by D D Croix
“What’s next?” I asked, barely able to stifle a yawn.
“Take your dinner, then get some rest. I can handle it from here.”
The clock built into the kitchen’s lantern roof read only a quarter past seven, which in truth meant ten past because the chef’s trick of setting it ahead five minutes didn’t fool anyone. It was the earliest I’d ever been released from my shift. A welcome and unexpected treat.
“We have a long night ahead of us,” she added in that low, conspiratorial tone.
The training. I’d nearly forgotten. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or afraid. To be honest, I was feeling a bit of both.
“Get some sleep and I’ll see you later.”
“Midnight. Right.” I took my leave before she changed her mind and maneuvered past a cook working on an aspic, another hovering over a sauce pot with Marlie handing him tiny bowls of seasoning herbs, and a third chopping what appeared to be the ingredients of mincemeat pie.
I hadn’t realized I was hungry until I pushed through the swinging door that led to the Servants’ Hall and my stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything but a few slices of purloined carrot and celery since breakfast. I skirted past the handful of maids, footmen, and underbutlers already seated at the long table that nearly filled the narrow room.
I recognized most of them, including Abigail, but I kept my head down and focused on getting to the sideboard, where the beef stew was keeping warm beside a basket of buttermilk biscuits. I ladled my portion, took a seat at the far end of the table, a good distance from the others, and looked at nothing but my bowl and the wall of brass bells across from me.
A jingling above a plaque that read “White Drawing Room” sent one young maid scurrying from her spot to attend to whatever was needed upstairs. As the door closed behind her, a footman elbowed an underbutler in rolled shirtsleeves.
“Did you hear? Another girl was let go today.”
The older man stabbed a chunk of meat in his bowl. “MacDougall said these terminations wouldn’t affect breaks.” He gestured to the empty chair where the girl had been. “So what’s that then?”
The older one scoffed. “Sure. As long as it isn’t his meal interrupted—”
He stopped when the door swung open again. All chatter ceased, and every eye shot up. At the sight of Mr. Wyck—and not Mr. MacDougall—the men focused again on their food and their gripes. But not the maids. They leaned their heads together and whispered like schoolgirls.
“There’s a seat here, Mr. Wyck.” Abigail patted the space on the bench beside her.
The stable hand smiled and moved toward her, but then his eyes found mine. He stopped, his smile vanished, and he waved feebly at the girls before retreating through the door without a word of explanation.
I was trying to decide whether to be relieved or insulted when Abigail leaned back from her huddle.
Her brown eyes skewered me. “What was that about, Jane?” Her smug attitude told me she already had her suspicions.
I stared at my stew. I didn’t trust myself to look at her. I was sure she hadn’t forgotten about her locket. I certainly hadn’t forgotten about the accusations she’d lodged against me. I know I should have felt some guilt over the matter, or at least some remorse, but truly I felt… nothing. So I shoveled a spoonful of potato into my mouth and closed my eyes. If I ignored them long enough, they’d go back to ignoring me.
Experience told me the whispers and snickers would fade eventually, and when they did, I picked up my empty bowl, put it in the receptacle, and slipped out of the hall.
I hurried to my room and tried not to think about Abigail or Mr. Wyck and that look on his face. That conspicuous disdain.
Had he been so terribly put out that I had displaced him in Mr. MacDougall’s office? It seemed more than that. Personal even. Perhaps his dislike for me simply matched my own for him.
But what reason would he have? I wasn’t the one who strutted around like a peacock begging to be admired.
Still, even Mr. Wyck’s inexplicable contempt paled beside the more troublesome events of the day: Mrs. Crossey’s insistence that secret guardians occupied the castle, of which she was one and apparently so was I, and that incident beyond the wall. I cringed thinking of it and had done my best to push it from my thoughts. Was it an attack? A hallucination?
I didn’t know whether to be frightened or embarrassed, but I was more convinced than ever that it hadn’t been real. It couldn’t be.
But what had happened? Had Mrs. Crossey tricked me somehow to make me stay? I tried to piece together the events, tried to remember exactly what had transpired, yet each time my thoughts turned more and more muddled. Except for the memory of those terrifying eyes. That remained crystal clear.
Mrs. Crossey hadn’t helped. When I’d tried to ask about the incident at the worktable, she’d scowled and shoved her finger to her lips. “Not here! Not now.”
I didn’t know what to think of any it, or of her, honestly. Yesterday I would have trusted her implicitly, but today? I simply didn’t know.
I’d played along with her plan. Pretended to accept the crazy scheme she envisioned for protecting the Queen. But part of me still wanted to run, as fast and as far away as possible.
I only wish I knew what I was running from.
That’s what I couldn’t get past. What if she was telling the truth? What if any of it was true?
That was the question keeping me here. The question I knew would keep me awake and deliver me to Mr. MacDougall’s door at midnight.
Maybe then I could get some answers.
But that was still hours away.
Right now, with Marlie still in the kitchen, I had a rare surplus of time to do exactly as I pleased.
My pulse quickened as I closed the bedroom door and darted to the wardrobe, found my bag, and pulled out my memory box. Even through my gloves, the wood felt warm and smooth.
I dropped cross-legged onto the floor and breathed in the box’s smell. The rich, earthy fragrance—a reminder of the black tea it once held. Lifting the hinged lid, I gazed upon my treasures.
A piece of yellow yarn from Dotty’s rag doll, an iron key from the school’s old caretaker, a glass marble from a girl who knew the name of every bird she ever saw, and other trinkets. Each a tiny container of a memory I’d collected. I sifted through them all until I found the one I wanted.
I tugged the glove off my right hand before taking Abigail’s tiny oval locket between my fingers. I rubbed the delicate filigree around the edge, and my heart raced.
Darkness gathered along the periphery. A swirling cloud that grew denser until it blotted out everything else.
Slowly, images emerged. A modest room. A cabin, perhaps. A rustic plank floor beneath me, a crackling hearth as large as the wall in front. A woman leaned over an iron pot suspended above a fire that gave a shine to her loose sable hair. Hair that resembled Abigail’s.
When the woman turned to me, her smile made the corner of her cornflower eyes wrinkle and sent a riot of happy tingles through me like so many shooting stars. Trust and love for this woman engulfed me.
“Look at those big brown eyes!” the woman cooed. “Why is my Little Abby still awake? Sleep, my darling. You need to sleep.”
She touched my forehead, and the sensation raced from that point to every extremity.
And then the vision slipped away.
I closed my eyes and tried to hold onto the image. The curve of the woman’s cheek, the warmth of her voice, the tenderness in her touch, and all the emotions that filled me. The memory had been so vivid this time. I had noticed details I hadn’t before. Dried lavender suspended in three bunches over the hearth. The gingham pattern of the woman’s dress beneath her apron. The smell of a meat broth in the pot.
The vision was so real now, as clear as any true memory.
I savored it until the details faded again, then I put the locket back in the box, closed the lid, and returned it to my carpet bag.
When everything was back in its place, I crawled into bed with my stolen memory and let it carry me away.
CHAPTER NINE
By the time Marlie returned, I’d been lying in bed for an hour, maybe more. The warm embrace of the stolen memory had faded and again I was sifting through my fragmented recollection of what had happened at the tree. I was trying to stitch the jumbled flashes into something I could understand. Something that made sense.
But none of it did.
“Jane, are you awake?”
I kept my eyes closed and didn’t answer, only tightened my grip on the covers at my chin so she wouldn’t see I was still wearing the same frock I’d worn in the kitchen. When she’d brushed her teeth at our porcelain basin, braided her long, tawny hair, and crawled into her own bed, I waited for the soft mewling of her snores.
Only then did I slip a stockinged foot to the floor. I paused, listening for any disturbance to her slumber.
At the next wispy inhalation, I knew I was safe. I pulled the rest of myself from bed and quietly slid my feet into my boots, laced them, and grabbed my coat from the peg by the door.
As I pulled it closed behind me, I heard the last of the hall clock’s eleven chimes. Another hour before Mrs. Crossey would be expecting me, which meant I had time.
Moving quickly, I navigated the corridors and kept to the shadows. After-hours strolls, especially outdoors, were against the rules for servants. Since it was a rule I’d broken before, I had no trouble dodging the guards and other nighttime staff.
When I finally emerged from the castle onto the North Terrace, the night air sent shivers racing to my toes. But a bit of cold wouldn’t stop me from confirming what I now suspected: that I’d been tricked by Mrs. Crossey, nothing more. My fainting spell was likely caused by an insufficient breakfast or overwrought nerves, and not the nonsense she’d have me believe.
That certainty grew with every step.
I pushed through the gate and placed a rock in the opening so I couldn’t be locked out, then hurried down the path, eager to see that tree and confirm it was a perfectly normal tree. That would put my mind at ease.
At the bend in the pathway, I could make out the grove in the weak moonlight despite the nightly fog drifting off the river.
A lingering fear twisted in my gut. A flash of smoky red tendrils winding about my arm. Serpent eyes glittering like tiny flames.
I pushed away those thoughts.
There was no danger.
There was nothing unnatural.
I only had to see that tree again, stand before it, prove to myself it was all in my head.
Still my heart thumped, keeping time with my footsteps.
I could see little more than the outer rim of oaks now. The fog had grown as thick as a storm cloud. My pulse raced and it was so dark I could hardly see my feet, but I couldn’t stop. I had to continue. I had to get there.
And I was close. Just another few paces.
Something rustled along the ground behind me. I whipped around, my chest pounding. I watched the blanket of dead brown leaves, searching for movement. I heard the sound again. Not rustling. It was the buzz of dragonfly wings.
I breathed easier and my tension uncoiled.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, my voice jagged with nerves.
My dragonfly landed on my shoulder and stared her question at me.
“I have my reasons,” I answered.
Though I could always count on her to find me during the day, this was the first time she’d joined me for a night stroll.
She continued to stare.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Even as I said it, I knew she wouldn’t believe me. She always knew the truth.
She stomped her needle-like legs.
“Fine. I wanted to see this place again. Something happened today…”
Her stomping stopped. She turned back to the castle.
“How did you already know? Did you see it? Were you here?”
She sat, frozen, staring at the castle.
“Then don’t tell me. But I’m going to have a look.”
When I took a step into the grove, she leapt from my shoulder and flew at the tip of my nose.
“Stop that!” I swatted her away, but she came back at me again.
I tried to shake her off, but she wouldn’t leave me alone. Finally, she did, and so suddenly that I wasn’t sure where she’d gone. I searched the darkness, but it was impossible to see something as small as her beyond a few feet.
“Where are you?” I listened for her buzzing, but the breeze was picking up, making the branches sway and pushing the fog bank farther into the trees.
Then there was something else. Not my dragonfly’s buzz, but… was it laughter? A deep, rumbling laughter.
“Who’s there?” My voice cracked.
There was no answer. Then something moved among the trees. Perhaps the wind, perhaps something else.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even move. I could only stare at what looked like something moving in the mist. A black form creeping through the darkness. A man? No, it was too large. A beast? I hardly knew, but I stared when I knew I should run.
Then, through the thickening fog two sparks of light appeared. Two wide, feral, and flickering red eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
“Wake up.”
The words and the hand on my shoulder roused me from sleep, but just barely. “I’m fine, Marlie. Go back to bed.” I groped for my blanket. “It’s too early.”
“It’s not early, and I’m not Marlie.”
The voice, clearer to me now, did not belong to Marlie. It wasn’t even female.
My eyes shot open. The nighttime sky stared back. Beneath me wasn’t my lumpy mattress, but cold, hard earth. Panic surged then crystallized into one horrifying question:
“Did it happen again?” My voice faltered, my tongue scratchy and dry.
The stranger peered over me, his features lost in the darkness. I blinked and squinted until the contours registered. The curve of a cheek. The hard line of a jaw. When he pushed back a shock of disheveled dark hair that had fallen over his right eye, a fresh wave of fear engulfed me. I tried to sit up, but my limbs wouldn’t cooperate.
“Did what happen again?” His voice was sharp, demanding. “Do you need help?”
“No.” I tried again to right myself, but a wild new thought took hold: why was he here? Why was I here?
I had been on the path with my dragonfly and then… The image returned in a flash. That man or creature I’d seen in the fog. Where was he? I scanned the shadows. No sign of him. Even the fog had disappeared.
“Here.” Mr. Wyck reached out to help me up.
I would have recoiled if I wasn’t lying flat on my back. Instead, I stared at his hand. Those four bare fingers and a thumb hovered over me. I glanced down at my own hands. My gloves were on. At least there was that.
“I can manage.” I had no idea if that was true, but I would never admit it to him.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You need help.”
He grabbed me by the elbow with one hand, took my wrist with the other, and pulled me to a sitting position.
I shook off his touch as soon as I had my balance, but it was too late. I’d felt the brush of his bare fingers across the skin of my wrist just above my glove. “Why did you do that?” I grabbed my knees, clenched my teeth, and braced for a vision.
But nothing happened. No images. No sensations. Nothing.
He frowned. “You don’t look so good.”
Of course I didn’t. Something was wrong. Where was the vision?
I stared at my gloved palms, fresh dirt streaked over the old. What had happened? And how was I supposed to make sense of anything with him hovering over me? “You don’t have to stay. I’m fine.”
I could tell by the twist of his lip and the way he crossed his arms that he knew I was lying. My gaze skimmed the contours of his shoulders and the tug of his wool jacket’s sleeves across
his arms. He was stronger than he appeared at first glance. Certainly strong enough to overwhelm me, if he chose. My fear ratcheted up another notch.
“I hardly think you’re fine,” he said.
I didn’t care what he thought. I only wanted to get away. I searched the darkness, but I didn’t see anyone or anything that could help. Where were the guards? Where was my dragonfly?
I scrambled to my feet in what was possibly the clumsiest manner possible. But at least I was up, and I managed to evade the helping hand he thrust at me again.
“See, I can manage.” I brushed the dust and twigs from my skirt and my gloves. My wits were returning and convincing me more than ever that there was no good reason for him to be here. Had he done something to me? Had he attacked me? I only knew I had to get away. Setting aside my fear as best I could, I said, “I appreciate your trouble, Mr. Wyck, but I assure you I’m feeling much better. I can manage from here.”
“Right.” He smirked.
This should have been easy. Walk out here, see the tree, walk back, and demand answers, real answers, from Mrs. Crossey, who was probably already waiting for me. “What time is it?”
“Bit after midnight, I suppose.”
“How much after?” My gut twisted and the ground tilted again. I swayed uncontrollably.
“Hey, are you all right?” He leaned to catch me if I fell, but I managed to stand my ground.
“Of course I am.” I shook off his efforts to grab my arm. “But I have to get back.”
“Can you walk?” He moved closer, his expression a mixture of disbelief and concern. “I suppose I could carry you, if—”
I stumbled back, dodging his advance. “I’m quite fine on my own, thank you.”
At least I hoped I was. It was taking every ounce of strength not to crumple to the ground. I took a step to prove to him—and to myself—that I could do it.
He shrugged, perhaps agreeing that I could walk or indifferent if I couldn’t. “Then let’s go.” He set off toward the castle and had taken several paces before looking back to see if I was keeping up. “Are you coming or not?”