Dragonfly Maid

here, see the tree, walk back, and demand answers, real answers, from Mrs. Crossey, who was probably already waiting for me. “What time is it?”
“Bit after midnight, I suppose.”
“How much after?” My gut twisted and the ground tilted again. I swayed uncontrollably.
“Hey, are you all right?” He leaned to catch me if I fell, but I managed to stand my ground.
“Of course I am.” I shook off his efforts to grab my arm. “But I have to get back.”
“Can you walk?” He moved closer, his expression a mixture of disbelief and concern. “I suppose I could carry you, if—”
I stumbled back, dodging his advance. “I’m quite fine on my own, thank you.”
At least I hoped I was. It was taking every ounce of strength not to crumple to the ground. I took a step to prove to him—and to myself—that I could do it.
He shrugged, perhaps agreeing that I could walk or indifferent if I couldn’t. “Then let’s go.” He set off toward the castle and had taken several paces before looking back to see if I was keeping up. “Are you coming or not?”
Oh, he was expecting me to follow. “Of course.” I hobbled forward as best I could.
When we reached the castle wall gate, a tingling at my shoulders made me stop. I looked back. The trees were lost in inky darkness, but it didn’t matter. I knew someone—or something—was out there, watching me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
I trudged along the East Terrace garden pathways behind Mr. Wyck, who no longer looked back to see if I followed. It was a relief, to be honest. Without the obligation of keeping up a conversation, I could try to piece together what had happened.
Not that it helped.
I remembered talking to my dragonfly when something moved among the trees. Then I’d seen those terrifying eyes.
I didn’t want to believe they were real, wanted desperately to believe they were the byproduct of an overactive imagination or indigestion.
But could it be coincidence that I’d fainted, and Mr. Wyck had appeared out of nowhere?
Hardly.
Something was going on. But what?
I was still silently debating the matter when we reached the kitchen door. When he opened it, I straightened, thanked him for his trouble, and sent him on his way.
Or tried to.
“I can’t leave you here,” he grumbled. “I should see you inside and safely to your room.”
“No.” The word was abrupt, perhaps even rude. “What I mean is, I’d prefer you didn’t.”
I couldn’t tell him I had to find Mrs. Crossey. That I had answers to demand.
He tilted his head to the side and gave me a look that said my opinion didn’t matter.
“Really. I feel fine.” Just leave already, I wanted to yell at him.
“Jane, is that you?”
A round figure barreled toward us from the dark end of the corridor. I recognized her immediately.
“Yes, Mrs. Crossey. It’s me.”
As she approached, she looked at me and lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s hardly the hour to be traipsing about with” — she lowered her voice another octave — “a young man. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t with a young man.” It was impossible to hide my mortification. “I mean, it’s all a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?”
She was mocking me.
“Not quite a misunderstanding,” Mr. Wyck piped in.
I shot him a nasty look, which he ignored.
“I found her unconscious on the Slopes, ma’am. I just wanted to be sure she got back inside. Safely.”
Mrs. Crossey smiled kindly at him, then gaped in horror at me. “Unconscious? On the Slopes?” Her hands flew to her mouth. “How did it happen? Wait, you must sit down. Come with me. Let me get you some tea.”
She gestured for me to follow her. To my companion, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Wyck. I’ll take care of it from here.”
He frowned but nodded. “I probably should get back to the mews.”
“Yes, that would be wise. Good night, now.” Mrs. Crossey shooed me toward the kitchen.
Behind me, I heard him say faintly, “Please do keep an eye on her.”
~ ~ ~
Mrs. Crossey and I were down the hall, nearly to the Great Kitchen, when I asked her plainly, “What do you know about Mr. Wyck?”
“He’s a stableboy, if I’m not mistaken.”
“But what do you know about him?”
“Nothing, really.”
I had the distinct feeling she knew something she wasn’t telling me, or she’d be the one asking the question.
“Are you hungry?” she added in her distracted way. “I made scones for tomorrow’s breakfast table. A new recipe I’m trying out. Mrs. Beeton recommends a tad more sugar than I’m used to. Not sure what I think of them yet.” She maneuvered me to a stool beside our stove before lighting a flame beneath the kettle and lifting a towel off a platter of scones. “Go on. You look like you want a nibble.”
Indeed, I did. I reached over and helped myself to a healthy portion. I was still chewing when the disapproving look I’d been expecting—and dreading—finally landed on me.
“So, what were you doing on the Slopes? Again. After I told you it was dangerous. I was very clear.”
I pointed to the scones. “May I have another? They’re extraordinary.”
Mrs. Crossey tilted her head and gave me a look that said flattery was no answer.
I stared at the polished copper pots and pans hanging above our stove, but I could feel her glare. “I couldn’t sleep. And I wanted answers.”
She turned back to look at the only other person in sight: a night chef leaning precariously in a chair beside a distant cupboard, who appeared to be asleep. Satisfied that he wasn’t listening, she whispered, “Did you see something?”
“No.” I wasn’t going to tell her anything until she told me what she knew.
Her eyebrows rose.
I rubbed at the streaks of dirt and grass on my gloves. Considering the abuse they’d suffered, it was a wonder they were still intact. That was the last thing I needed.
“I can’t imagine what you were thinking,” she said. “I told you it was dangerous, and Mr. Wyck said you passed out?”
I closed