nobles in the Royal Palace— they all whined and yelled and stomped their feet around at the slightest provocation, instead of carefully looking at the bigger picture. He didn’t have the luxury to mollify these sheltered little brats right now. The princess was wasting his time.
“With all due respect, Your Highness, the longer we dawdle here, the more difficult it will be to find Prince Emmanuel in the garden.” The bodyguard tersely glanced up at the sky. “Evening is already upon us.”
Lady Eleanor bristled. “If you had just done your job properly—”
Her attendant stepped in between them. “Milady.”
There must have been something in Zack Mathew’s voice, because the princess abruptly stopped in her tirade, scowled, before turning away in a quiet huff. Shawn saw this as a sign that he’d been let off the hook for the time being— and promptly decided that the Princess’s attendant was now one of the top ten most sensible people in the palace, which wasn’t saying much by Shawn’s standards.
The aforementioned sensible young man flashed him a charming smile. “There you have it, Sir Shawn. In exchange, you will kindly let us accompany you in your search for the Prince, won’t you?”
Shawn blinked.
“Absolutely not.” Scratch his previous statement. This brat was an idiot.
“I do not think that Her Highness will quietly go back to the Palace though.” Zack mused. “Since we absolutely cannot have her wandering about the garden all alone at a time like this, we can only accompany her till she is satisfied with her search, yes?”
What kind of logic is that? Shawn resisted the urge to whack the brat across his face and run away to the opposite direction in full speed, but the young Princess was watching him like a hawk. ‘Do not think you can stop me here.’ her eyes were saying, and no one in their right mind would dare to convince her otherwise.
“Your Highness, Lady Eleanor.” One of the palace guards began hesitatingly. Shawn recognized him as Renaud— one of the bowmen stationed at the West tower, a subordinate of Rylbert Hawkins. “Forgive my impertinence, but venturing out towards the palace gates right now might be dangerous. I— uh, we’all have strict orders from Sir Rylbert to escort Her Highness back to the Palace as soon as possible.”
He nudged his companion by the elbow. The other palace guard, a gloomy man by the name of Louis Pratwell, snapped his head up in surprise, and upon seeing the expectant look on Renaud’s face, stammered out what he thought was a polite reply.
“Uh, err— Forgive my impertinence. Yes, what he said.”
There wasn’t much to forgive, impertinence or not, so nobody paid him much attention. Lady Eleanor gave two guards the stink eye and proceeded to face Shawn again— the only one that she apparently thought needed some convincing— and stared him down like a panther.
“You will find my brother” Was her furious reply. “And I will come with you.”
‘These two Royal siblings are more trouble than they’re worth.’ Was what Shawn thought, but managed to send a more respectable nod her way.
This was a dilemma. The princess was stubborn, her butler a nuisance, and the two-guards following them were far too untrustworthy in Shawn’s eyes under these circumstances. Renaud fidgeted with the bowstave of his longbow, and Louis kept rubbing his boot in the back of his knee from one leg to another— a nervous habit that Shawn recognized from his time training with this man many summers ago. They were supposed to be his comrade-in-arms, the men who he would have sworn to watch his back.
The bodyguard swiftly clamped down on his emotions. This wasn’t the time to get sentimental about his past. He didn’t know which of these two was a traitor (or was it two of them together—?), and he couldn’t risk the Princess’s life by sending them along her trail. That red-headed butler of hers was a lost cause when it came to any kind of combat.
Where was Sir Rylbert when you needed him the most? Shawn dragged a hand through his hair the third time in five minutes, and silently weighed his options.
He had a sneaking suspicion that the Princess wouldn’t listen to a word anyone would say, and dissuading her would only serve increase the stubbornness. And her cheeky butler probably only needed an incentive to prance around for his own amusement. He looked like he was having too much fun to care about his mistress’ safety.
“Very well.” Shawn replied in his most resigned voice. Let her think she’d won— this bratty princess. “Please do not stray too far. I will protect you from any dangers, Your Highness.” Oh, he certainly will. “We will need to go around the outer courtyard to find His Highness Prince Emmunuel, I suspect, so let us make haste.” And that, he certainly will not.
If there was someone who could convince her, it was Rylbert Hawkins. He was the captain of the order of Royal knights and that of the First Division of Triciellan Army. For all his smiles and friendly disposition, the man had a frightening knack of diplomacy and persuasion skills. He hadn’t climbed up the ranks with mere physical prowess alone.
Shawn thought of the boy Prince and steeled himself. He needed to get the Princess out of the garden before she became the next target. ‘I am sorry, Prince Emmanuel. Stay strong and wait for me.’
I would never let anyone lay a finger on you.
----------------------------------------------
The young Prince in question, however, was far from being strong, and very close to nervous bowel movements that he was sure had nothing to do with the breakfast he had eaten that morning. Gail was leisurely standing ten feet away and watching him with a disinterested expression. The boy decided to test waters.
“If we are not going towards the barracks, where exactly are we going?”
“Somewhere safer, your Highness.” Gail’s repeated his answer, an unnerving grin on his face. Emmanuel realized that he was waiting for something. Or someone. “Somewhere far away from this chaos, I assure you. You’ll be in good hands.”
They intended to smuggle him away from the Royal Palace, Emmanuel realized.
He decided to stall for time. “G-Good hands? How can I know that I will be in good hands if I cannot even trust you? Who are you working with anyway? Why are you doing this?!”
Gail’s Cheshire grin only grew larger. “You ask too many questions for someone that’s practically a hostage, my Prince.” He took a step closer to whisper in his ears, and Emmanuel caught a whiff of the strange stench of chicken-soup-and-paint that he had smelled right after the explosion. “You do not belong here, you know? We can take muuuuch better care of you. Just leave everything to us.”
That was very persuasive, yes. If Gail hadn’t been purposefully showing off the dagger strategically strapped to his waist, Emmanuel would have definitely let slip a sarcastic comment or two.
“Prince Emmanuel.” Came a husky voice from the trees behind him. “What a surprise— you’re still not knocked out I see. ‘Tis truly a pity.”
Emmanuel felt his heart stutter in his chest. He knew that voice.
Out stepped a tall figure from the cluster of cherry trees to his right, walking with a gait that screamed arrogance.
It was a man with dirty blond hair, broad muscular arms, and a silver piercing glittering on his right eyebrow. He ran a hand through his stubble, an easy smile on his face.
The boy prince made no attempt to smile back. “Thomas.”
How many familiar faces did he have to turn on against by the end of the day? How many of his old acquaintances (friends, his mind supplied unhelpfully) had been secretly waiting all along for the chance to pounce upon his back?
“I would not struggle if I were you.” Thomas purred. “We are two grown men who outnumber you two-to-one. We are more experienced in weapons and hand-to-hand combat than you, My Prince. Compared to us, you are but a child playing at make-believe swordfights.”
Once upon a time Emmanuel would have bristled at those word— he takes his swordsmanship training seriously, thank you very much— but today he felt a sadness seeping bone deep into his soul. He had known Thomas, the apprentice chef, for the last four years… puttering away in the vast Royal Kitchen from the first light of dawn, stealthily sneaking sweet snacks to Emmanuel after his long hours of tutoring, and occasionally complaining about the bossy head chef in hushed whispers when he thought no one was listening.
Had Thomas always harboured such animosity towards him? Was there a single moment that was ever genuine for them?
“Are feeling quite alright, Your Highness?” the man’s voice now had an undertone of mockery. “Are you tired? Feeling numb? Sleepy?”
“You needn’t be concerned about my health.” The prince snapped, and then immediately felt foolish. Of course these people wouldn’t be concerned for the likes of him. Judging by the way they avoided engaging in combat, it was likely that they wanted to take a hostage— in which case having Emmanuel gravely injured would do more harm than good.
But Thomas’s words were somehow unsettling. Emmanuel was certain that he was forgetting something, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“What is going on?” Gail frowned at Thomas. “Why is he not feeling the effect yet?”
The boy prince felt his heart leap into his throat. The tea and the cakes!
Drats!!
How could it have slipped his mind?! Had he been drugged?! Poisoned?
What about Joey? Hadn’t she also eaten the stuff that Thomas brought over?!
Emmanuel felt sick to his stomach. He clenched and unclenched his sweaty palms, forcing himself to breathe. Up until now, the full weight of this attack hadn’t quite settled in his gut. But now it brought forth a nasty sense of foreboding, and he felt utterly lost and useless for the first time in his thirteen years of life.
He did not want other people to get caught in the cross-fires because of him, dammit!
“So weak.” A voice inside him whispered.
From within the caverns of his mind, wisps of a certain memory slipped out to the surface. Emmanuel knew this sensation— it always came to him in bits and pieces in the most ill-opportune moments. He had been told that he had lost some of his memories of his early-childhood, but it was flashes like these that made him wary about filling those gaps. All he ever saw in those flashes was blood, flesh, severed limbs, and some more blood. His teeth felt funny and his muscles grew restless. It was always an altogether unpleasant experience— and the best way he could describe it was like lying on the ground in the way of an incoming mob of angry people, and hoping that he’d not die in the stampede.
Whenever he told his mother of these memories, she got a rather pained expression on her face. Over the years, he’d gotten better at lying to her. It was inevitable really. What’s the point of babbling about things that’d just end just hurting people he cared about?
“It’s rather annoying, but our little gift doesn’t seem to be working.” The husky voice of Thomas brought him back to his senses. Before Emmanuel could react, the man had swiftly crossed the distance between them in two large strides and snatched his right arm in a death grip. The prince winced in pain, but Thomas went on talking as if he did not even exist.
“His pulse is still normal. I gave him a strong dose, so it shouldn’t be taking this long to affect him, but…” The man scowled at Gail. “Are you sure that you gave me the right stuff?”
“I gave you what I was asked to.” Gail grumbled under his breath. “Listen, they’d told us that the probability of success was one-hundred percent with the Prince. It was our only way— what the devil did you want me to do?!” He did not react to Thomas’s hostility, but it was evident from Gail’s face that he was getting increasingly flustered about whatever screwup they were arguing on. Emmanuel guessed it might have been something like a sleeping draught or a paralyzing agent, but then immediately discarded the thought. There were special poison-testers employed in the Royal Palace, and those people were nothing to sneeze at. It had been over thirty years since the last reported death of a poison-tester in the Royal Palace. Their dedicated departments studying and developing antidotes for decades were known across the lands for their expertise in poison. Why, even the St. Clarence Academy had a separate coursework for Potions and Poisons for training the next generation of poison experts!
What was it then, that these people actually believed would get past the noses of the testers? Where did Gail and Thomas get their hands on such a draught? Or perhaps— Emmanuel frowned— one of the testers was a traitor themselves?
It was in that moment that a glass bottle swooped out from the bushes and smashed straight into the tree behind Thomas. The man jumped at the sound— the impact had sent glass shards flying around everywhere— and hastily flinched away from the tree. Emmanuel saw the opportunity and quickly yanked away his arm from the apprentice chef’s grip. There was a low string of curses coming from behind the thick bushes of azalea, which sounded suspiciously like “Dammit! I can’t believe I missed!” and another bored voice that added “Milady….next time, please leave the throwing to me.”
Both voices sounded so familiar the prince couldn’t almost believe his ears.
Thomas gathered his wits first. “Who’s that?!”
Emmanuel saw Gail nervously reach out his hand to grip at the blade hidden behind his belt.
The leaves rustled, and out stepped a familiar little noble Lady, with one arm in a makeshift sling and the other clutching on to a flimsy table knife. Her eyes shone resolutely beneath the mop of badly chopped hair, mouth pressed firm despite a bleeding lip, bruised face, a torn skirt and a broken shoe. Joanna Winsten marched right into the clearing in front of Gail (not without a slight limp in her steps), and stared down at the man almost twice her size with all the confidence of a puny goldfish.
“And now, it’s no longer a 2-against-1, I reckon.” She snapped at Gail, who looked just as dumbfounded as Thomas. “Get lost, Bushy Eyebrows.”
Emmanuel von Grayford would bet his favourite pair of boots that she’d been itching for a chance to use that nickname for a while. Incidentally, Emmanuel von Grayford had also never seen a more ridiculous scene in his entire life.
“You don’t look very heroic, milady.” Perry whispered from behind, echoing Emmanuel’s sentiments, “Who are you trying to intimidate like that?”
Unlike Joe, she had stepped out of the bushes only to slink back into the shadow of a giant cherry tree. Ignoring the two dumbfounded men (three, if you counted Emmanuel— and yes, he wanted to be counted as a man, thank you very much), she proceeded to wipe her soiled hands on a pink handkerchief, as if sneaking around behind the bushes and confronting armed arseholes was just another day of work.
'After this fiasco is over', Emmanuel thought tiredly, 'I really need to meet the chap who's been hiring the Winsten Manor staff.'