Dragonfly Maid

gently. Go, she seemed to say.
As if I had choice.
Since I was closest to the corridor that led to his room, I approached it first. And for the second time that day, I steeled myself for what awaited me. I was preparing for the worst when I opened the door to let myself in.
“You?”
My head shot up to find Lucas Wyck already within and staring back at me from the chair where I’d sat only a few hours before. He jumped to his feet and appeared to be as troubled by the sight of me as I was of him.
Mr. MacDougall came up behind me.
“Mr. Wyck,” he grumbled. “Why are you here?”
The stable hand doffed his cap and dark hair tumbled over his forehead, partially eclipsing his view. “I was hoping to have a word, sir.”
“Not now.” Mr. MacDougall’s tone left no room for negotiation.
Mr. Wyck dropped his chin to his chest. “Of course, sir.” He moved around the chair and approached the door, and in doing so came within inches of me.
The usual fear of human contact gripped me. I recoiled. To avoid looking him in the eye, I stared at his hands. Surprisingly smooth and clean for a man who worked in the dust and muck of a stable all day.
“Is something wrong, Jane?”
Mr. MacDougall’s words jolted me. I realized I was still staring where Mr. Wyck had been though he was already out the door and down the hall. I wrapped my arms over my chest in defense against the prickly feeling that gripped me. “No, sir. It’s just rather cold in here.”
The House Steward sneered. “You’ve obviously spent too much time at the ovens. It’s a bit warm for my taste.”
Not surprising, I suppose. And it likely explained why that monstrosity of a fireplace was always dark. The man was a walking icicle.
Instead of complaining, I tried to focus on something besides the goose flesh on my arms. My attention flitted from his desk to the burgundy rug beneath me, its pile matted and frayed by the boot heels of every sullen servant ever summoned to this room.
“Sit down,” he demanded as he moved behind his desk, checked his appearance in the oval mirror, and settled into his leather chair.
I moved toward the seat Mr. Wyck had vacated, then thought better of it and settled into the other. I regretted it immediately. From this vantage point, the dragon heads in the mantelpiece seemed to stare at me over Mr. MacDougall’s shoulder, their snarling mouths and sharp teeth a fierce if silent warning.
He leaned back and rubbed his jaw with his skeletal fingers. “You know, Jane, I’m not sure what to make of you.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Why was he scowling at me like I was an insect he wanted to crush?
“I mean, why are you here?”
Because Mrs. Crossey stopped me from leaving. Because a tree attacked me. I couldn’t say these things, of course, not without sounding like a lunatic. “I was recommended by my schoolmistress, if you’ll recall.”
He stared, as though deciding whether I was telling the truth. “And that’s all?”
“What else could there be?” The instinct to run clawed through me again, but this time I didn’t budge. I knew he wanted me to leave. I could feel it like fire beneath my skin and it made me suddenly determined to stay. To spite him, if nothing else. I crossed my ankles, clasped my fingers, and returned his stare.
He seemed on the verge of saying something then stopped and glanced away. After a long moment, he muttered, “Let’s be clear: I’ll be watching you. Closely. Now return to the kitchen.”
I rose before he could change his mind and made my way to the door.
As I hurried to put distance between me and that man, I thought about what Mrs. Crossey had said. If you stay, I can protect you. I wasn’t so sure. She might be able to protect me from whatever lurked beyond the castle wall, but I feared the greater danger was staring daggers at me from behind that desk.

CHAPTER SEVEN
When I returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Crossey was at the worktable, cutting a beef roast into chunks with her cleaver. She saw me and jutted her chin at the pile of onions, carrots, and celery beside her. So, it was to be stew in the Servants’ Hall this evening. Without a word, I pulled a knife from the caddy and grabbed a fat onion.
“Careful of the paper there.” She pointed to the magazine pushed to the table’s corner at my end. “I’m trying something new from Mrs. Beeton.”
Mrs. Beeton was Mrs. Crossey’s favorite columnist in the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine.
“What’s it call for there in the list of ingredients? One pint of beer or two?”
I leaned over to read it. “Just one.”
“Suits me.” She grabbed one of three pints beside her and took a quick, satisfied swallow.
When she saw my grin, she wiped her mouth and set down the bottle. “What? A good cook always checks the quality of her ingredients. In any case, I hope you agree the change is necessary.”
My stomach clenched, and I nearly lost my grip on the knife. “What change? Mr. MacDougall didn’t mention anything about a change.”
She gave me a puzzled sort of look. “The change in duties, of course. Collecting the firewood for the Queen’s room.”
“He said nothing of it. He’s giving me char duties?”
“Shh!” She waved away curious glances shooting our way. She leaned in, and I caught the lingering smell of tobacco and beer on her breath. “Not permanently and not entirely. Just an hour or so a day. It’s a good thing.”
I snorted and probably used more force than was necessary to chop the onion in half and trim its ends.
She took up her bowl full of meat and turned to the stock simmering on the stove behind us. Carefully, she laid each chunky bit into the pot. “You won’t do much good if you’re stuck down here all