Dragonfly Maid

would have preferred the reprimand.
At a lull in the activity, I gathered the last of the bowls and utensils we had used and delivered them to the washing maids while Mrs. Crossey tended to the pots on the stove. When I returned, I took a steaming kettle, poured some of the boiling water over my cutting board, and scrubbed away the vegetable residue with a stiff-bristle brush.
“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?