One week later, right at the end of the morning, the news arrived at the Criswell’s estate rather mercilessly. “Lady Ophelia has recovered and is returning to the Wharton’s estate as we speak, Your Grace.”
“What did you say!?” Alvin’s voice was loud, but it was no match for the loud bang of his tightened knuckles on the wooden desk, causing his spy at the Earl’s estate to shudder.
How could she have survived? That poison was lethal, so how did she...?
“Arnold, deliver the message to the recipient. He is to pick the rose tonight.” At his master’s words, the servant standing by the door exited the room, causing the temporary guest to raise his figure slightly more comfortably. Alvin glanced at the window, seeing the sun at its blast, covering the land with an abnormal warmth. “What a mess...”
Awkwardly, the Earl’s servant rolled one finger onto the other, his voice stuttering slightly. “About my pay-payment, Your Grace...”
“It’s on the table. Take it and leave.” The nobles hands waved through the air, causing the man to rapidly move and exit, a wide smile spread on his lips, his pockets now filled with a handful of gold coins.
Not that you will live long enough to spend it all though... Alvin never let witnesses survive unless they were crucial to his plans, or had taken his side so faithfully, being only crooked men just like him. The ones that were easily replaceable often received a hefty payment just to die on that same day since the golden coins had been coated in a poison that would infiltrate a human’s body through the minimal touch. After two days, such potent poison disappeared, leaving behind no trace of its existence - thus most believed his victims to have passed from strokes or mild diseases.
The Duke rose from his chair and pulled the curtains to the side, his eyes observing Arnold leaving the estate as rapidly as he could, riding on his favorite brown horse. It was clear he had underestimated Ophelia, how much of a menace she could truly become, taking her by a girl who was easy to deal with, easy to control - yet she’d turn into a complete liability, patiently waiting to ruin everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.
“I should’ve gotten rid of her before...” He couldn’t stop resenting his past actions, having ignored the urge within his gut the moment her figure stepped into his study, the moment her hands stole one of his apples. Surely it wasn’t just luck, it couldn’t be, but if it was, had he truly become that unlucky?
Some hours passed by like a sickening melody who seemed to never end and Gilbert found himself in front of Ophelia’s chambers, his eyes focusing on the amount of passing maids who appeared to have regained their once lost life - after all, their master would come back from the dead and so would their jobs. His hands wiped the dust out of a rather old statue as he tried to steal one of the extra keys to enter the noble woman’s room. His wounds had now fully recovered, leaving only some bruising alongside a thick set of nasty scars, but nothing that inflicted enough pain to hinder away his ultimate goal.
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“The rose needs to be picked tonight. That’s an order.” A female voice whispered but, before the assassin was able to catch her face, she’d already mingled with the overflow of maids, all carrying far too many gifts, sheets and God knew what else.
Tonight... so that bitch is coming back today, is it? Since she’d put him to bed, he’d been anxiously waiting for her alleged recovery, all just to shower her with the same humiliation he felt back then, on that dreadful afternoon. After the embarrassment she’d put him through, how could she dare die to another - not allowing him to taste the sweet flavor of revenge?
For the last week, he’d been investigating the mansion, as that was the final step of his plan that needed to be settled. Even after hearing the news of her poisoning, he knew she was far too resilient to die, as that string of hope was the sole thing keeping his resolve going forth. One of the maids tripped on her dress, or so he made her think, causing her set of folded sheets to spread across the floor. Like a morally correct man, Gilbert lowered his body, helping the young girl up.
“Thank you, John.”
“Just be careful not to hurt yourself, they just washed the floor, so it’s very slippery...” He commented, causing the girl to giggle before grabbing the large cloths and placing them back into the hay basket. With just a mere second, she was heading into Ophelia’s chambers, yet the assassin’s hand held a surprisingly pleasant treat: the key he needed to unlock her door at night.
Suddenly, his body froze, feeling an intense bloodlust fall on him. His anxious gaze flew through the corners of the building, darting from one place to another, attempting to find its source. Was he being watched? Had his disguise been compromised?
But such intense desire to kill wasn’t in any ordinary man nor woman, no, as it was a trait given solely to assassins. Someone here had killed another, someone here was just like him - a murderer compelled by their own set of twisted morals and greedy sins.
Did he send another one? Annoyed, Gilbert clicked his tongue and turned his body around, facing the task he had been given once again.
He was one of the best in the capital and his reputation preceded him - he’d helped more nobles than he could count and just with that he’d gathered a considerable wealth, which was inevitably spent in booze, women and his other addictions. They knew he was able to make certain problems disappear without leaving any proof, any trace behind except the memory of the ones who bought their death.
Duke Criswell was what some people called a regular, often hiring Gilbert for his skills even though they both despised one another - like a dog and a cat who were bound to bite each other to death if given the chance. But work was work and he couldn’t afford to be picky, especially when the debt collectors knocked on his door, eager to receive their easily spent gold.
Even then, he dismissed this lingering uneasiness meddling with his mind. If this was a competition to prove one’s value, he’d surely bring the award home.
“Bring it on, bastard...” Excitedly, his body whistled a happy song, feeling the adrenaline voyage through his body at a rapid pace, anxiety settling in, eager for night to come.