The thrill of killing was addictive.

The days after the guards' death passed quietly, with my only duties being to carry in the freshly butchered meat for cooking and do the odd heavy-lifting the maids couldn't manage.

I avoided Geoff at all costs.

We would not be friends any longer, I decided. I couldn't be friends with a murderer.

And yet the memories consumed me.

The blade slicing the guard's throat, the hot blood spurting out like a fountain and soaking the grass. The way the second guard slumped dead atop me, the weight of his lifeless body bearing down on mine. Each time the thought entered my mind I would press my lips together, close my eyes. A dark ache would curl deep inside me.

I was thirsty.

I needed more.

Geoff was no help in alleviating my struggle. The more I ignored him, the more he taunted me. He would steal vegetables in the kitchen with his back turned to everyone except me. He would smirk at me as he placed a dart in Coopers' cot, so that the old man howled as he lay down and charged about the room, demanding to know the culprit.

He had no fear of me whatsoever.

It was infuriating.

At last, I approached him outside the kitchen one morning as he scrubbed the washtubs alone. He'd removed his shirt and the hardened muscles of his arms and upper chest rolled fluidly beneath his flesh.

He looked content, peaceful even, scraping slime from the bottom of a tub in the heat. I gnawed on my tongue and before I could stop them, the words bubbled over.

"Who's next?"

He looked up, still smiling. Still content. "Who's next for what?"

"Who will be the next to die?" My voice was steady, deliberate.

He lowered the sponge, a grin appearing as he leaned back. Sweat shone on his brow in the sunlight. "You want to kill again."

"Don't smile at me, you wretched hog."

Geoff stood, swinging his shirt over one muscled shoulder. "You want to. You must, or you wouldn't be here." He was so triumphant I wished I could kill him for a moment. But then I would be all alone.

We stood together by the kitchen door and watched the maids scurrying about, their arms loaded with ingredients for a stew and wood for the cooking fire. He pointed out a small brunette and let me observe her for a moment.

"That one," he said.

"No."

This irritated him, I could tell. "Why not?"

I didn't feel like explaining. "Not a girl," I said, my eyes stuck on the growing fire.

"Why?"

I could imagine the scene with no difficulty, a big, burly man like Geoff dragging his helpless victim deep into the woods. Silencing her sobbing screams with his knife. He'd enjoy himself, be aroused, perhaps. That was the way of the world. The strong picking off the weak.

"She's innocent," I said finally, muttering the words between barely-open lips.

He scoffed.

I spun back, my boots kicking up dust as I faced him. "The guards had to die, aye? We had to kill them to save ourselves. Even God smites for the greater good."

"So that's what you're doing? Cleansing the world of sin?"

I pushed away from him and stalked off. The hens flapped their wings and squawked at my feet. The hot air was stifling, heavy with the stench of blood, gripping me like a hand at my throat. Geoff shrugged on his tattered shirt and followed me.

"I'll leave it up to you then," he said. "Who do you want to die?"

He was already pictured perfectly in my head, this faceless candidate. "A man," I said. "Older. He has some power. Money. He can hurt anyone he likes and get away with it. He's a deviant. Fucked in the head."

Geoff smirked, amused. "Is this a specific fellow?"

Only every man to ever touch me.

"No," I whispered. The morning breeze brushed my hot skin and I shivered.

"My father's brother was that way. He used to lie with the goats. He had a favorite, Daisy. Said the goat's cunt was better than-"

"Enough." I waved my hand. "Teach me how to kill someone with a knife."

Geoff paused. "There are several options," he said. "Slitting the throat, of course. It's quick. Do it correctly and you're guaranteed he won't recover. You could stab the chest or up under the ribcage. My favorite method is a tad on the dramatic side."

Again, that twinkling grin. He was surely a lunatic.

"And what's that?" I said, keeping my words clipped.

He reached for his belt of hanging pockets - this time I knew what was inside - then stopped, fingers lingering on the leather. "Keep walking," he smiled. "You wouldn't want to be seen with me."

Something in his dark eyes filled me with unease, but I turned and walked further away from the kitchen, past the wooden chicken coop and toward a slim row of perfect trees bordering the courtyard.

A few seconds passed before the knife cut through the air. I felt it ruffle the short hair an inch from my scalp and the next thing I knew, it was stuck dead center in the tree's bark.

I stumbled sideways with a pained gasp, too much weight coming down on my ankle. I'd tried to be careful with it the past few days but it hadn't quite healed.

"Damnit," he smiled. "I missed."

My lips moved wordlessly, too stunned to speak.

He pointed at the tree. "That notch there." It was perhaps a hair's length away from the blade. "I missed it."

I narrowed my eyes and curled my fist around the handle. "Look," I said, giving it a tug. "I'm not going to be tossing sharp things about any time soon. So let's just stick with throat-slitting, shall we?"

Before I could do anything he clenched my wrist. "You'd need to get close," he whispered. I could smell his breath and leaned away sharply. "I don't think you could handle that."

The more I thought about it, the more right he sounded. I was a coward. But now I'd been challenged. I looked him in the eye, trying to make myself seem confident. "You don't know shit about what I could handle."

"Do it then," he said, his hand loosening. "Cut my throat."

He couldn't be serious.

It must've been a test - he was trying to see me back down.

He wanted to see me fail.

Or was he really that deranged?

I studied the knife in my hand, rotating it and remembering the dark, rich tint of red on the blade. Remembering the taste of it in my mouth, taking over my senses. The energy I'd felt.

Could I do it? Could I kill a man standing still before me? I wanted to.

A sweeping rush of rage coursed through my blood and my arm whipped out, swiping blindly with the blade.

In a flash, Geoff's hand came up and blocked mine with a hard hit, knocking the weapon from my grasp.

I watched it hit the ground, the dust stirred.

Christ on a stick.

"The problem with getting close," he said, placing a hand to steady his aching back as he stooped for the knife, "is how easily someone can disarm you." He tipped the blade toward my chest. "Now this is mine to use against you."

I shuddered as I felt the knife's cold point press into the thin material of my shirt. I kept my eyes on his.

"I'll get it back," I said.

"Is that so?"

Perhaps when he slept. I'd sneak to his cot and draw it out from under his pillow. Or when he undressed to wash. Somehow.

I would have it in my hand again.

🦢•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢

That afternoon Geoff took me exploring.

We watched the linen underclothes soak in the laundry vat and peeked into the steward's quarters. He had fallen asleep at his desk, quill in hand and ink leaking down his sleeve. Ignoring my concerns, Geoff crept in and transferred the gentleman's hat onto his own head.

"I am the O Mighty Steward," he said, making the heels of his boots clap as he skipped down the hall. "Get back to work, you scum!"

Some of the maids looked up but returned their eyes to the ground within a heartbeat.

"What do you think you're doing?" I hissed.

"Auden, my dear lad, I beg of you to live a little." He took off the hat and dropped it onto my head. I had to readjust it to see.

"Living's what I aim to do. You seem pretty damn set on getting us killed."

"Better to live free and die young."

"No-" I started, but he had already skipped off. I sighed and tossed the steward's hat to the ground before following.

He had wandered into an empty room with a long desk in back and chairs lined along the wall. The desk was stacked high with parchment.

"Let's search for important documents," he said excitedly.

"Geoff, don't."

He rifled through the stack for a moment and broke into a loud laugh. I didn't ask what he had found.

"Auden, these are positively marvelous," he said.

I scowled.

"Read this." He grabbed a handful and walked over to me. I gave the scribbling a glance before blinking away. "They're letters. Letters to the King. Begging for pardons, for tax relief... telling him how much they bloody love him, for Chrissakes. They all end up here."

My brow furrowed. "People wrote him letters?"

"Why wouldn't they?" He brushed a few to the floor and held up a single letter. "Dear Mr King: My name is Norman. I am nine. My papa is very ill and I have no ma. My papa makes shoes. Please make my papa better so he can keep making shoes. He says you grant wishes if we are good, Mr King. I am very good. I do all my chores and pray every night..."

"You should put those back." I had the same feeling as just before he almost sent a flying knife into my skull.

"My papa works very hard- Christ. I'd like to raise the pig from his death and kill him all over again."

"Let's just get out of-" I stopped short as I locked eyes with the boy in the doorway.

In the dusty gray of the room, color surrounded him. Bright red curls. A gold and purple patterned coat with intricate design. And white. White skin, white stockings.

Oh God.

Too terrified to do anything else, I nudged Geoff frantically until he turned around.

I knew exactly who the boy was.

The Prince.

The one Geoff had called a simpleton.

The one who smiled at his father's ghastly death.

His eyes were amber with flecks of green, long eyelashes brushing against his curls each time he blinked. His nose and cheeks were sprinkled in light freckles. He looked like one of those sweet-tarts Geoff had told me to buy in human form.

"Hello," I said.

At once my thoughts swarmed me like a hive of bees. Fool! Don't talk to him! Keep your eyes down!

And then the more irrational thoughts:

Run! Run! Run!

"Sorry." His voice surprised me. It was soft and wavering, not at all how I'd imagine a future king's to be. Like a melody. "I got lost." He backed up, out of the doorway, and bumped hard into a side table positioned against the wall.

The thin vase atop it was overflowing with yellow and white daisies. It wobbled violently, reminding me of the stone balcony pillar on the day of the King's death. Instead of moving to catch it, he covered his mouth with one hand and watched it shatter on the floor.

The crash made us all jump, even Geoff.

He stared back at me, wide eyes directly on mine. I couldn't pull my gaze away. I was paralyzed, unable to move, to think. His lips appeared to part in slow motion, round and trembling slightly. "Where am I?" he said at last.

From some distant place I heard Geoff say, "This is the servants' hall."

"Oh, dear," he murmured.

Geoff was watching the boy the way wolves watched their pray while circling it. I could picture him with huge dripping fangs and yellow eyes. For a moment, I thought, God, he might actually try to kill him.

"They're frightfully long, these corridors."

At last I mustered the courage to swallow my mouthful of saliva and straighten up. "Geoff here knows them like the back of his hand." I jerked my elbow in his direction.

Evident from the expression on his face, Geoff was not pleased I had volunteered him. He cleared his throat and forced a grim smile. "Of course. We'd be happy to walk you back to... your part of the castle."

"I'm so utterly foolish," the boy said. "They were fitting me my peruke and all the fuss got the better of me. I went out for a breath of air and just kept walking and walking..."

Somehow I was going to have to get my feet to move. Geoff was already leaving. He bumped me roughly as we passed through the door, making me stumble into the Prince, who, in turn, flinched away as if I'd seared him with a hot iron. Nausea rolled up my throat.

The three of us walked in silence, four heavy boots and two little heeled shoes clacking along.

Stupid Geoff. It's always his fault.

Why the hell did I keep running off with him?

I couldn't decide if I should say anything. Geoff didn't, and the silence was deafening. Perhaps there was some kind of rule about speaking to royalty. Must one only speak when spoken to? Was one permitted to speak, but only in a specific manner I was not aware of?

Either way I was doomed.

"You're dressed for Coronation, aren't you?" I said lightly, keeping my eyes pinned to the floor. Looking someone in the eye was a challenge. I wanted him to know that I feared him.

"Oh, yes, I am!" He bounced on his toes. "I'm meant to be leaving for the abbey now. I was so dreadfully nervous this morning I couldn't eat my breakfast. That was why I ran away, I think. Oh, I shouldn't have said that." He took a huge breath and clamped his mouth shut.

He looked silly like that, in a cute way. I smiled.

Don't you dare laugh, you dolt.

I glanced back up for a split second, and the boy was looking at me. He attempted a half-smile that looked more pained than anything else.

"The period of mourning was quite short, wasn't it?" Geoff asked. "Only two weeks."

"Pressure from Parliament." He waved his hand dismissively. "It would be of no interest to you."

I waited for Geoff to spout his lines about reading the newspapers and attending the meetings no one thought he could understand. I waited for him to plead a case about going easy on the working class. Instead, he fell back into silence.

"You'll, uh, you'll be great," I said feebly.

The Prince gave me a blank stare.

"At the Cor-"

"Oh! Yes."

I bit hard into my jaw and faced the floor. Bloody idiot.

Past the butlers' dining room there was another long hall, and then a wide carpeted staircase that branched into opposite directions. I followed the stairs with my eyes until they disappeared into the ceiling, leaving me feeling tiny.

Then the cloud of perfume hit.

We were swarmed within seconds by a group of finely dressed gentlemen, all in tall wigs and long swooping coats. "Sire!" They huddled around the Prince, pushing Geoff and me to the side without a glance. One fluffed his hair and another adjusted the collar of his surcoat. "We're late! Impossibly late!"

"Your robe! You must have your robe!"

"Someone send for it. Footman! Someone run and retrieve the robe."

"I got-" the Prince started, but their complaints quickly drowned him out. They began leading him away from the staircase and he was forced to follow. He turned back, eyes searching over the dozen wigs. "What's your name?" he called. The lords clung to his arms.

I pointed at myself, uncertain, and he nodded. "Auden!" I yelled as the space between us increased.

"Your family name!"

"Murray!" I answered, embarrassed now.

"Good day to you, Mr Murray!" He turned, letting the men sweep him away, all a flurry of hands on his shoulders and walking sticks waving anxiously. Before they could round the corner he twisted back one more time, craning over their bodies, and waved.

I was stricken so weak that I could only manage to lift half my hand.

I let out a small sigh.

I'd narrowly avoided death once again. My heart felt close to giving out.

Geoff faced me with fury the moment we were alone. "What was that?" he demanded. "Why would he ask your name?"

"I haven't a clue," I said slowly, dumbfounded at his reaction. "Why does it bother you?"

"It doesn't."

"You look bothered." We had begun walking back to the servants' quarters.

"I'm not bothered, I'm perplexed. Your rank is lower than a bloody shit-shoveler. You're thin, easy to miss. There's nothing in the world special about you. Now why would a prince rushing off to become a king think to ask your name?"

I dropped my eyes to my boots. They were dirty and scuffed. Completely unremarkable, just like the rest of me. "Thanks," I muttered.

"I don't recall complimenting you."

I tried to muster a little conviction in my voice. "Geoff, I want to know the reason for all this hostility. You said yourself he's a simpleton. We'd be wasting our time trying to decipher his motives."

"I dislike him," he gritted.

Astonished, I made a grab for his arm. "You think I don't?"

He said nothing, just shook his head bitterly and walked ahead of me.

I was left behind in the middle of the open hallway, staring after him with an emptiness in my chest like my breath had been ripped out. Something was becoming clear to me, something clicking in my mind. "You bastard. You're jealous."

He paused. His back stayed to me. "Why in God's name would I be jealous?"

"You're jealous that someone important would want to talk to me, the most unimportant person imaginable, while you and your mind of glorious ideas get ignored and overlooked at every turn!"

Then he turned, with one smooth twist of his heel, so that he stood facing me, a victorious grin splayed on his lips. "Wrong."

Wrong. I faltered. "You-"

"My dear boy, you know so little of the world." His voice was cold, cruel. It made me want to drive his own blade through his heart. Watch the light leave his eyes as he coughed blood all over me.

Stop.

I shoved past him and hurried down the vacant hall, my lips pressing together as tears pricked at my eyes. I was scared. Scared of him, scared of myself. Scared of the pictures that wouldn't leave my head.

Red blood, red coats. Red blade. And now a new one.

Pretty red curls.