Dragonfly Maid

by D D Croix

  “The event is still days away. Send whatever is required to our own shops, if you must.”

  The man, with obvious consternation in his eyes, shook his head. “Your Majesty, I have made such an offer, and even with our own shops, and even if it could be completed sooner, the inventor is the only one capable of installing the pipe properly, I’m told, and his ship is not expected in until the day after the masquerade. But, if I may, I have what I hope will be an acceptable alternative.”

  The Queen harrumphed and reached down to her knitting basket beside her chair. She grabbed her knitting needles and a scarf on which she was working. “What is the alternative, then?”

  He cleared his throat and seemed to be trying to rally his confidence. “An acclaimed chamber quartet from Vienna is in London, preparing for a series of performances at month’s end. They come highly recommended and arrangements could be made for them to perform at the masquerade. Then, once the calliope’s owner arrives and the instrument is fixed, a private performance could take place.”

  The Queen’s lips twitched as she mulled his suggestion. After a long pause, she sighed. “That would be acceptable, I suppose. Please see to it.” With her decree delivered, she turned her full attention to the mound of yarn and half-finished scarf heaped in her lap.

  “Very good, ma’am.” With relief, he turned to leave.

  “Mr. Galding?”

  He wheeled back, his smile gone.

  “Do not mention anything about this contraption to His Royal Highness. In fact, don’t mention anything about your visit to the Crystal Palace at all. If we cannot present this wonder at the ball, I should like to at least make it a surprise for my husband.”

  The man’s ebullience returned. “Yes, ma’am. You can be assured of my utmost discretion.”

  At that the Queen raised a thin eyebrow toward her ladies. “I hope you, too, will abide by my wish.”

  Both ladies dipped a submissive chin and uttered their assurances.

  “Good.” The Queen settled back into her cushion and resumed her knitting. “Is there any tea?”

  I straightened and touched the silver teapot’s side. It was still warm to the touch. I looked to Lady Bassey for guidance.

  She nodded, which I took to be permission to speak.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. But not a fresh pot, I’m afraid.” I winced, not knowing if that had been an acceptable response or not.

  “Fine, fine,” she said.

  I lifted the pot and poured into a gold-rimmed teacup adorned with the Queen’s insignia.

  She watched me place a sugar cube in her cup and raised a finger. “Don’t be stingy with those. I’m feeling a sweet tooth today.”

  I nodded and deposited another cube into the cup then stirred with one of the tiny silver spoons, making sure to use one that hadn’t dropped to the floor. I extended the cup to her.

  Again, the door opened, but I forced myself to remain focused on the cup I balanced over the Queen’s cushioned armrest. I watched her glance at the door and heard someone enter, but no one spoke. Not until the Queen sipped from her cup and said with strained cordiality, “You may speak, Mr. MacDougall.”

  I nearly fell forward but quickly caught myself and wheeled around to find Mr. MacDougall’s imposing figure standing at the center of the room with a smug Abigail by his side.

  He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am terribly sorry for the interruption, Your Majesty. I only need a word with the maid.”

  My stomach dropped to my heels.

  He looked at me squarely. “Join me in the hall.”

  All eyes turned on me, including the Queen’s, and I didn’t need a Faytling’s help to divine their thoughts: that I was exactly what Abigail had said I was, a thief. Nothing but a good for nothing thief.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mr. MacDougall stood in the corridor as I closed the Queen’s sitting room door behind me. Abigail stood by, her gaze darting from the House Steward to me and back again.

  “I saw her take something, just like she took my locket,” Abigail wailed. “I saw her.”

  He regarded her outburst with a spike of his overgrown eyebrows then slid that regard back to me. “Abigail is under the impression you took something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  Every inch of me froze in guilty fear. “I did not, sir.”

  His cheek twitched. It was his only response.

  “I’m sure it’s in her pocket,” Abigail pressed. “Make her show you. You’ll see for yourself.”

  He crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “Perhaps Abigail is right.”

  The minx smirked. “Of course, I am. I saw it.”

  Mr. MacDougall grimaced. “That’s enough, Abigail.” He turned back to me. “Do please show us the contents of your pockets.”

  I stared at her, at the ugly ruts anger had carved between her eyebrows and the pinched wrinkles above her nose. Had she always been so bitter, or had I done this to her?

  I had known it would be a risk when I snatched the locket. But it was the way her fingers always seemed to wrap around it at her collar in an absent-minded sort of way. And the dreamy look that came over her as she touched it. I knew it held precious memories, and I wanted them. Eventually I could think of nothing else.

  That’s what compelled me when I passed the open door of her room and saw the thing dangling from the hook by her wash basin. I’d paused to check that the room was empty and that no one was nearby, then I’d slipped in and grabbed it. I was just turning the corner to the stairwell when I heard a door of another maid’s room open and then Abigail’s voice.

  She had seen my back as I rounded the corner, but she had no proof I’d taken anything.

  Despite my gnawing guilt, I stood firm. “I will do it,” I said defiantly, “but only to prove she’s wrong.” I slipped both hands into my skirt pockets and pulled them out, leaving them to flop at my sides like a bloodhound’s ears.

  Abigail’s smug expression turned to befuddlement. She searched the crimson carpet around my feet. “It’s a trick. She must have put it somewhere else. A sleeve maybe? Her gloves? Check those ridiculous gloves!”

  I dangled my wrists at my sides to show I had nothing stashed there then held out my hands so Mr. MacDougall could see nothing was wedged within them.

  The House Steward glowered at Abigail. “It appears you are mistaken. Again.”

  Her lower lip shot out in a pout. “She stole something. I know it.”

  He turned to me. “What do you say, Jane?”

  I fought back my guilt. I would make amends to Abigail, but not here. Not now. “Sir, I didn’t steal anything from the Queen’s sitting room.” That was the truth, and I clung to it.

  He closed his eyes and touched his right temple with a fingertip as though a headache was brewing there. When he opened his eyes, they were bloodshot. The skin beneath his eyes appeared sunken and gray. I almost pitied him.

  “Abigail, no more—”

  “But, Mr. MacDougall—”

  His hand rose to stop her. “No. More. You must refrain from these baseless accusations. Or else.”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  This may be her defeat, but it was not my victory. I knew that well enough.

  “Jane,” Mr. MacDougall said in his low, menacing way, “if you have deceived us, I assure you, it will not go well for you.”

  Then, instead of dismissing us, he turned and strode away.

  Abigail looked as surprised as I was. Then her expression darkened. She stepped closer and leaned her face into mine. “You aren’t going to get away with this.”

  I shuffled back till I was flush against the door. “You’ve got it wrong.”

  But even as I spoke, I saw her gaze drift from me and a sappy smile spread across her lips.

  When I looked, I nearly groaned. Someone was walking toward us from the main drawing rooms, and while he was still yards away and his head was down, I recognized the rolled-up shirtsleeves, the dus
ty boots, and the deviant hair curled beneath his tweed cap. He seemed to halt, as though he was about to stop and turn back but then thought better of it and proceeded toward us.

  When he was close enough, Abigail said in a singsong voice, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wyck.”

  “Afternoon,” he answered with a quick glance her direction. When he looked at me, his lips tensed. “Miss Shackle.”

  “Mr. Wyck,” I replied.

  He didn’t stop. In fact, he seemed to quicken his pace.

  Only when he disappeared around a corner did Abigail turn back to me, her eyes wide. “What’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Was it a trap? “We’re acquainted,” I said carefully.

  “Is that so? Then perhaps you could introduce me? I mean, properly.”

  There it was again, that stupid, starry-eyed look all the maids got when he was around. I didn’t know what to say, so I ignored her question. “I should be going. Mrs. Crossey will throw a fit if I’m not back to help with the evening biscuits.”

  Abigail crossed her arms. “Yes, I suppose she will. Think about it, though. You owe me that much.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.” I walked away, taking the opposite route from Mr. Wyck. With every step, I could feel her eyes on me like burning daggers, but I didn’t stop until I opened the door to the servants’ stairs, carefully closed it behind me, and made sure I was alone. Only then did I bend down and fish the Faytling from the ankle of my boot.

  ~ ~ ~

  I found no sign of Mrs. Crossey back in the kitchen.

  “You missed a dandy of a tantrum,” Marlie whispered. She’d left a bowl of fresh strawberries at her worktable to join me at mine, which was uncharacteristically bare.

  “Mrs. Crossey threw a tantrum?” Alarmed, I scanned the kitchen, looking for the woman.

  “Not her. Chef. The orangery delivered a crate that sent him into screaming fits. Mr. MacDougall calmed him by sending Mrs. Crossey into town to find something more suitable.”

  “She’s gone?” I was already envisioning an afternoon of leisure. An unexpected boon.

  “She is, but you can lose that grin. Mr. MacDougall wants you to report to the wash room.”

  “Please, no. Not the wash room.”

  She shrugged and I could see it gave her no pleasure to relay the unwelcome news. It was a dismal assignment, and she knew it.

  Frankly, I wasn’t surprised. Mr. MacDougall had found no proof of my guilt but had found a way to punish me nonetheless.

  For the next few hours, my naked waterlogged hands and I worked alongside the small army of washing maids that scrubbed piles of grimy pots and pans, as well as the hundreds of dirty plates and bowls, cups and utensils carted into the dank, windowless room on carts.

  At least it gave me time to think.

  While the washing maids gabbed about their many complaints and gossiped endlessly, I mentally replayed the confrontation with Mr. MacDougall and Abigail, and her ridiculous desire for an introduction to Mr. Wyck.

  As if I could manage one even if I’d wanted to.

  Which I didn’t. I may regret taking her locket, but I drew the line at matchmaking. Certainly with him. What did she find so appealing about him anyway? What did anyone?

  He wasn’t exactly awful to look at, if you didn’t mind that messy hair or that brooding, faraway stare. It was more the way he strutted around as if he owned the place. Honestly, why had he even been near the Queen’s rooms?

  The question pricked me.

  What was he doing there?

  And why had he given us—given me—such a funny look when he passed by? That strange look of consternation.

  Two words snapped to mind. Getting. Caught.

  They stayed with me the rest of the day and by the time I joined Mrs. Crossey in the Library, I could think of nothing else.

  “It’s him,” I said as we collected our robes from the hooks, after explaining the events that had led me to be standing in the corridor with Abigail. “I don’t know why or what he has against the Queen, but it has to be him.”

  She pulled her robe around herself and tied it closed. “I’m quite sure I told you to disregard Mr. Wyck.”

  “But you also said to watch out for the Queen. He’s up to something. Why else would he be there?” I fastened my own robe.

  “And what of the foretelling? How could ‘a face is not a face’ apply to him?”

  Why was she protecting him? “He could be here under false pretenses. Or hiding his true intentions.”

  She shook her head. “Let’s not deviate from the plan.”

  Her plan. “The masquerade ball?”

  “Precisely.”

  But that was still days away. “Why should we wait when the threat is already obvious?”

  She reeled back. “Because it’s not obvious. Not to me, and it shouldn’t be to you. You shouldn’t be reckless with your assumptions.”

  It was absurd that she wouldn’t see reason. “Then what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest we take the time we have to strengthen your ability. To continue to see how we might use the Faytling to advantage. Now come with me.”

  I trudged along behind her to a table, where she proceeded to lay out a variety of new items she pulled from a leather pouch—a handkerchief, a cuff link, a hairpin, and a slender wooden comb.

  “Where’s the Faytling?” she demanded.

  I pulled it from beneath my collar and let it hang freely over my chest.

  “Hold it and touch an item then tell me what you can about the item’s owner.”

  More games. Fine. I did as she asked and discerned that each item belonged to a different servant who worked within the castle. The identities came quickly, much more quickly than they had before, but I still couldn’t divine any anger or malice.

  And why should I? Not a single item belonged to Mr. Wyck.

  “Don’t pout,” she said sharply. “It’s unbecoming.”

  I looked away. Good sense told me I should drop the matter, yet I couldn’t help myself.

  “Why can you not at least include something that belongs to him?”

  “It isn’t necessary.”

  I clenched my teeth. She had accused me of not taking the threat to the Queen seriously. But I had to wonder, did she?

  “Even you must see there’s something off about him. Doesn’t it bother you that he was out there the night that poor girl was killed?”

  “You were there as well. Did you have something to do with it?”

  That frosty stare stopped me cold. “Of course not. You know I didn’t. What could I possibly have against an innocent farmer’s daughter?”

  “What would he have against such a girl?”

  “I don’t know. But when I touched him, I felt nothing. It’s like he’s hiding something.”

  She grimaced. “Be that as it may, until we know more, we owe him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do?”

  “I suggest we do what we’ve been doing.” She glanced down at the scattering of belongings on the table. “The faster you learn to use your ability to sense danger—real danger—and who’s behind it, the better off we’ll be. Until then, I say whatever prompted that young man to be on the Slopes, you should feel lucky for it. There’s no telling what might have happened to you if he hadn’t come along when he did. And for now, we’ll assume our culprit intends to use the ball as an opportunity to get close to the Queen. Do you agree?”

  She wouldn’t continue until I nodded.

  “Good. Now get yourself to bed. You need to be well rested and ready for work tomorrow.”

  She gathered up the items she had brought and stuffed them back into her pouch. She turned to me again.

  “Close the fireplace behind yourself, if you would.” She gazed up to the tops of the towering shelves and grabbed the rolling ladder. “I’ve a bit more work to do here.”

  ~ ~ ~<
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  The morning of the ball, I found Mrs. Crossey in our usual corner of the Great Kitchen, staring into her porridge pot.

  “The cellar master says there’s no need for firewood in the Queen’s sitting room this morning as she’ll be breaking her fast in her own room.” I had intended to keep the irritation out of my voice, but there it was, ringing out like the clang of a copper pan slamming to the floor. It was childish to sulk, but I couldn’t help it.

  I had risen before the early bell to see the Queen and her ladies preparing themselves, to be part of the festivities—even in that ridiculously small way.

  Mrs. Crossey ignored me.

  “You might have mentioned it last night and saved me the trouble,” I added, looking for some response.

  Still nothing.

  “Mrs. Crossey?”

  Finally, she turned. “Oh, good. You’re here. I wanted you to do something for me, now what was it…” She tapped her lips and glanced around.

  I stared at the mountain of apples on our table. “Peel the apples?”

  She looked at me, and I pointed to the bowl.

  Her eyes widened as though she were seeing the ruby red fruit for the first time. “Yes. Apples. Exactly. If you could just give them a good coring, that would be grand.”

  She went back to staring at her pot without another word. Not about the firewood or the needless trip to the cellar. Nothing. I sighed. Best to let it go. I searched through the collection of knives. Not finding the one I wanted, I turned back to her. “What happened to the paring knife? It was here last night when I cleaned.”

  “The paring knife?” She frowned. “It must be there. I set it beside the bowl.”

  I looked again. “I don’t see it.”

  She wheeled on me, a deep crease between her eyebrows. “Open your eyes, girl. I put it right… Oh.” Her gaze drifted to the edge of the stove, where the paring knife lay. Her anger disappeared. “I don’t remember putting it there.” She handed it to me.

  “Are you all right?” I took the handle and studied her face. Fat red blood vessels shot through the whites of her eyes and her eyelids drooped.