Dragonfly Maid

by D D Croix

  “Shouldn’t you? That’s what Mrs. Crossey…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes went wide as she noticed my dirty skirt and arms. “What happened to you?”

  I stared down at the stains. “I fell.”

  Why was she so curious? She’d never taken an interest before.

  “But how did it happen?”

  I stared at her, unable to concoct a plausible excuse. Instead, I changed the subject. “What did Mrs. Crossey say?”

  Frustration clouded her sky-blue eyes, but she let it go. “She sent me to fetch you. Just after Mr. MacDougall pulled her into his office for a private word. He didn’t look happy, and neither did she when she came back. Are you in trouble?”

  “I don’t know.” And truly I didn’t. “Did he say something?”

  “Not to me. They don’t tell me anything.”

  I gnawed my bottom lip. Would she tell me if she could? I had no reason to think so.

  “I’d have a care if I were you,” she added. “It isn’t wise to test Mr. MacDougall’s patience, not unless you… you know.” She pulled her thumb across her neck and stuck out her tongue, mimicking a corpse.

  “I know.” I also knew if Mrs. Crossey couldn’t convince him otherwise, it wouldn’t make a shred of difference whether I returned to the kitchen quickly or not.

  “Then, c’mon,” she said. “Before he notices we’re both gone.”

  Why was she trying to help me? Why was she taking any notice of me at all? This was all very strange. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To get me back to the kitchen?”

  She tensed and her smile faded. “Of course, it is. If you’re let go, who knows who they’ll stick in this room. My last roommate snored. I don’t want to go through that again. Now, are you coming or not?”

  The smart thing to do would be to go with her, but still I held back. What if she asked more questions? What if I let something slip?

  “You go ahead,” I said. “I need to change.” I brushed at the dirt along my side, but it didn’t do any good.

  Her nose wrinkled. “I guess an apron can’t even hide that. Don’t take too long, though.”

  When she closed the door, I breathed more easily, though I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. I still had to face Mr. MacDougall.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I entered the Great Kitchen to find Mr. MacDougall standing at the center of the room, announcing the evening assignments. We were all expected to attend these daily meetings—from the head chef, to the legion of cooks, bakers, and confectioners who reported to him, to the kitchen and scullery maids, including myself.

  I bent my head and kept to the perimeter, weaving past the long row of stoves and worktables until I came to the corner where I helped Mrs. Crossey prepare the servants’ daily meals.

  She was standing over a tall copper pot, pouring in a stream of pearl barley with one hand and stirring with the other.

  “What did I miss?” I whispered when I came up beside her, catching the scent of her savory soup.

  “A bit of drama, to be sure,” she whispered back. “The Royals want a private dinner alone with the children. Chef is beside himself.”

  It was no secret the head chef, a Frenchman with an affinity for fussy meals, had been working on a welcome home feast for well over a week. Pears and plums had been soaking in barrels of imported rum for days, molded cakes and pies were being assembled in the pastry room, and a beef shank was turning on a spit in the largest of the kitchen’s hearths.

  The man was pacing in front of it, spewing an angry stream of foreign invectives.

  “Of course, I share your disappointment.” Mr. MacDougall stood to his fullest height and stared down his nose at the chef. “But do not forget, we serve at Her Majesty’s pleasure, not the other way around. Perhaps some of your delicacies might be reserved for the masquerade ball?”

  The man wheeled on the House Steward. “Bal masqué? Quel bal masqué?”

  Mr. MacDougall swallowed, making his Adam’s apple dance. “Surely, you’ve been consulted, Chef. It’s to be held Friday next.”

  “Mon dieu!” The Frenchman turned on his heels, threw up his hands, and spewed a fresh stream of French insults at the roasting carcass. Then he stormed out of the room, nearly splitting the swinging door in two as he went.

  It wasn’t the first time those in charge of the kitchen hadn’t been apprised of an important event. Though the Lord Chamberlain and his staff planned and organized most of the castle’s ceremonies and special occasions, orders to the kitchen staff and servants were handled by the Master of the Household, who delegated the duty through a long line of underlings. Sometimes the pertinent information was relayed in timely fashion, sometimes it was delayed, and other times it never trickled down at all.

  Cynics blamed territorial grudges and strategic undermining, but it was easy to see how information could slip through the cavernous cracks of the castle’s convoluted hierarchy.

  Truly, it was no wonder Prince Albert wanted to simplify the mess with his efficiency campaign. It was just unfortunate that so far the only simplifying was dismissing the maids, pages, and footmen who merely took the orders, and not the legion of managerial deputies and assistants who gave them.

  But if that particular injustice had dawned on Mr. MacDougall, he didn’t show it as he smoothed his wiry eyebrows before turning and scanning the room, meeting every eye, daring anyone to speak. He stopped when he saw me.

  “Jane Shackle,” he growled. “Where have you been?”

  I looked at Mrs. Crossey. She looked away. I searched for Marlie two tables away. She was absorbed in removing a bit of grime from under her fingernail, conveniently ignoring my distress.

  I was on my own.

  “Me, sir?” My voice cracked and I hid my hands to hide the gloves that, despite my efforts with water and cloth, still bore the signs of my earlier struggle. “I’ve been right here.”

  I might have flushed at the lie, but I’d done so much of it today, I was growing rather used to it.

  Mr. MacDougall frowned. “I will have a word with you in my office. Now.”

  I sent Mrs. Crossey a pleading look.

  She nudged her chin forward ever so gently. Go, she seemed to say.

  As if I had choice.

  Since I was closest to the corridor that led to his room, I approached it first. And for the second time that day, I steeled myself for what awaited me. I was preparing for the worst when I opened the door to let myself in.

  “You?”

  My head shot up to find Lucas Wyck already within and staring back at me from the chair where I’d sat only a few hours before. He jumped to his feet and appeared to be as troubled by the sight of me as I was of him.

  Mr. MacDougall came up behind me.

  “Mr. Wyck,” he grumbled. “Why are you here?”

  The stable hand doffed his cap and dark hair tumbled over his forehead, partially eclipsing his view. “I was hoping to have a word, sir.”

  “Not now.” Mr. MacDougall’s tone left no room for negotiation.

  Mr. Wyck dropped his chin to his chest. “Of course, sir.” He moved around the chair and approached the door, and in doing so came within inches of me.

  The usual fear of human contact gripped me. I recoiled. To avoid looking him in the eye, I stared at his hands. Surprisingly smooth and clean for a man who worked in the dust and muck of a stable all day.

  “Is something wrong, Jane?”

  Mr. MacDougall’s words jolted me. I realized I was still staring where Mr. Wyck had been though he was already out the door and down the hall. I wrapped my arms over my chest in defense against the prickly feeling that gripped me. “No, sir. It’s just rather cold in here.”

  The House Steward sneered. “You’ve obviously spent too much time at the ovens. It’s a bit warm for my taste.”

  Not surprising, I suppose. And it likely explained why that monstrosity of a fireplace was always dark. The man was a walking icicle.

  Instead of
complaining, I tried to focus on something besides the goose flesh on my arms. My attention flitted from his desk to the burgundy rug beneath me, its pile matted and frayed by the boot heels of every sullen servant ever summoned to this room.

  “Sit down,” he demanded as he moved behind his desk, checked his appearance in the oval mirror, and settled into his leather chair.

  I moved toward the seat Mr. Wyck had vacated, then thought better of it and settled into the other. I regretted it immediately. From this vantage point, the dragon heads in the mantelpiece seemed to stare at me over Mr. MacDougall’s shoulder, their snarling mouths and sharp teeth a fierce if silent warning.

  He leaned back and rubbed his jaw with his skeletal fingers. “You know, Jane, I’m not sure what to make of you.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Why was he scowling at me like I was an insect he wanted to crush?

  “I mean, why are you here?”

  Because Mrs. Crossey stopped me from leaving. Because a tree attacked me. I couldn’t say these things, of course, not without sounding like a lunatic. “I was recommended by my schoolmistress, if you’ll recall.”

  He stared, as though deciding whether I was telling the truth. “And that’s all?”

  “What else could there be?” The instinct to run clawed through me again, but this time I didn’t budge. I knew he wanted me to leave. I could feel it like fire beneath my skin and it made me suddenly determined to stay. To spite him, if nothing else. I crossed my ankles, clasped my fingers, and returned his stare.

  He seemed on the verge of saying something then stopped and glanced away. After a long moment, he muttered, “Let’s be clear: I’ll be watching you. Closely. Now return to the kitchen.”

  I rose before he could change his mind and made my way to the door.

  As I hurried to put distance between me and that man, I thought about what Mrs. Crossey had said. If you stay, I can protect you. I wasn’t so sure. She might be able to protect me from whatever lurked beyond the castle wall, but I feared the greater danger was staring daggers at me from behind that desk.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When I returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Crossey was at the worktable, cutting a beef roast into chunks with her cleaver. She saw me and jutted her chin at the pile of onions, carrots, and celery beside her. So, it was to be stew in the Servants’ Hall this evening. Without a word, I pulled a knife from the caddy and grabbed a fat onion.

  “Careful of the paper there.” She pointed to the magazine pushed to the table’s corner at my end. “I’m trying something new from Mrs. Beeton.”

  Mrs. Beeton was Mrs. Crossey’s favorite columnist in the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.

  “What’s it call for there in the list of ingredients? One pint of beer or two?”

  I leaned over to read it. “Just one.”

  “Suits me.” She grabbed one of three pints beside her and took a quick, satisfied swallow.

  When she saw my grin, she wiped her mouth and set down the bottle. “What? A good cook always checks the quality of her ingredients. In any case, I hope you agree the change is necessary.”

  My stomach clenched, and I nearly lost my grip on the knife. “What change? Mr. MacDougall didn’t mention anything about a change.”

  She gave me a puzzled sort of look. “The change in duties, of course. Collecting the firewood for the Queen’s room.”

  “He said nothing of it. He’s giving me char duties?”

  “Shh!” She waved away curious glances shooting our way. She leaned in, and I caught the lingering smell of tobacco and beer on her breath. “Not permanently and not entirely. Just an hour or so a day. It’s a good thing.”

  I snorted and probably used more force than was necessary to chop the onion in half and trim its ends.

  She took up her bowl full of meat and turned to the stock simmering on the stove behind us. Carefully, she laid each chunky bit into the pot. “You won’t do much good if you’re stuck down here all day.”

  But I didn’t want to leave the kitchen. At least here I didn’t have to speak to anyone but Mrs. Crossey. I didn’t have to be careful about what I said or did. I could keep to myself.

  And char duties? It ranked even lower than scullery maid. Or was that the point? Instead of firing me, he was demoting me. It didn’t matter that I did more than just clean and stock Mrs. Crossey’s station as I was assigned. I cleaned and cut the vegetables, measured out the flour and salt, even helped with the biscuits when she let me.

  It was extra work, sure, but I hoped it would lead to something better.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she reprimanded. “This will allow you to move around more freely. And to move around upstairs.”

  My knife stopped mid-chop. “What difference would that make?”

  “Come now. Isn’t it obvious?” At my blank look, she shook her head. “When you’re up there, you can use”—she raised her hands and wiggled her fingers.

  So that was her plan? She wanted me to wander the castle in search of visions? I shook my head.

  Her lips tensed in an angry line. Still whispering, she said, “You would prefer to stay down here and allow the Queen to be attacked?”

  She practically spat the words, as though I should be ashamed. But why? I had nothing to do with these Guardians, or whatever they were. I was a girl hounded by visions I didn’t want who just wanted to be left alone. I stared at the onion in front of me, at the knife, at the constellation of notches and stains in the wood. I stared at anything so I wouldn’t have to meet the stare searing into the side of my skull. I wanted to tell her that, but I already knew the argument would get me nowhere.

  Instead, I took what I hoped was a more practical approach. “My gift doesn’t work that way,” I said with strained control. “I see the past, not the future. Even if I wanted to do what you’re suggesting, I couldn’t. It’s impossible.”

  She set down her copper bowl with a clatter. “I don’t believe it is impossible. Of course, we won’t know for sure until we begin your training.”

  My head shot up. My forehead wrinkled. “What training?”

  “Training that will help you learn control, for one thing. We’ll begin tonight. The sooner, the better, all things considered. Meet me in front of Mr. MacDougall’s office at midnight.”

  Midnight? She couldn’t be serious. “I’ll be sleeping.”

  She picked up a cleaver and a head of celery, and the blade landed with a thud, separating the white heart from the green stalks. “I understand it’s a sacrifice, but it’s necessary.” She gave me a look that drained my blood. “And not just for the Queen’s sake. Also for your own.”

  I was about to challenge the point, but I stopped at the sound of footsteps behind me. I turned to see Mr. MacDougall approaching, his usual grimace aimed directly at us.

  “Is everything satisfactory, Mrs. Crossey?”

  She set down her cleaver and wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, I believe it is. Jane and I were just discussing her new duties.”

  He skewered her with stony eyes. “As I mentioned, I don’t believe we’ll need to go to that trouble.”

  She pulled her lips into a saccharin smile. “But it’s absolutely no trouble at all. Is it, Jane?”

  I didn’t want to agree, but the look on her face gave me no choice. I shook my head.

  His scowl deepened, and I knew he was envisioning all manner of violence against me.

  “And since we’ve been so productive this morning, there’s no reason she can’t start this very afternoon.”

  “Today?” Mr. MacDougall and I blurted in unison.

  Mrs. Crossey clasped her hands at her chest. “Absolutely. I think it would be for the best.”

  “I’m sure she isn’t ready.” The tightness in his voice caused a few nearby heads to turn.

  “She’s as ready as she’ll ever be.”

  How could she speak of me this way, as though I wasn’t standing right in front of her? “Don’t I get some say i
n this?”

  A strange calm came over her, and she crossed her arms in the way Headmistress Trindle would when she was struggling to control her temper. “Of course you do, dear.” She stared at me, eyes widened, waiting for me to continue.

  I shifted. I had her attention, but I had no idea what to do with it. “It’s all happening so fast,” I blurted. “Could we start tomorrow at least? So I can prepare myself?”

  Mr. MacDougall’s long and spindly forefinger shot up. “Yes. Good idea. No reason to rush things. Perhaps a week would be better.”

  I knew why I didn’t want to do it, but why didn’t he want me to do it? Why was he acting so peculiar?

  “No,” I said. “I think a day should suffice.”

  Mr. MacDougall scowled at me, but Mrs. Crossey grinned. “Very good. Then it’s settled. We’ll begin tomorrow.”

  I waited for Mr. MacDougall to object, but he only gritted his teeth. “Tomorrow then,” he snapped. He turned on his heels and stalked away.

  Across the room, I could hear him bellow for Abigail, and for a moment, I almost felt sorry for her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The rest of the afternoon and early part of the evening passed in a flurry of vegetable peeling and chopping, washing, and the usual clangor of a kitchen in the throes of preparing meals for the royal family, their guests, their household, and the legion of officers and servants who attended them. Though I was trying to keep my mind on my work, I wasn’t succeeding.

  Somehow Mrs. Crossey and I managed to assemble the servants’ evening meal although she’d found fault with the dice of my carrot and the cleanliness of my station. My visits to the pantry were too long for her liking, and I’d handed her sugar when she’d requested salt—twice. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been roundly reprimanded, but today she only sighed and shook her head.

  I would have preferred the reprimand.

  At a lull in the activity, I gathered the last of the bowls and utensils we had used and delivered them to the washing maids while Mrs. Crossey tended to the pots on the stove. When I returned, I took a steaming kettle, poured some of the boiling water over my cutting board, and scrubbed away the vegetable residue with a stiff-bristle brush.