by D D Croix
Oh, he was expecting me to follow. “Of course.” I hobbled forward as best I could.
When we reached the castle wall gate, a tingling at my shoulders made me stop. I looked back. The trees were lost in inky darkness, but it didn’t matter. I knew someone—or something—was out there, watching me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I trudged along the East Terrace garden pathways behind Mr. Wyck, who no longer looked back to see if I followed. It was a relief, to be honest. Without the obligation of keeping up a conversation, I could try to piece together what had happened.
Not that it helped.
I remembered talking to my dragonfly when something moved among the trees. Then I’d seen those terrifying eyes.
I didn’t want to believe they were real, wanted desperately to believe they were the byproduct of an overactive imagination or indigestion.
But could it be coincidence that I’d fainted, and Mr. Wyck had appeared out of nowhere?
Hardly.
Something was going on. But what?
I was still silently debating the matter when we reached the kitchen door. When he opened it, I straightened, thanked him for his trouble, and sent him on his way.
Or tried to.
“I can’t leave you here,” he grumbled. “I should see you inside and safely to your room.”
“No.” The word was abrupt, perhaps even rude. “What I mean is, I’d prefer you didn’t.”
I couldn’t tell him I had to find Mrs. Crossey. That I had answers to demand.
He tilted his head to the side and gave me a look that said my opinion didn’t matter.
“Really. I feel fine.” Just leave already, I wanted to yell at him.
“Jane, is that you?”
A round figure barreled toward us from the dark end of the corridor. I recognized her immediately.
“Yes, Mrs. Crossey. It’s me.”
As she approached, she looked at me and lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s hardly the hour to be traipsing about with” — she lowered her voice another octave — “a young man. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t with a young man.” It was impossible to hide my mortification. “I mean, it’s all a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?”
She was mocking me.
“Not quite a misunderstanding,” Mr. Wyck piped in.
I shot him a nasty look, which he ignored.
“I found her unconscious on the Slopes, ma’am. I just wanted to be sure she got back inside. Safely.”
Mrs. Crossey smiled kindly at him, then gaped in horror at me. “Unconscious? On the Slopes?” Her hands flew to her mouth. “How did it happen? Wait, you must sit down. Come with me. Let me get you some tea.”
She gestured for me to follow her. To my companion, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Wyck. I’ll take care of it from here.”
He frowned but nodded. “I probably should get back to the mews.”
“Yes, that would be wise. Good night, now.” Mrs. Crossey shooed me toward the kitchen.
Behind me, I heard him say faintly, “Please do keep an eye on her.”
~ ~ ~
Mrs. Crossey and I were down the hall, nearly to the Great Kitchen, when I asked her plainly, “What do you know about Mr. Wyck?”
“He’s a stableboy, if I’m not mistaken.”
“But what do you know about him?”
“Nothing, really.”
I had the distinct feeling she knew something she wasn’t telling me, or she’d be the one asking the question.
“Are you hungry?” she added in her distracted way. “I made scones for tomorrow’s breakfast table. A new recipe I’m trying out. Mrs. Beeton recommends a tad more sugar than I’m used to. Not sure what I think of them yet.” She maneuvered me to a stool beside our stove before lighting a flame beneath the kettle and lifting a towel off a platter of scones. “Go on. You look like you want a nibble.”
Indeed, I did. I reached over and helped myself to a healthy portion. I was still chewing when the disapproving look I’d been expecting—and dreading—finally landed on me.
“So, what were you doing on the Slopes? Again. After I told you it was dangerous. I was very clear.”
I pointed to the scones. “May I have another? They’re extraordinary.”
Mrs. Crossey tilted her head and gave me a look that said flattery was no answer.
I stared at the polished copper pots and pans hanging above our stove, but I could feel her glare. “I couldn’t sleep. And I wanted answers.”
She turned back to look at the only other person in sight: a night chef leaning precariously in a chair beside a distant cupboard, who appeared to be asleep. Satisfied that he wasn’t listening, she whispered, “Did you see something?”
“No.” I wasn’t going to tell her anything until she told me what she knew.
Her eyebrows rose.
I rubbed at the streaks of dirt and grass on my gloves. Considering the abuse they’d suffered, it was a wonder they were still intact. That was the last thing I needed.
“I can’t imagine what you were thinking,” she said. “I told you it was dangerous, and Mr. Wyck said you passed out?”
I closed my eyes, wishing I could wind back the hours. Wishing I had just stayed in bed.
“Well?” The harshness of her whisper verged on hysteria.
“Yes. I suppose. I mean I think that’s what happened.”
“You aren’t sure?”
I shook my head.
Her cheeks lost their usual rosy hue. She bent down and stared hard into my eyes. “What do you remember?”
I laced and unlaced my fingers and shifted on the stool. I didn’t want to think back. I just wanted to forget all of it. But that was impossible. She was waiting. “I remember waking up,” I said at last, “and Mr. Wyck was there. Isn’t that odd? That he should be on the Slopes so late? And…”
She pulled back. Her gaze narrowed. “And what?”
“When he touched me—”
“My dear!” Her hands shot to her mouth. She fell back against the stove behind her and bumped an empty pot, making it rattle and clang.
We both shot looks at the night chef. The noise hadn’t seemed to rouse him.
I hurried to correct her misunderstanding. “Not like that.” A hot flush spread from my shoulders to my cheeks. “I mean he touched my hand. My wrist, actually. My bare skin. It should have caused a vision, but it didn’t. It didn’t do anything.”
Though she’d had her suspicions and I’d played along, my secret was now confirmed and laid bare. There was no going back.
If she noticed my discomfort at this, she didn’t let on. At least not in the way I’d expected. “Nothing at all?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
I shook my head. Could it mean my visions had left me? And why wasn’t that thought a relief?
“Touch me.” Mrs. Crossey stuck out her arm.
I knew what she was doing. I looked again at the night cook. His chin was on his chest, and he appeared oblivious to everything. Slowly, I slipped off my right glove and did as she asked.
The instant my flesh met hers, the familiar swirling swept me away. The room twisted and colors collided into a mass of black and gray. When images emerged, I wasn’t in the Great Kitchen. I was sitting in a country cottage, at a wood table beside a smoldering hearth. An open window showed night had fallen, and I was leaning over a book, a massive thing bound in worn, dark leather. I was holding a candle over its brittle pages, browned with age and tattered at the edges from use.
I leaned forward to read the script, but the vision faded. I was back in the Great Kitchen, facing Mrs. Crossey.
“A vision?” She reached over to pull the steaming kettle from the stove.
“Yes.” I circled my fingertips over the spot where her hand had touched mine. So, I hadn’t lost the ability. Strangely, I was glad for it. Relieved, even. But the question remained. Why had I seen nothing from Mr. Wyck?
I m
ulled over the possibilities while Mrs. Crossey poured the boiling water into a ceramic teapot and added heaping spoonfuls of tea leaves from her tin. “I’m concerned about the fainting. Tell me what you were doing before it happened.”
“Don’t you want to know what I saw in the vision?”
She shook her head. “I want to know what happened to you tonight.”
I rubbed my fingers and wished I could change the subject. “I already told you what happened.”
She frowned, and I knew she saw through me.
“Was anyone else there?”
I thought of my dragonfly. I thought of the shadow with the flaming red eyes. I shook my head.
She sighed. Perhaps with relief. Perhaps from doubt. I didn’t ask and she didn’t say as she collected two teacups and the sugar bowl. Finally, she said, “I was worried to pieces about you, you know. When I checked your room and you weren’t there, I feared the worst.”
She poured the tea, and I took a cup. Its heat was a comfort, and I breathed in the earthy scent.
“I didn’t mean to be late for the training,” I said after a sip. “Should we get started now?”
Her gaze shot up. “It’s too late for that.”
The Darjeeling was doing its job. I could feel the tension draining from my elbows and knees. “You’re probably right. I need to sleep.”
She lowered her cup to its saucer. “I’m sure you do, but you’ll be lucky to get a couple hours tonight. Or should I say this morning? You’ll need to pick up the Queen’s firewood, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” I didn’t see the cause for her concern, though.
She gave me a funny look, and I followed her gaze to the kitchen clock. I blinked. That couldn’t be right. I blinked again but nothing changed. “It’s three in the morning? It was only eleven when I went out.”
Mrs. Crossey set her cup down, and I could see a tremble in her hands. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I should have stayed with you,” she mumbled. “I should never…” Her words trailed off then she lifted her chin and met my gaze squarely. “I don’t know what happened to you beyond the wall, but you must promise not to venture out there again. Not alone. Not ever.”
I nodded, too unnerved, too baffled by the lost time, to speak.
She took up her teacup again with both hands and with such force I thought the porcelain might shatter. “It’s too late to do anything tonight. We’ll begin tomorrow. In the meantime, do your best upstairs. Pay attention to anything out of the ordinary.”
I didn’t want to go up there, and I told her so.
She reached over to pat my hand but stopped mid-reach and pulled back. “You’re simply picking up a basket in the cellar and delivering it to the Queen’s sitting room. She and her ladies may not even be present. You’ll be in and out in a jiffy.”
I’d been so sure her concerns were nonsense, but now I didn’t know. What if there was a plot against our sovereign? What if it had something to do with that terrifying creature? And Mr. Wyck? It couldn’t all be a coincidence.
Mrs. Crossey must have sensed my unease.
“It will be fine,” she cajoled. “What could happen to the Queen at her breakfast table, surrounded by her ladies? Just be alert. Look for anything out of the ordinary.”
Out of the ordinary? Hadn’t this entire day been marked by things out of the ordinary? “Doesn’t Mr. Wyck qualify in that regard?”
She pursed her lip and her gaze turned hard and unyielding. “Forget Mr. Wyck for the time being.”
“But he—”
She raised a single finger. “Do you understand?”
She waited for me to nod before she continued.
“Your concern—your only concern for now—is to focus whatever faculties you possess and whatever powers of observation you can muster on the Queen and her safety. Do you understand?”
I nodded, though reluctantly.
“Are you not sure?” she demanded.
Why wouldn’t she entertain the possibility that Mr. Wyck was connected somehow? How could she dismiss him so easily? But the set of her jaw told me there was no convincing her, so I changed course. “What if something does happen while I’m up there? What should I do?”
“Nothing. You do absolutely nothing but bring the matter to my attention as quickly as possible. That’s all.”
I stared into my empty cup. The threat against the Queen may or may not be nonsense, but the dread I sensed was most certainly real.
“You can do this,” she said. “You say you see the past, but the truth about your gift is that you see what you want to see. With proper training, you’ll be able to sense the past, present, or future, if you want to. Not easily at first, but it will become easier.”
In her eyes, I could see that she believed what she was saying. Her mind was made up, and to be honest, I had no more energy to argue. It was too late, and I was too tired. I dipped my head and muttered the only thing I knew she wanted to hear. “Yes, ma’am.”
I rose and shuffled toward the corridor.
She grabbed a bundle of white folded linen from the shelf beneath the table. “You’re going to need this.”
I recognized the ruffles that differentiated an upstairs apron from my plain one.
“Don’t worry,” she said, handing me the bundle. “It will be fine.”
“Of course it will.” I tried to mean it.
Her lips pulled into a fierce line. “And promise you won’t leave the castle grounds again.”
I nodded, took the crisp linen, and hurried to my room.
~ ~ ~
I laid in bed trying to drift off to sleep but every floorboard creak, every one of Marlie’s sleep mumblings, and all the tiny rattles and scrapes that filled the otherwise quiet spaces of our room conspired against any hope of restful slumber.
To be fair, the noises weren’t the only things making me stare at the ceiling for those scant remaining hours before dawn. Fainting again at the wretched tree and those hours inexplicably lost would have been enough to keep me tossing and turning, but there was also Mr. Wyck. What was he doing out there? And when he touched me, why had there been no vision? I couldn’t think of a single reasonable explanation.
And wasn’t it convenient? Perhaps too convenient? A peek into his past could reveal whether he was the threat Mrs. Crossey feared, or if it was simply a strange—very strange—coincidence.
Not knowing was frustrating, to say the least.
The young man obviously thought himself clever, but the more I considered it as I tossed and turned in the darkest hours, the more convinced I was that our meeting on the Slopes was not a coincidence. He was up to something, and I meant to find out what.
~ ~ ~
At some point during the night, I’d given in to my exhaustion, but sleep had been anything but restful. Sometime before dawn I’d jolted awake with my heart racing and my back slicked with sweat. It took every ounce of control I had to catch my breath and remind myself it was only a dream. Yet it had been so clear. So real.
And I wasn’t ready to part with it.
I pulled the blanket to my cheeks, closed my eyes, and tried to return to that imagined place, recapture that strange euphoria.
I could feel it just out of reach. It was like the grove on the Slopes at first, but then, as the path led on, it changed. The night turned colder. Darker. Only the moon and the stars lighted my way. But I wasn’t scared. I was curious. Something was calling to me, coaxing me on. What was it? Who was it?
I pressed on through the shrubs and the trees until I came to a clearing and in that space stood a giant yew. The branches swayed in a breeze I couldn’t feel, and the trunk’s contours undulated to a rhythm I couldn’t hear. A tree that was terrifying yet wondrous. A tree beyond imagining. And I knew, with a strange conviction, that tree held answers.
Then it was gone.
Like the time I’d lost on the Slopes.
Yet something had changed.
I had go
ne to bed feeling helpless, but I wasn’t. Someone had been there who hadn’t suffered the same lapse. Someone who had answers.
I only had to ask.
But I would have to be quick if I was to collect the Queen’s firewood on time. When the early bells rang, calling the morning staff to their posts, I was already out of bed, washed, and dressed.
As silently as I could so I didn’t disturb Marlie, I hurried out in the morning’s half-light and made my way to the courtyard to search for my dragonfly.
“Are you here?” I whispered into the gray mist.
I watched the horizon and listened for her wings.
“I need you, dragonfly.”
The sound of the door opening behind me stopped me cold. I braced.
“What are you up to?”
It was Mr. MacDougall. Fear gripped me and my mind raced for an excuse. I latched on to the first one to come to mind. “Getting a bit of air, sir. I didn’t sleep well, and I thought I might invigorate before heading to the Queen’s room.”
The House Steward scrutinized me, then scowled again. “Have you been out here long?”
“I just got here, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
He glanced around as though he suspected I might not be alone, but when he was satisfied that I was, he seemed to relax. “Well, don’t dally. The Queen appreciates a certain energy in her staff, but she won’t abide tardiness. I suggest you get on with your task.”
“Yes, sir.” I held back. Was that my dragonfly buzzing in the distance?
Mr. MacDougall held the door. “Now, Jane.”
The buzzing, if it was buzzing, faded into the morning breeze.
“Of course,” I muttered and hurried inside. Any answers my friend might have were going to have to wait.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I didn’t want to go upstairs.
If my assignment had changed to parlor maid or chamber maid, at least I could hold my head high and expect a few shillings added to my wages.
But delivering firewood? I could already hear the whispers behind my back. What could I have done to deserve such a demotion, they’d wonder, and why hadn’t I simply been shown the door? Why did I have a job at all when so many others far more deserving had lost theirs?
