The nearest servants' corridor was up ahead. Warm blood pooled in her boot. She risked a glance at her footsteps. No trail of blood. That was nice. She rounded the corner, rammed her shoulder into the door, and quietly shut it behind her.
Thunderous footsteps rolled past. At least a dozen. More. In the distance were shouts to spread out and search the halls. She readied her sword, waiting. A minute later, the clamor faded. The door didn't open. She waited another minute.
Her thigh throbbed. A bit further into the corridor and set into the wall were shelves of rags, empty old sacks, and worn, drab clothes. The healers’ chambers were just down the hall. Hoping they were extra supplies, she shoved her nose in the rags. They smelled clean.
Glancing down the corridor, she stuffed a rag in her mouth, bit down, and gripped the bolt tightly. Exhaling, she pulled. A wheezed scream was muffled by the cloth.
Blood poured from the wound. Too much blood. She crammed an old scrap of a scarf against the holes in her flesh and wrapped her thigh securely. Red stained the cloth.
It would have to do. She definitely should keep her weight off the leg.
Wiping her hands on another rag, she considered a tattered dress that might reach to her ankles. If she hid her hands and didn't move too quickly, shemightpass a half-asleep guard's scrutiny.
No more disguises. She couldn't hide the blood splattered all over her hair, face, and boots.
The door opened and shut. Pain was forgotten as she pressed her back against the wall.
Two servants stood at the door. They didn't appear to have seen her yet.
A tall man looked down at a young woman, pulling her close and kissing her. The female lifted herself up to her toes and sighed into his mouth.
The amorous pair couldn’t have chosen another corridor?
They parted a few moments later. The man whispered, “I need to go… I should be watching Lord Frances’ brew. He'll be furious if it burns.”
“We never get any time anymore. Stay with me just a little while longer, please…” She touched his cheek.
His throat bobbed as their lips met again.
Frances. The name sounded familiar. Duchess Isabel had mentioned a healer by that name. She had not lied about everything. The healers were on the second floor, just down the hall.
The corridor was narrow but dim. Light shone from beneath doorways, enough that they would notice Anais if she moved. Annoying as they were, it'd be a pity to kill them.
The man leaned back. “I can’t stay. I'll see you after supper?”
Sighing, the woman nodded. “Alright.”
He only had eyes for her as he left the corridor.
The door had barely closed when Anais wrapped her arm around the woman's face and covered her mouth. The servant shrieked and struggled.
“Shh, shut up,” Anais snapped. “Be quiet, and you get to live.”
The servant whimpered but went still.
Tying up the woman's legs and wrists, Anais shoved a rolled-up rag in her mouth. Someone would find the poor girl eventually.
She slipped into the hall. There were no guards, only a few servants walking away from her. The tall man turned into a room. She followed.
The entry chamber was small with a cluttered table and full bookcase set against a wall. A strong smell filled the room. These weren't the chambers of a healer. The smell was wrong, the books were strange, the vials and containers on the table were unlike any healer’s materials she'd seen.A History of Alchemywas the title of one book. Silver-blue liquid swirled unnaturally in a bottle. Something metallic and astringent hung in the air.
She continued on to a partially open door. Movement beyond it sent her sliding against the wall. The smell became stronger, stinging her eyes.
From beyond the door, the servant spoke, “My lord! I'm sorry, I–”
“Out, out, don't get in my way, boy.”
“…Yes, my lord.”
