Dragonfly Maid

by D D Croix

  Something in my gut pinched at his words. Was that true? Did he have a female friend inside? The question hounded me as I tried to focus on keeping out of sight.

  The guard clucked his tongue. “I don’t know anything about that. The Constable’s men are keeping an eye on the spot, but they’re a tight-lipped bunch. You should tell your friend to stay inside, though. To be on the safe side.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mr. Wyck said. “Thanks for your trouble.”

  “No trouble, mate. Have a good night.”

  Mr. Wyck tipped his cap again and shuffled down the lane. I held to the shadows until we were a good distance away and the darkness obscured us.

  We walked in silence, each in our own thoughts. I wanted to ask him about the friend. But what did it matter? It shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t make any difference at all.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

  I shot him a hard glance. “I was just thinking of that girl on the Slopes. What do you think happened to her?”

  He looked at me then my dragonfly, who still buzzed above my head. “Difficult to say. Strange things happen in these woods. Things I can’t explain. But it might have been just like they said, a terrible accident.”

  The way he stared into the distance, I knew he didn’t believe that. Just as I didn’t.

  “Do you—”

  But I didn’t have a chance to finish my question. He held out his arm to stop me. “This is it,” he said. “The path is here, somewhere.”

  I saw nothing but the Long Walk, the arrow-straight path that led from the castle gate to the Copper Horse statue on Snow Hill two and a half miles away, with rows of elms and oaks bordering each side. “I can’t see anything but the trees.”

  “Precisely,” he said with a confident air. “Come on.”

  He trampled through the low grass and I followed behind, my ankles and hem growing damp along the way. Despite myself, I watched for stray roots and tensed at every snap of a twig, every crunch of a brittle leaf under foot. I scanned the shadows for anything that moved.

  To my dragonfly, who was flying to my left, I whispered, “You’ll warn me if there’s trouble, won’t you?”

  “What did you say?” he called back.

  “Nothing.”

  “Talking to that dragonfly again? What did it have to say?”

  “She’s a she, not an it.”

  “Fine. It’s not much farther. I’m looking for a tree.”

  Just one? There were hundreds.

  We passed a dozen, then he slowed as we neared an oak that stood apart from the rest. Larger and older, its gnarled branches and deep crevices reminded me of the tree I’d seen on the Slopes.

  “This is the one, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer at first. He was pulling a leather cord from beneath his collar. If I’d had any doubt he was Fayte, it was dispelled by the Faytling dangling at the end of that black leather cord. “It was dipped in the Balmoral divining pool, so it may not work exactly right here.”

  “There’s more than one divining pool?”

  “Of course. There’s one wherever there are Fayte. You should know that.”

  One more thing I didn’t know. But that was a topic for another time. I pulled out the Faytling from beneath my own collar. “Would it be better to use this one?”

  His eyes widened. “How did you get that?”

  “It’s Mrs. Crossey’s,” I said. “She lent it to me.”

  His expression changed. “Did you have it when she was attacked?”

  I nodded, making that connection for the first time. “Do you think that made a difference?”

  “We have them for protection, among other things.” His lips twitched. I could sense there was more he wanted to say, yet he didn’t.

  I held the amulet in my palm. If she had had it instead of me when she was attacked, she might not be fighting for her life.

  “But to answer your question, yes, it would be preferable to use yours. May I?”

  He extended his hand. I pulled the Faytling over my head and handed it to him.

  He took it and stepped up to a deep, jagged crevice in the tree’s gnarled trunk.

  “Stand behind me,” he said.

  When I did, he touched the Faytling to the tree and muttered words I didn’t understand.

  A purple glow grew within the Faytling’s stone and the crevice slipped apart, creating an opening nearly as wide as a door.

  I gaped. My mind groped for a reasonable explanation of what I’d seen, but there was none. Had the world always contained such magic?

  Mr. Wyck looked at me. “Are you ready?”

  Cautiously, I peered into the hollowed-out tree then back at my dragonfly. She was still hovering behind, urging me forward. I might not trust him, but I trusted her. I faced him. “I am.”

  Without another word, he took my hand and led me into that dark place.

  Stepping inside, I blinked hard, trying to make out something of the space around me, but I could discern nothing. Only the musty odor of moist earth, a biting cold on my cheeks, and the warmth of Mr. Wyck’s hand clutching my own. He pulled me onward.

  But how could that be? If it were a tunnel, it would have had to slope down.

  I dropped his hand and backed out, back into the starlit night where I could make out the clear silhouette of the tree.

  Mr. Wyck emerged as well and watched me lean around the trunk, searching for the missing space. “Wondering about the dimensions?” he asked.

  “It’s all wrong.” I searched the right side again. “We stepped in, both of us, yet there should hardly be room for even one. Where is the rest of it?”

  “That’s magic for you. You see what you want to see. When it comes to the Other Realm, the world plays by different rules. It’s best not to think too much about it.”

  “But how—”

  I stumbled back to avoid my dragonfly, who was buzzing at my nose, or as close to it as was possible without an actual collision.

  “I think she wants you to move along.”

  I was going to thank Mr. Wyck for that profound insight but caught the sparkle in his eye.

  Fine. I pushed past him, annoyed. Perhaps he found this all very amusing, but I knew she wasn’t trying to be funny. She was frantic.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I hardly knew, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I trusted my dragonfly, and she was telling me to go.

  Again, I stepped into the tree’s black crevice, and the moonlight vanished. Again, I was in complete and utter darkness.

  I gripped my Faytling with one hand and brushed the tunnel’s rough bark walls with the other. “I wish there was some light in here,” I muttered to no one in particular.

  As soon as the words were out, a weak light pulsed through my fingers from the Faytling. I opened my hand to see the stone was glowing. Only faintly, but enough to see a narrow path of packed earth and tangled tree roots in front of me.

  “How did you do that?” The question sounded more like an accusation.

  “I have no idea.” I was still staring at the thing in my hand.

  “How many spells did Mrs. Crossey teach you?”

  “I don’t know any. I just…” I just wanted light, but that wasn’t a spell. Was it?

  Behind me, he muttered something I couldn’t hear but I surmised the meaning. He didn’t believe me.

  I ignored him and hurried on. Even with light, it was difficult ground to cover. The tunnel was tall but narrow, not even wide enough for us to walk side by side down what was now a noticeable downward slope.

  As we moved, the temperature dropped. Tree roots wove in and out of what were now rough dirt walls. I watched for unnatural movement.

  After a hundred feet or so, the passage hooked to the left and we met a tall and wide door made of roughly hewn wood and crude black hinges. I’d seen that door before—or one like it—and at last I knew where we were.

  “Do we just go throug
h?” I whispered.

  “I believe so, unless I’m gravely mistaken.”

  I shuddered at the mention of a grave. How far underground were we anyway? I let the thought go and grabbed the metal handle. I pressed the lever that dislodged a latch and the door slid open. I peeked around the edge to see what awaited us on the other side.

  More darkness.

  I held out the Faytling, and the white light illuminated the space, revealing walls of uneven stones.

  Familiar stones.

  “What’s there?” Mr. Wyck whispered.

  “The tunnel from Mr. MacDougall’s office.”

  Mr. Wyck passed me and searched in both directions. “You’re right, and I believe we head that way.” He pointed to the left.

  The tunnel bent in a long, smooth curve, just as I’d remembered, and soon we were at the massive polished door.

  When I reached for the scrolled handle, Mr. Wyck struck out his arm and held it closed. “Do you hear that?” He leaned against the wood. “I hear something. Someone’s inside.”

  I heard it, too. Some kind of chant or incantation. I couldn’t make out the words, but it was a man’s voice. “Mr. MacDougall?”

  Mr. Wyck straightened, his shoulders squared to the door. “Maybe.”

  I pulled the handle by inches and peeked inside. My gaze shot to the inner sanctum beyond the towers of books, where a cloaked figure knelt between us and the divining pool. His arms outstretched in a worshipful pose.

  But it wasn’t the man who sent a shot of fear through me as much as the pool itself. The whole thing, from the bottom of its footed pedestal to the wide alabaster rim glowed red. Not lavender or violet as it had during Mrs. Crossey’s Converging, but a deep pulsating red with a crimson cloud rising above it.

  The chanting stopped.

  Before the figure could turn our way, I hid behind the nearest tower. Mr. Wyck did the same.

  He moved his finger to his lips, but I didn’t need the warning. His wide eyes told me he was as panicked as I.

  After a moment, the muttering resumed. I breathed more easily, but I knew without a doubt this was what my dragonfly had wanted me to see.

  I leaned around the tower’s corner and tried to listen to what was being said. Tried to determine what was happening. Tried to identify who it was beneath that robe.

  It didn’t help that I couldn’t understand a word being said, if they were even words at all. I stared at Mr. Wyck until I caught his eye.

  “Who is it?” I mouthed.

  He hiked his shoulders, a silent I don’t know.

  It was all I could do not to step out and put a stop to whatever this was for I knew with every ounce of sense within me that it couldn’t be good. Or was it just me rushing to judgment again? Could I risk another reckless act? I’d already caused so much trouble.

  I leaned against the tower, closed my eyes, and tried to think: what would Mrs. Crossey have me do?

  Don’t be rash.

  I opened my eyes and stared at the row of robes hanging on the wall, with one lonely black coat hanging among them. A gentleman’s coat, not a servant’s.

  I caught Mr. Wyck’s eye again and pointed to it.

  His lips twisted. He didn’t understand.

  But he didn’t need to. I knew how to get the answers we needed.

  I peeked around the tower again. The robed figure was still facing the pool, away from us. The figure stood transfixed, and I could see it was certainly a man, though too short and too stout to be Mr. MacDougall.

  At that instant, wispy tendrils emerged from the cloud and stretched toward the man’s outstretched hands. I watched as the streaks wrapped around his fingers, working their way over his wrists and his arms.

  My heart lurched. I remembered those streaks. I remembered them winding around my own limbs, holding me captive in the woods.

  I thought of the shadow creature again. That furious red gaze that had snaked into my soul.

  But I had to move.

  I shook off that painful reminder, pulled off my gloves, and tucked them into a skirt pocket, then dashed across the aisle to the black coat hanging among the robes.

  Mr. Wyck lunged at me, trying to stop me, but I was faster. I yanked the coat from its hook and sank back into the safety behind the tower.

  Instantly my panic slipped away, replaced by a powerful surge of something that started in my fingertips. Even before I could pull the Faytling free from my neck, images emerged. Not just a face, but a life. A whole world of thoughts and feelings and intentions.

  I swooned with the amount of information that flowed into me.

  I opened my eyes and Mr. Wyck stood over me. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear a word. Then with a whoosh! the sound returned.

  He tugged my arm. “We have to go. Now!”

  “Who’s there?” the man called out from the divining pool. “Show yourself.”

  I scrambled to my feet, but it was too late. Fast and heavy footsteps echoed through the hall.

  I dropped the man’s coat, grabbed an indigo robe, and threw it around myself. I was pulling the hood low when Mr. Bailey rounded the corner of the tower.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “No one should—”

  Whatever he meant to say next died on his lips as he fell to his knees and slumped to the floor.

  Standing behind him, tall and proud, was Mr. Wyck holding one end of a scroll like a cricket bat.

  He stared at me. I stared back. Then he threw the scroll to the ground with a crash, and we ran into the tunnel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  With only my Faytling’s light, Mr. Wyck and I didn’t stop running through the tunnel until we reached the row of doorways. My heart pummeled my chest as he approached the first one. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. “Which one do we take?” I asked anyway.

  He shook his head, his expression lost. “They all look the same. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “Do we take one or keep going till we reach Mr. MacDougall’s office?”

  He stared at the door.

  A rattle and slam rang through the tunnel.

  “He’s coming,” I said.

  “If he sees us, he’ll recognize us.”

  I couldn’t let that happen. I’d seen what he planned to do. I knew his desperation.

  Mr. Wyck pressed on. “I know it wasn’t the first door, or the second. We passed four, maybe five on our way to Fayte Hall.”

  “At least five,” I added, the memory trickling back.

  He paced in front of me, stopping at the sixth door and eyed it.

  I passed him, grabbed the handle, and pushed it open. To my surprise, it gave easily. I stepped through. It wasn’t the same tunnel we had come in. These walls were made of brick not earth.

  Mr. Wyck grabbed my elbow before I could enter. “It’s not the right one!”

  “I know.”

  The clamoring grew nearer. Mr. Bailey was almost upon us.

  “There’s no time,” I added. “We have to go.”

  I pressed on and the door latched behind me. I turned to see that Mr. Wyck had followed. On the other side, furious footsteps grew nearer. I held my breath until they passed into the distance again.

  Relief washed through me. I would have continued alone, but I was happy I wouldn’t have to. I held my Faytling aloft to spread the light. “Does any of this look familiar to you?”

  He considered the stone wall, the flagstone floor for a moment then shook his head. “Not at all.”

  I should have been disappointed. The tunnel could be leading us anywhere. But we were safe from Mr. Bailey, at least for now.

  We trudged on through the tunnel. Curving at times, but mostly straight on, and the brick walls never changed. The flagstone floor didn’t, either. Then the floor sloped upward.

  Only slightly at first, but then more steeply. I sought crevices in the stone to keep my footing.

  “We must be getting close to something.”
/>   I hoped Mr. Wyck was right.

  Then we came to the end. A dead end.

  No door, just a flat earthen wall.

  I stared at it, cursing it silently for now we’d have to backtrack and try a different route.

  Mr. Wyck, however, was holding his Faytling to the wall.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to get us out of here.” He touched his talisman to the dirt in front of us and mumbled something softly under his breath.

  The wall trembled and cracked. It wasn’t pulling apart as the tree trunk had, but dirt crumbled away in a gentle avalanche. He pressed the wall and what was left there tumbled to the ground, leaving a door-sized hole.

  I gaped at the moonlight beyond. “How did you do that?”

  He put his Faytling back around his neck. “You’re not the only one who can work a Faytling.”

  “I can see that.” I stuck my head through the hole. There were shrubs and leaves and something that looked like part of the castle wall. “Any idea where we are?”

  He crossed the threshold beside me. “Yes, actually. I know exactly where we are. Come look.”

  I followed him through a shaggy curtain of ivy that drooped over the hole and emerged into the moonlight. I tucked my Faytling beneath my collar.

  Above us the moon hung just above the top of the Round Tower.

  I breathed in the rosemary, sage, and thyme. “Moat Garden.”

  We had emerged from what looked like a mound of ivy against the tower’s base. Even standing just a few feet away, the ivy now completely disguised the opening. When I reached back through, my hand hit solid earth. The opening was gone.

  “Strange, huh?”

  He watched me, limned in silvery moonlight. Moisture glistened above his brow and he seemed on the verge of leaning in, perhaps to…

  I turned, afraid of where my thoughts were taking me.

  “Do you think we’re safe?” I was sure we were, but I was desperate to change the subject.

  “Who knows?” His words weren’t sarcastic, but soft. Worried, even. “But you should get back inside.”