by D D Croix
He turned so he was facing Marlie and eclipsed me completely. “She’s in a private room near the Queen. It was deemed best to keep the physician near to both.”
“Of course,” Marlie said. “If you have an opportunity, please let us know if there is any change in her condition. For good or…” She didn’t finish her sentence.
“Yes, you can be sure of it.”
We loaded the last bag onto the cart, and he wheeled it away. To where, I didn’t know or care.
A clock in the adjoining room chimed ten times.
“I suppose we’re done here,” she said.
The chamber was almost back to its usual state. The shelves, racks, and chairs that had been brought in would likely stay until the morning staff removed them.
“I suppose we are.” I was still lost in my own thoughts about Mrs. Crossey and the Queen and the mysterious figure who threatened them both.
“Shall we get back to the kitchen?” Her tone was hopeful, if not quite cheerful. “I’m sure there’s still work to be done there.”
I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to that little corner without Mrs. Crossey. I’d probably be assigned to another cook or the washing room, but all of it would only reinforce my failings.
“You go.” I mustered something close to a smile. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Marlie frowned but didn’t argue, only nodded and slipped out the door.
We both knew I wasn’t going to the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The night staff had extinguished most of the candles on the main floor, but a few still flickered in the vestibule and St. George’s Hall, casting dancing orange light against the legion of lonely blooms and garlands. I roamed among them, weaving in and out of the shadows, by turns clutching and releasing the Faytling that rested, exposed, atop my pinafore.
I craved its help to find Mrs. Crossey’s attacker, if it had any to give. I begged for it, but I also feared the consequences. I’d never felt anything like that strange malaise that had afflicted me in the Quadrangle. It was far more disorienting than any vision, and Marlie had no explanation for it. How could I guard myself against another bout when I knew nothing of its cause?
But then there was so much I didn’t understand. About the Faytling. About the Fayte Guardians. About any of this.
Mrs. Crossey had been struck down. That I knew. And the same could happen to the Queen. I believed that.
After nearly an hour, my prospects were dim, I knew, but I still couldn’t give up. Marlie would be in our room eager to discuss and dissect all that had gone wrong, and I couldn’t face her.
So, I pressed on into the dark hallways, hastening my pace whenever I passed a footman or a guard. I didn’t slow for pleasantries. I didn’t make eye contact. I moved with haste and purpose, so I would be left alone.
When I found myself at a door to the East Terrace, I opened it.
The night air bit my cheeks and my nose. I hugged my arms around myself but ventured on despite the cold.
The nearly full moon was high and illuminated the crisscrossing pathways to the fountain. I walked without a destination, without a purpose, simply trying to think of nothing at all.
Then I heard that familiar soft buzz. The one I had been hoping for. I stopped at the fountain’s edge and waited for her to settle.
“I’m happy for the company,” I whispered. I couldn’t see her yet, but I knew she was close. I could feel the familiar prickle of her attention.
But there was something else, too.
I searched the shadows and saw only the usual forms. The shrubs and statuary. The benches and paths. Were there still guards stationed beyond the wall?
“It’s probably just something drifting in the air,” I said to her.
There was a pause, then a silent question.
“I know it’s late. But I don’t expect I’ll sleep tonight.”
She dipped her head.
“I’ve made such a mess of things—” My voice caught. Again the image of Mrs. Crossey lying unconscious on the stairs vexed me.
I expected a condolence or some reassuring sentiment.
What my dragonfly conveyed was more like a slap.
“What do you mean you already knew?” I blurted. “How?”
What followed was a frantic dance.
“Slow down. You aren’t making sense. What about Mr. Wyck?”
“Why don’t you ask me yourself?”
I froze at the sound of the throaty voice behind me. I looked over my shoulder to find him standing not ten feet away, his head cocked to one side, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his wool coat. A regular coat, I noted. Not the velvet costume I’d last seen him in. The hat was gone, and his hair was tucked beneath a cap, not a tricorn. “I didn’t know you were there,” I mumbled.
“So I gathered.”
He chuckled or scoffed; I didn’t know which.
“What I mean is that…” I stopped. What did I mean? Before I could decide, my dragonfly alighted from her spot and flew away.
No, she was doing something else. I stared with increasing horror as she flew directly at Mr. Wyck and circled his head.
He ducked and bobbed and tried to avoid what he was interpreting as an attack. And he laughed. A full belly laugh to which I couldn’t help but smile.
“Is it always like this?” He dodged another pass.
“No, actually. She’s never like this. Dragonfly, stop this instant.”
To my surprise, she obeyed and came to rest on my shoulder. I stared at her and waited for an explanation. But she only sat primly, stared at me, and sent one simple message: “Listen to him.”
“What is that? Your pet?”
Mr. Wyck’s questions weren’t unreasonable, but I sneered anyway. “She’s hardly a pet. She’s a dragonfly.”
As if that explained anything.
“I can see that,” he grumbled. “Yet she seems rather fond of you. I’ve never seen a dragonfly act like that before.”
Was she fond of me? I suppose she was, just as I was of her. Did that make me her pet? The prospect might have amused me if my heart weren’t so heavy.
“You know they call you the dragonfly maid behind your back.”
“Who calls me—” No, I wasn’t going to let him goad me into an argument. I had no wish for one, not tonight. “Why are you here, Mr. Wyck?”
He looked away, to the darkness beyond the castle wall. “Not sure exactly. I thought I might find you here, though.”
“You did?” I bristled.
“Why are you out so late?”
He was trying to sound sharp and disapproving, but I could hear hesitation in his voice.
“I needed some fresh air. It helps me think.” I hugged myself, though it was admittedly a futile attempt to stave off the cold.
He noticed. “You must be freezing. Here.” He shook off his coat and covered the distance between us in long, brisk strides before draping the coat around my shoulders.
My breath stopped at the nearness of him. The warmth and the smell of dirt and hay that clung to him. Stable smells I hadn’t noticed in the ballroom. When he moved back, I stared at the ground. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
He was watching me, and for the first time, he didn’t look to be on the verge of grumbling something sarcastic. For the first time, he looked… kind.
My dragonfly buzzed at my ear, urging me, in her way.
“I suppose I owe you an apology.” I fumbled with the edges of the coat. Holding it close like this reminded me how it had been with him on the dance floor. The two of us moving in unison, so effortless, so… I winced. I couldn’t—shouldn’t—think that way. I did not enjoy this closeness. I couldn’t let myself.
“Oh?” His curiosity was piqued.
My dragonfly buzzed again. Just say it. Say it and be done with it.
Fine. Stop hounding me.
I met his gaze. “I believed you wanted to hurt the Q
ueen.” The words rushed out of me. “I thought you wanted to hurt her, and that you were the one who killed that girl, and that maybe you wanted to kill me, too. I know it sounds crazy, but Mrs. Crossey told me… It doesn’t matter what she told me. But I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
My dragonfly flew a full circle around my head then paused, giving me a good long look. You did the right thing. Then she flew away.
She might be pleased, but I was quite sure Mr. Wyck felt differently. I expected him to be angry, or at least annoyed. Instead he let his head drop back, and he stared at the stars above.
“Did you hear what I said?”
He looked at me. “I heard you.”
Was he angry? But he looked more perplexed than angry.
“I was just thinking it was strange because I owe you the same apology.”
“You do?”
He stared off to that faraway place again. “I thought you intended to hurt the Queen. That’s why I was sent here, to watch you. To catch you in the act, if I could. I thought that’s why you sneaked into the ball tonight. I didn’t want to believe it, but the signs seemed so obvious.”
His words were crazy. “How on earth could you think such a thing?”
He threw up his hands. “Why else would you disguise yourself except for some devilish purpose? And then to get so close to the Queen?”
The way he said it, it did seem plausible, even probable, that I was up to something. Except… “But why would I want to harm the Queen?”
“Why not you? Someone clearly means to—information that isn’t common knowledge, by the way, yet you seem fully aware. And that girl who was killed just over the wall, so very near the spot where I found you. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.”
“But you were there, too! You could have done it.”
He all but laughed. “Do you really think so?”
“I did, until someone attacked Mrs. Crossey.” I turned to the fountain and stared into the cascading waters. After a quiet moment, I turned back. “How do you know someone is after the Queen?”
He shifted and seemed to consider his words carefully. “Haven’t you guessed?”
I had guessed many things, and they had all been wrong. I no longer trusted myself.
After another long pause, he said, simply, “I’m a Fayte Guardian.”
I scoffed. He was lying. Mrs. Crossey would have told me.
Wouldn’t she?
Perhaps not. The truth was, there were many things that woman hadn’t told me. Too many. The castle was apparently filled with Fayte Guardians, yet I knew of only four: Mrs. Crossey, Mr. MacDougall, Marlie, and Chester, and he was still only a guess.
But Mr. Wyck?
“If it makes a difference,” he continued, “I don’t think Mrs. Crossey knows. My family left for Balmoral years ago. I was barely out of short pants back then.” He kicked at the dirt. “And I’ve altered my name.”
“You aren’t Lucas Wyck?”
“Not exactly.” Still he stared at the ground. “Officially it’s James Lucas Starwyck, Jr. I go by Lucas, but Mr. McDougall thought I should alter my last name for anonymity.”
It sounded like something Mr. MacDougall would do.
“Should I call you Mr. Starwyck, then?”
His dark eyes shot up and locked on mine. “Best to stick with Wyck, I think. But I wanted you to know the truth.”
Was it the truth? I still wasn’t sure. Why would Mr. McDougall go to such trouble?
Mr. Wyck—or Starwyck, or whoever he was—must have sensed my thoughts.
“He believes Mrs. Crossey is acting recklessly. Against the Order’s interests, you might say,” he continued. “With no Supreme Elder to turn to, he sent word to the Elder Council. My father sent me to see if Mr. MacDougall’s suspicions were correct.”
“What were his suspicions?”
He rubbed his chin and again seemed to cherry pick his words. “That you were a threat to the Queen.”
“Me?” I choked back a laugh. “Why on earth would he think that?”
Mr. Wyck—for I decided Mr. Wyck he would remain—pushed back a lock of hair that fell over his eyes. “You must admit, your actions have been suspicious.”
Was he serious? The way he scrutinized me told me he was. “How in the world am I suspicious?”
“You have no people here. You keep to yourself. You wander off alone and mutter to yourself.”
Was that how I was perceived? A misfit with peculiar habits? “I don’t mutter to myself.”
“That’s what people say, but I suppose it’s still better than the truth. Which, I gather from tonight, is that you converse with a dragonfly who may or may not be your pet.”
His mouth twitched. He was finding humor in this after all.
“I didn’t realize people paid any attention to what I do.” How many of my secrets were known? “But that still hardly explains why anyone would think I intended to harm the Queen.”
“Why would anyone intend such a thing? You could have your reasons. Do you? Have reasons, I mean?”
“No, of course I don’t. Mrs. Crossey wanted my help to protect her. That’s all I was trying to do. It’s what I’m still trying to do.”
The recrimination faded from his eyes. “I believe you.”
Relief. It was the only feeling that registered.
“Are you all right?” He moved closer and put his hand on my shoulder. My instinct was to shrug it off, but then I remembered. He was a void. A blessed reprieve from the onslaught of images and emotions. Instead of brushing off his hand, I stripped off my gloves, let them fall to the ground, and grabbed his hand with both of my own.
My skin tingled with the chill of the night air, except where we touched. His inner heat seeped into me through his fingers, the soft pad of his palm. I couldn’t remember the last time I had touched someone without some modicum of fear.
When I looked up, his eyes were wide with questions.
Of course he didn’t understand. How could he?
“When I touch someone,” I said, “I can see things from their past, or sometimes things that they’re thinking or feeling. It can be overwhelming. But I don’t feel anything with you. Why?”
“I-I don’t know.” He tried to step back, but I tightened my grip.
“I thought it must be a sign of your guilt. That you were causing it somehow. I thought it was a sign of magic.”
He nodded, as though it made sense. As though any of this made sense.
“What do you think it means now?” he asked.
I looked up and nearly lost myself in those haunting eyes. “I wish I knew.”
We stood there for so long, he and I. An eternity. Then he brushed my cheek with his fingertips. I was sure he was bending closer, dipping his head to perhaps…
But the buzz of my dragonfly interrupted whatever he was about to do.
He pulled back and watched her dart in a crazy pattern in front of us.
He lifted his hand to swat her away, but I pulled it back.
“She’s trying to get my attention.” Still I hoped she noted my silent reproach.
She came to a soft landing on my shoulder, and immediately I could see this wasn’t one of her usual antics. She was frantic. “Calm down,” I said. “I’m listening.”
Mr. Wyck tensed beside me, but I couldn’t think about that. Something was wrong.
“I can’t go to Fayte Hall now,” I muttered. “How would I get into Mr. MacDougall’s office? I’ll go tomorrow, when Marlie can help.”
My dragonfly flew up directly into my right eyebrow.
I stumbled back. “Stop! I told you, I can’t get in even if I wanted to.”
She buzzed in a zigzag between Mr. Wyck and me.
I looked at him. What she was telling me was impossible, but I asked him anyway. “Do you know a way into Mr. MacDougall’s office?”
“Now?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
I stared up at the stars. None
of this was making sense. “I don’t know. She’s saying I need to get to Fayte Hall. To the divining pool.”
I winced. Had I told him too much?
“I can’t get you into Mr. MacDougall’s office.”
I turned to my dragonfly with an I-told-you-so grimace.
“But,” he added, “I can get you to the Hall.”
“You can?”
He nodded. “At least I think I can. There’s a way through the woods beyond the wall. My father took me through it once, years ago. I think I can still find it.”
I didn’t know what to say but my dragonfly did. She instantly buzzed around his head in happy circles.
When she elongated the lap, I could see she was trying to communicate again. “She wants us to hurry. But how will we get past the guards? Surely they’re still there.”
He took my hand. “I know another way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
We traveled, Mr. Wyck and I, along the terrace paths to the south side of the castle wall. My dragonfly kept pace beside me.
Mr. Wyck eyed her at intervals. “Is she following us?”
“I think so. She hasn’t told me.”
“Of course, she hasn’t,” I heard him mutter under his breath.
I dismissed the sarcasm. His approval didn’t matter.
We hurried through the shadows and endeavored to stay out of sight of the castle guards who walked the perimeter.
We made good time. When we neared the King George gate, Mr. Wyck pulled me into a shadow before the guards saw us.
“I’ll go first and distract them,” he whispered.
Then I watched him affect a leisurely stride, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets. “Bit late for an evening stroll, mate,” one uniformed guard called out.
Mr. Wyck made a sucking sound through his teeth and tipped back his cap. “Is it? I wasn’t keeping track of the time, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re from the mews, aren’t you?” the guard asked. “You should probably be getting back that way.”
“My thoughts exactly. I was just on my way down. Say—” He rubbed at a patch of stubble on his chin and worked his way to a spot in front of the guard, giving me a chance to slip through the shadowed side of the gate’s opening without being seen. “They don’t know anything more about that girl who was done in beyond the wall, do they? I have a friend inside”—he nudged his chin toward the castle—“she’s worried. I’d like to put her mind at ease, if I can.”