Dragonfly Maid

by D D Croix

  There was no sign of either man.

  Instead, I saw footmen, a dozen of them or more, arranging themselves into tidy rows on both sides of the red-carpeted staircase as a carriage stopped at the main doors. Along the lower steps, more footmen assembled—until a frantic Mr. Galding appeared and waved them away.

  “Not here, men,” he cried. “You’re needed in the ballroom. There aren’t enough footmen in the ballroom.”

  An underbutler approached. “Sir, these men are required here. The Chief Deputy to the Lord Chamberlain made the order himself. Assign pages to the ballroom, if you must.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mr. Galding wailed. “Pages are useless in the ballroom. I was assured there would be adequate staffing, but there is not. You have commandeered my footmen.”

  From behind the two men, Mr. MacDougall appeared, his arms held wide, false cordiality oozing from his expression. “Gentlemen, we all agree there are too few men to do the job adequately, but we must do the best we can under the circumstances. Shall we remove ourselves to the Guard Room to discuss it?”

  As he herded the other two into a side room, a gray-bearded man in regimental attire ascended the stairs from the arriving carriage, a golden mask dangling from his gloved fingers. Behind him, two paces or three, came a stout matron in a pale-pink gown with a matching mask festooned with white ostrich plumes that obscured half of her face.

  “That’s the Earl of… Oh, what was it? Berg-something. No. Mon—no, that’s not it, either. It’ll come to me. A stickler, for sure, I remember that about him. Complains about everything and always has to request something peculiar when he attends a dinner. Last time it was a fruit chutney to spread on his roast pheasant. Curry wasn’t even on the menu! He does it to aggravate, if you ask me.”

  Marlie prattled on, but I stopped listening.

  I was too busy watching the entry and the vestibule, searching for Mr. Wyck, who would be restricted to the common areas now, dressed as he was. I was so focused on examining the shadows that I didn’t even notice Chester approach with a pair of gentleman’s gloves, a scarf, and a pale-pink stole.

  “She’ll take them,” Marlie said, motioning to me and proceeding to gawk at the couple, not even trying to be subtle in the way she craned over the man’s shoulder.

  “What? Oh, yes, of course.” That was Mrs. Crossey’s plan, wasn’t it? I was to touch the belongings, wait for a vision, and tease out any threat to the Queen. That the most credible threat was, at this moment, still carting about pieces of a steam instrument gave me some comfort.

  Yet how could I keep Mr. Wyck away from the Queen once I did spot him? That was the question that plagued me as I folded the scarf, the gloves, and the stole and placed them on a shelf. I was so caught up in those thoughts, I considered skipping the vision altogether, but curiosity got the better of me.

  I had never read an earl before, or the wife of one, and my fingers twitched with curiosity.

  Carefully, I slipped off my right glove and picked up one belonging to the earl. Its leather was of a reddish brown, and I was admiring its softness when a white flash nearly overwhelmed me.

  From the flash, an onslaught of images emerged. I focused on the present, and soon I could see the woman in pink harping in the carriage, then a cold and stingy lump of grisly beef on a plate alongside a bare potato, then a ledger with a meager and dwindling balance.

  I dropped the glove. Woe, regret, and resignation filled that man, but malice? No, at least none I could sense.

  I breathed deeply, releasing all that I could of that vision. With more reluctance, I took up the woman’s stole and blanked my mind again. Just as quickly, another swirl settled over me.

  Sadness. Disappointment. I saw the man slumped at the carriage window, dark rooms that were cold and bare, rough hands stitching rips in a gown long past its prime.

  Sorrow, so much sorrow, but nothing suggesting danger to the Queen.

  “Where’s the ticket?”

  Marlie’s question broke the spell.

  “The ticket? Yes, of course.” I swallowed the residual emotions and set down the stole, grabbed a gold-embossed card from the stack, and scribbled the shelf number.

  “Here.” I handed it to her.

  “Well? Did you see anything?” She leaned close, her eyes wide with expectation.

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe this one then,” she said. “He looks unsavory.” She handed me a caped Ulster folded over her arm and a gauzy shawl. “You must be quick, though. There’s a line now. We can’t keep them waiting.”

  “Quick. Right.” I found a hook for the coat and shawl and ran bare fingers over the sleeve.

  Polished leather shoes, an embrace with a comely maid in a hallway shadow, an older woman—a wife?—waiting in the drawing room.

  Nothing to do with the Queen. I set the coat aside and took up the shawl.

  A sick child in bed, a tear-stained letter, a vial of laudanum hidden among a shelf of perfume bottles. Despair and desperation, but again nothing directed toward Her Majesty.

  I grabbed a ticket, scribbled the number, and hurried back.

  The eye roll the footman gave me when I put the card in his hand told me I was still taking too long, but at least he didn’t complain. Not to me anyway.

  And that’s how the time passed. A footman delivered a bundle, and sometimes I detected something close to danger, but each time, when the vision clarified, the bitterness focused on a spouse or an in-law or a neighbor. One old curmudgeon was particularly irritated that his wife forced him to attend the ball at all, as he staunchly believed masquerades were silly, juvenile affairs.

  Not a single guest, however, presented violent thoughts or ill will toward the Queen, and I wasn’t surprised.

  The chime of the first hour came far too quickly. Between visits from the footmen bearing items to check, I scanned the crowd beyond the door for Mr. Wyck. It was next to impossible, though. Curious guests wanted to linger in front of the crisscrossed swords, the mounted pistols and daggers that climbed the vestibule’s walls, the suits of armor astride stationary steeds that flanked the staircase like the ghosts of medieval knights, or any of the myriad treasures tucked here and there.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Marlie asked the next time she handed me a coat. “Do you need a water closet break?”

  I cringed at the bluntness of her question. Yet it was the perfect excuse. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Cover for me. I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried out the door before she could stop me or complain then disappeared into the mingling crowd.

  I kept to the perimeter, worried that I would stick out in this throng of well-heeled guests. But no one looked my direction. Or, if they did, they didn’t look for long. I was only a servant after all.

  I could go anywhere.

  That thought carried me through the crowd to the corridor that would lead me to the stairs and, I hoped, the Rubens Room above.

  There was no time to spare. I had to find Mr. Wyck before he reached the Queen.

  Up the stairs and down the hall, I passed no one, which was odd. Where were the usual pages, porters, and footmen that were ubiquitous in this part of the castle?

  Finally, I found the room I sought and paused at the door, listening for voices. Nothing. I pushed the door open a crack and peered in. Sunlight poured through the open window, glinting off the gilt furniture and dozens of gold-framed portraits.

  But there was no one. Not a soul.

  I opened the door wider and spied the crates in a far corner beside a window. After checking that there was no one behind me, I slipped inside and closed the door. I padded to the crate and examined them. Nothing unusual. Only a dozen or so closed wooden boxes, the Crystal Palace’s seal intact.

  Disappointment set in. I would have liked to have seen this marvelous new invention, this steam instrument they called a calliope.

  Behind me, a door closed. I whipped around, searching the shadows. Was someone here? My h
eart quickened.

  Footsteps in the hallway. I rushed to the door, threw it open, and saw a man dressed in a lavishly trimmed pirate coat with black trousers and shiny boots. I would have assumed him to be a guest who had lost his way if it wasn’t for the distinctive flop of tousled chestnut hair I spied beneath his feathered tricorn as he rounded the corner.

  I gasped and pulled back into the shadows.

  The figure stopped at the sound and turned. His face was obscured by a silvery mask, but it was unmistakably Mr. Wyck.

  He stared my direction for what seemed an eternity, then turned and continued on his way.

  The shadows had saved me.

  I breathed with relief, even as the implications sank in. He was dressed for the ball. That’s how he intended to get close to the Queen. That was his plan.

  My heart raced. The Queen was not only in danger. She was in danger now.

  I rushed back to Marlie as quickly as I could without drawing undue attention.

  “You’re red as a cherry tart,” Marlie said when I found her. “What happened?”

  “I have to get to the Queen before he gets to her.” My voice came in a breathless torrent.

  Color drained from her face. She grabbed my hands and pulled me to a secluded spot beside the window. “Before who gets her?”

  “Mr. Wyck. He’s dressed himself up as a guest. He’s headed for the ball. We have to go. Before it’s too late.” I knew I wasn’t making sense, but there was no time to explain. We had to move.

  Behind her gentle brown eyes, I could see Marlie sorting and scrutinizing my words, weighing them for merit.

  I grabbed her elbow, breaking my own rules of touch. “We must go!”

  She stared at my hand on her arm then looked at me. I could see she understood now. “The Queen isn’t there. Not yet. It’s too early. She won’t appear for another hour, if I had to guess.”

  “We cannot guess!”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Wait here.”

  She hurried to the door and hailed a footman. When he approached, she whispered to him. Then he whispered to her. He pulled back, his eyes narrowed to pinpricks. She nodded. He sighed and leaned in again. A moment later, he pulled away and returned to his post.

  Marlie returned to me. “The Queen isn’t expected in the ballroom for a half hour, at least.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing of importance.” Her glance skittered away.

  I didn’t need a vision to know she was lying. The way she refused to meet my gaze was proof enough. I would have demanded to know what was said if I thought she would tell me, but I knew she wouldn’t. I had my suspicions, though.

  That footman—was he Fayte? Were there others around us? Mrs. Crossey refused to tell me their number, and I suppose it had been my own fault for not pressing the question. Perhaps Marlie had told him what I’d said. Perhaps they could help.

  That thought filled me with hope. “He can assist, can’t he? The Fayte Guardians will help?”

  Her fingers flew to her lips. Her face contorted in horror. “Don’t speak that name. Not here. Not ever.”

  “I’m sorry.” But I wasn’t. Not really. What did she expect? The Queen’s life was at stake.

  She nudged me back to the shadows beside the coat racks.

  “He said he’d do what he could.” She scanned the room to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “But there simply aren’t enough of us to do much of anything without being noticed.”

  Her concern was evident, but it still made little sense. Someone intended to harm the Queen, and these people were worried about being noticed?

  “Who cares if they’re found out if it means saving the Queen?” I tried to match her whisper, but my frustration was getting the better of me.

  “It’s not that simple,” she said. “There are rules. He will do what he can.”

  How could she accept that? But there wasn’t time to argue. If they weren’t going to do something, I would.

  And I already had a plan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I had reached the Grand Staircase when a hand landed on my shoulder. I whipped around.

  “Sorry,” Marlie said. She pulled back and flashed her palms. “I forgot.”

  “Don’t try to stop me.” I knew it was risky, but my mind was made up.

  “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m going with you.”

  I didn’t expect that. “What about the cloak room?”

  She flicked her hand over her shoulder. “I told Chester you needed help.”

  I frowned, puzzled.

  “With a female issue,” she elaborated.

  “A female issue?”

  She stifled a laugh. “He didn’t dare ask anything after that. But it’s fine. Everyone’s in the ball or milling about in St. George’s Hall. There’s nothing to do now but wait, and I wasn’t going to let you do this alone. But what exactly are you doing?”

  A page in full red-and-gold livery strode toward us with a silver platter and cloche. Once he passed, I whispered, “I’m going to the private apartments.”

  “The Queen won’t be there. She must be in the Throne Room by now.”

  “I need to get something, and if I don’t hurry, it’ll be too late.”

  We had to get through the kitchen and up the east stairs to stay out of sight. The detour would add several minutes to the trip, but I couldn’t risk being seen—or stopped—by Mr. MacDougall.

  She gnawed on her lower lip and touched her Faytling, but she didn’t move.

  I was losing what little patience I had left. “We have to go.”

  Something desperate flashed in her eyes and she gripped her Faytling more tightly. “I think there might be another way. If it works, we can cross the Quadrangle in half the time.”

  Tempting as that sounded, lanterns had been set up along the interior lanes for the carriages. Anyone gazing out an inner window would be able to see us. Mr. MacDougall, Mr. Bailey, even Chester. “It’s too risky.”

  “But no one would see us.”

  “Are you insane? Everyone could see us.”

  She straightened herself and shook off her hesitation. “You’re wearing Mrs. Crossey’s Faytling, aren’t you?”

  My fingers brushed the crystal talisman hidden beneath my collar. I nodded.

  She ducked into a dark alcove near the stairs and motioned for me to follow. “There’s an old trick Mother taught me. She told me they used to do it to move through crowds quickly, but that’s when the Guardians still relied on their magic. No one does now, not in ages. I used to do it until Mr. MacDougall caught me and threatened to revoke my Faytling if he caught me doing it again. It should work, though.”

  “What should work?” So far, she wasn’t helping. She was only confusing me, and time was slipping away.

  She pulled her Faytling over her head and slipped the vessel, cord and all, into the palm of her right hand.

  I did the same.

  “Now, think to yourself, ‘I’m invisible,’ ‘I’m unseen,’ or something like that. The words don’t matter as much as the intention.”

  “You can’t be serious.” If she thought this was funny, I certainly didn’t.

  “I’m absolutely serious. Just watch.” She lifted her right hand to show me the talisman, then she disappeared. She completely vanished.

  I searched around. “Where are you? Marlie, where’d you go?”

  After a moment, she reappeared behind me, grinning with triumph. “I’m right here. See? It works.”

  “But how?” I searched the space behind her and around her, hoping for a reasonable explanation, yet suspecting it was just as she’d said. Magic.

  “It’s the Faytling. It works best when there are distractions around and in short spurts, but I think it can get us there.”

  Think? That wasn’t reassuring.

  Still, the minutes were ticking by. I did as she said, gripped the Faytling inside my glove, and mentally repeated the word “invisib
le.” It might have been the effects of the talisman or just my nerves, but the view in front of me turned murky and unsteady, like the onset of a vision.

  Was it supposed to feel like this? It didn’t matter. As long as it worked, we had to keep going.

  I followed her past the line of footmen, and to my astonishment, they didn’t look at either of us. It was as if we weren’t there at all.

  We passed through the open doors and made our way through a break in the line of carriages before crossing the wide lawn of the Quadrangle.

  If Marlie was having the same sideways feelings I was, she didn’t show it. I, on the other hand, was struggling to keep up. Was this part of the Faytling getting used to me? Every step proved more difficult than the last, as if my boots had been weighted with stones. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. I searched the windows, looking for faces staring at us, seeing through our trickery.

  I saw no one, however. It was only my imagination. My nerves. And I forced myself to keep moving. To keep pace with Marlie despite my reluctant limbs. I swung my arm forward for momentum and though it felt like my arm, what I saw moving beside me was a hazy, silvery outline of what might have been my arm. Only it couldn’t be because my arm was still locked at my side. Panicked, I returned the silvery shadow back to my side. I clenched and stretched my fingers in amazement, but the spell was broken by a voice—that voice—whispering in my ear, “There you are.”

  A blackness rimmed my vision that constricted, making the tunnel of my sight smaller. Ever smaller. No. I wouldn’t give in. Not this time. One foot in front of the other. I pressed on. Again and again and again. I stared at the ground without blinking. Afraid to blink. I watched my feet, but every nerve sensed him. He was near. I could feel it. That voice.

  Finally, Marlie stopped when we’d crossed the Quadrangle lawn. “Where to now?” When she glanced back, her face crumpled with concern. “Oh goodness, what’s happened?”