by D D Croix
I pinched the bed covers beneath my fingers. “No. That’s what was odd about it. She’s never told me to do anything before. She’s only… She’s just… She just visits me, I guess.”
She mulled my words then said, “I cannot pretend to understand this dragonfly of yours, but it seems she helped you discover Edward Bailey’s scheme. For the moment, I think we must focus on that. When did you say the Queen would be attending the calliope’s performance?”
“This evening. After dinner, I believe.”
She touched her lips. Then nodded. “That isn’t much time, but it should be enough. The first thing you must do is speak to Mr. MacDougall.”
I shook my head.
Mrs. Crossey sighed. “I know you and Mr. MacDougall have not always—”
“It’s not that. He was in my vision. He’s involved. I saw him with Mr. Bailey. I’m sure they were conspiring.”
“That can’t be. The man is trying at times, but he is the Vice Councilor. He wouldn’t be involved in such a thing.”
“I can only say what I saw, and I most certainly saw him with Mr. Bailey.”
“I see,” she said. “I have worked with Mr. MacDougall a good many years, however, and I have never had reason to doubt his loyalty to the Fayte. The problem with visions is that what one thinks one is seeing is not always the truth of what one is seeing. I shall speak to Mr. MacDougall myself and sort it out. Please tell him I must speak with him.”
“When he asks why, what shall I tell him?” Because surely I couldn’t tell him the truth.
“Tell him my injuries have caused me to reconsider my position here in the castle and that I would like to discuss my resignation.”
The magnitude of that statement hit me like a boulder. “But you can’t leave.”
She patted the top of my glove. “It’s the only subject I am sure he will find too tempting to ignore. Now go. Before it’s too late.”
She was right. To put a stop to the performance, I couldn’t delay. I rose just as someone rapped on the door and slowly opened it.
A bespectacled gentleman with a small hook nose peered in. “I’ve come for your morning check, Mrs. Crossey. Is now a good time?”
“Yes, Dr. Holland,” she said. “Of course.” She angled her head toward me. “Go now, lass.”
I knew I had to leave, but I didn’t want to leave her side. As long as I was beside her, all would be well.
The physician came up behind me and cleared his throat. I stepped to the side, reluctantly giving him my place beside her.
Her gaze hung on me. “Don’t fret. This will all be right as rain before you know it.”
I knew she was referring to herself, but also to our problem with Mr. MacDougall and Mr. Bailey. And I wished I believed her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Before I left her, Mrs. Crossey made me promise to do as she instructed. I did—reluctantly. It didn’t matter that I knew Mr. MacDougall to be complicit in Mr. Bailey’s scheme. It didn’t matter that I thought it was a mistake. I trusted her judgment, and right now that was more than I could say about my own.
I was pulling the door to Mrs. Crossey’s room closed behind me when the Queen’s sitting room door opened, and a peal of bubbly laughter followed. I turned back as though I meant to re-enter the room and kept my head down, kept myself out of the way and out of sight as much as I could.
“Come now, it’s a marvelous surprise.” It was Lady Wallingham emerging from the room. “I’m rather pleased to be included. You should be, too.”
I fidgeted with my gloves, pretending to be preoccupied as she entered the corridor.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased as well,” Lady Bassey countered. “I just would have preferred a bit of warning. I had arranged to ride.”
“It can be rescheduled, I’m sure.”
“Of course it can. But I dressed for it, and this frock is entirely unsuitable for a performance.”
Performance? What performance?
“And I sent my maid into town to collect a bonnet I ordered from the milliner. I hope she hasn’t already left. I rang the bell ages ago, and there’s been no answer. Oh, there’s someone. Yoo-hoo. Hello? Can I get your help, please?”
Was she speaking to me? I ventured a sideways glance. She was already approaching.
I turned to face her, keeping my head low. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Find Reed and send her to my room. As quickly as you can, if you please.”
“Of course. Shall I say why?” I braced. It was never a servant’s place to ask such things, but my curiosity—my fear—outweighed such propriety.
Lady Bassey didn’t seem to notice. “The Queen has invited me”—she glanced back at Lady Wallingham—“invited us to a musical performance this afternoon. I require her assistance to change into something appropriate.”
My pulse pounded in my ears like so many fists. “Not this evening? Are you sure?”
Mrs. Bassey’s eyebrows pinched over the otherwise smooth plane of her forehead. I lowered my head submissively.
“Yes. I’m quite sure.” The curtness of her words made it clear there should be no more questions, which was just as well because the full meaning of her words was now painfully clear. Mr. Bailey had expedited his plans. There was no time to waste.
I nodded once at Lady Bassey, assuring her I understood, and made a hasty shot toward the servants’ stairs.
I managed to slip through the door and out of the ladies’ view before stopping to catch my breath. It was a miracle my wobbly knees could keep me upright. I leaned against the wall and tried to calm my nerves. If the performance would be this afternoon, I had to find Marlie—and fast.
I dragged in a deep breath and clutched the Faytling at my chest beneath my blouse.
No time for fear. No time for hesitation.
I pushed every thought from my mind save one. Marlie. She would be in the kitchen, so that’s where I had to go as quickly as my feet could carry me and without drawing undue attention. With Mrs. Crossey still out of commission, Marlie was my only hope.
~ ~ ~
I rushed along the Long Gallery’s crimson corridor, past the drawing rooms and the chapel, until I reached a servants’ staircase that would take me to the kitchen. I found Marlie scraping potato peelings from her table.
“There you are,” she said. “Mr. MacDougall’s been searching for you.”
A cook stood on the other side of her, so I leaned close. “They’ve changed the performance time. We have to hurry!”
Her forehead crinkled. “But you said—”
“I know, but he must know we’re onto him.”
Disbelief, confusion, fear, they all cascaded across her face. “What do you suggest?”
I glanced over her shoulder. Cooks hovered at their stoves and oven fires, scullery maids ferried bowls and baskets of ingredients from the cellar and the pantry. Everyone was busy with something, and no one was paying any attention to us.
I leaned in again. “Make an excuse to get away. Meet me in the Rubens Room as soon as you can.”
She seemed to panic then mastered herself. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I didn’t ask how, and I didn’t stick around to find out. I hurried to the corridor that ran beneath the State Apartments until I found a narrow staircase far enough away that it could get me near the Rubens Room.
I did my best to navigate the unfamiliar corridors. After several turns, I was standing outside the anteroom that had served the gentlemen during the ball. I recalled the Rubens Room was just beyond it, but the sound of voices stopped me.
“Move it here by the window.”
I tensed. The voice belonged to Mr. Bailey. I expected he would be present, but it unsettled me nonetheless. Should I try to stop him now? Burst in? Cause a commotion? But he would only deny the accusation.
I needed a better plan.
But what?
“We’ll draw the curtains,” he continued. “The view over Eton is pleasant this time of day.”
/>
“But the sun, sir. Won’t it blind the Queen’s view of the calliope?” It was Mr. Wyck.
Why was Mr. Wyck helping Mr. Bailey? My old suspicions returned.
“Hardly,” Mr. Bailey snapped back. “The Queen prefers a bright afternoon. Where is MacDougall? He was supposed to oversee this.”
“Yes,” Mr. Wyck muttered. “Where is he, indeed?”
“Are you questioning me?” Mr. Bailey growled.
“Not in the least, sir. It’s just typical, don’t you think? That he should find himself scarce when there’s real work to do? Men like him always leave the difficult work to others. Don’t you agree?” He scoffed again.
Mr. Bailey cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he and I will be having a discussion about that when this is finished.”
I smiled to myself. Mr. Wyck was clever, I’ll give him that much.
“Now that I’m looking at the instrument,” Mr. Bailey continued, “I’m sure we’re going to need another man or two.”
I pulled the door open a sliver and saw Mr. Bailey standing beside a rather large rectangular box painted a shiny red with golden curlicue trim. There were piano keys on one side and brass pipes of varying heights protruding from the top. Mr. Wyck was leaning down, his hands on his knees, eying the strange contraption.
“I’m sure I can handle it, sir,” he said, his gaze still on the instrument. “This part here, is it where the water goes?”
“Do step away from that,” Mr. Bailey urged.
“I won’t hurt it. I was just…”
But I didn’t hear the end of his sentence because a large hand took hold of my right shoulder. Long, sinewy fingers dug into my flesh.
“What do you think you are doing?”
The voice behind me, the one dripping with venom, belonged to Mr. MacDougall.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It took every ounce of courage I had not to slip out of Mr. MacDougall’s grip and run. “Nothing, sir,” I said. It was a lie and he knew it. I faced him. His bony hand fell away. I thought of Mr. Wyck. If I called, would he come?
I shook away the thought. I didn’t need his help. I squared myself to the man and stared into his pale blue eyes. “Mrs. Crossey sent me to help.” Another lie, but I needed something to get me into that room.
His lips pulled into a razor-straight line. “I see.” His thumb and index finger rubbed the bony tip of his chin. “Let’s see what Mrs. Crossey has to say about that, shall we?” He moved up beside me, forcing me away from the door and back toward the hall.
I was more than happy to go. Mrs. Crossey would set things right. I’d seen well enough how she could put him in his place.
I followed him down one hall. “This isn’t the way to her room.”
“No,” he said, offering no other explanation.
Had she already left her sick bed? We turned down another corridor then another. We were approaching a part of the castle completely unknown to me. The hallway narrowed, and the walls were bare. No art, no furnishings. Where was he taking me?
I was about to ask when he stopped in front of a simple paneled door. He opened it and stepped aside. His hands swept forward, indicating I should enter.
“She’s in there?” But I didn’t wait for his response. I hurried over the threshold, eager to see her.
The room was dim except for hazy light filtering through gossamer sheers that covered three tall, narrow windows. If I had a better sense of where we were in the castle, I would know whether they looked north or east, but it could have been either. Or neither, I suppose.
I searched the empty chairs along the wall and the settee in front of a cold, empty fireplace. I searched every shadow for her cheerful grin.
But she wasn’t here. Mr. MacDougall had made a mistake.
I turned to tell him so just as the door closed behind me. A lock dropped into place.
I ran to the door and pounded with my fist. “Let me out! You can’t do this.” I pounded again, harder. “Mr. MacDougall!” There was no response. I leaned my ear to the surface. Not a sound. I bent down to peer through the keyhole. I could see only the wall across the corridor. “Mr. MacDougall!”
There would be no answer. I knew that, but I yelled again. When my voice cracked from the strain, I leaned back and wiped my eyes.
Stop it. Crying wouldn’t help anything. It certainly wouldn’t get me out of this room.
I scrutinized the wood-paneled walls. In the castle, doors were often disguised as panels. Beginning with the nearest one, I ran my gloved fingers around the trim searching for an edge, then pressed against the places that might release a spring. Nothing gave. I moved to the next panel, then the next.
When I reached a window, I peered out and recognized the Northern Slopes. Below, along the terrace, I searched for someone, anyone to hail for help. Had it been the Quadrangle, there might have been someone. Perhaps a guard making his rounds or a page on an errand. But the northern side was less traveled. I saw only the wall and the woodland beyond with those strange, menacing trees.
That image came roaring back. Red tendrils snaking around my arm, pulling at me. Draining me. Was he still there? A shiver shot through me.
Join me. Don’t fight.
That was his voice. His words. Fear filled me all over again. A wave that could crash and drag me down. I pulled back from the window and shook off the thought. It was my own fault. I’d been stupid to follow McDougall. Stupid to believe he’d take me to Mrs. Crossey.
I berated myself as I scoured every panel, and again as I tried each one a second time before sinking—sprawling really—into a heap on the floor.
How could I help the Queen? I couldn’t even help myself.
I pulled the Faytling from beneath my blouse and worked it over my head. Stupid, useless thing. Mr. MacDougall must have known I would be helpless here.
I clutched the cold metal and crystal to my chest. I don’t know how long I sat there on my knees. It felt like hours, wallowing in my failure, until a distant horn perked my ear. Its strange, sonorous notes breathed deep and long.
The calliope. It had to be. Full-throated gusts of sound that weren’t yet a tune. Only a check. A test before the performance. It was enough to send me scrambling from the floor and running to the walls, listening at each. From which direction was it coming? The easternmost wall provided the clearest sound.
Pounding with my fists, I screamed, “Help!” I screamed it again and again, yet there was no movement. No answer to my call. Panic tangled with my fear and exasperation. I pounded harder. “Let me out!” My voice cracked with the strain of the words and the force of my strikes.
But then something else happened.
In my hand, the Faytling began to glow as it had beside the divining pool and again in the tunnel. But this time, the light was a vibrant purple, and it cast out purple tendrils. They reached away from me, undulating and floating toward the wall. I stared without understanding, with no thought but one single phrase that swelled within me until it spewed forth with volcanic force:
“Let me out!”
Somehow, with the Faytling in my grip, I knew what to do. I closed my eyes and took a step back from the wall. But I was doing more than that, I was stepping out of myself. I opened my eyes to see I was still standing at the wall, caught in an immobile pose, fingers still gripping the now dim Faytling. Only it was no longer me.
I was gazing on that figure from a good two paces behind and in my hand was a specter of a Faytling, still glowing at its brightest.
What madness was this? I could see my hand and my skirts with my boots peeking out beneath, only they were all edged in a soft lavender light. I was glowing like the Faytling.
Was it a hallucination?
Or was it another Faytling power?
I shook my hand, and the glowing hand shook. I shook my foot, and the glowing boot did the same. I stepped forward and my body, if it could be called that, moved though I couldn’t feel the floor or anything really. Only a coolness, like
the breeze on a late November morning.
I knew nothing of spirits, but I was quite certain that’s what I was now. A spirit without bodily form and that meant…
I moved closer to the wall. With the fingers of my right hand wrapped around the Faytling, I reached out with my left toward the wall. My fingers, my palm, my whole arm passed through the solid wood, which felt like something more than air but less than water and rather like a thousand tiny pinpricks along my limb.
I yanked it back and examined it. Still whole. Still intact. I tried to make sense of it. But there was none. Echoes of Mr. Wyck’s words returned to me: “When it comes to the Other Realm, the world plays by different rules.”
At the sound of the calliope, I pushed my arm forward again then closed my eyes and moved the rest of me through as well.
When I looked again, I was in the corridor. I was… free!
The calliope howled once more, reminding me there was no time to marvel or muse. I had to act, and I had to be fast.
Quickly, I moved toward the instrument’s wail, retracing my steps with Mr. MacDougall. At the anteroom, two footmen stood sentry beside the door.
“Stop that performance!” I cried, flinging propriety and what was left of my good sense to the winds.
Neither man flinched.
With more vigor, I yelled again, “You must do something. The Queen is in danger!”
Still they didn’t move, as if I wasn’t even there.
I waved my hands wildly in front of their faces.
Not a twitch.
I may be free of that room, but I was apparently invisible and mute. What good was a spirit form if I was still powerless? My mind raced, until it settled on one word. One name.
Marlie.
I needed to find her. Without a second’s hesitation, I flew through the corridor and down a staircase. It had to be flying for it was much faster than I could possibly run, but by the time I reached my roommate in the Great Kitchen, I could feel my energy waning.
“Marlie, I need your help,” I whispered over her shoulder as she pulled the tiny leaves off a thyme stem and dropped them into a bowl.
She didn’t move.
