Mirelle envied her mother, for she had the gift of discourse on absolutely everything, and Mirelle remained spellbound just to listen, whereas she herself could only keep her audience listening to her so long as it required the necessity of purpose.
Suddenly, Kimbur grabbed them both firmly by the arms and held them back.
Both Mirelle and Mother turned to stare at her.
Wordlessly, Kimbur pointed at the water spilled on the stone stairwell just before them. A bucket sat to the side by the wall, yet no servant was to be seen.
Kimbur and Mirelle exchanged a meaningful look. Each morning, the three of them descended from the Ladies’ Quarters near this time. A slip on those stairs would be painful at the least, for there was water on the stairwell itself as well. Who would clean this corridor and stairwell, wondered Mirelle with ire.
“Oh, Kimbur, thank you, we can’t possibly trail our frocks down that staircase. We’ll have to take this corridor down to the Center Corridor and go down the stairwell there.” Mother lifted her black lace gown and smoothed it.
“Come along, ladies,” she said, leading the way as she turned down the opposite corridor.
“Let us hope that we meet no other such spills on our way about the Palace,” offered Mirelle. She shot a glance over her shoulder at Kimbur. Water on the stairwell. How many people had slipped and fallen to their deaths in exactly such a manner in castles? Or worse, said to have been?
Was it simply an error or was their assassin back within the walls of the Palace?