Dragonfly Maid

my eyes, wishing I could wind back the hours. Wishing I had just stayed in bed.
“Well?” The harshness of her whisper verged on hysteria.
“Yes. I suppose. I mean I think that’s what happened.”
“You aren’t sure?”
I shook my head.
Her cheeks lost their usual rosy hue. She bent down and stared hard into my eyes. “What do you remember?”
I laced and unlaced my fingers and shifted on the stool. I didn’t want to think back. I just wanted to forget all of it. But that was impossible. She was waiting. “I remember waking up,” I said at last, “and Mr. Wyck was there. Isn’t that odd? That he should be on the Slopes so late? And…”
She pulled back. Her gaze narrowed. “And what?”
“When he touched me—”
“My dear!” Her hands shot to her mouth. She fell back against the stove behind her and bumped an empty pot, making it rattle and clang.
We both shot looks at the night chef. The noise hadn’t seemed to rouse him.
I hurried to correct her misunderstanding. “Not like that.” A hot flush spread from my shoulders to my cheeks. “I mean he touched my hand. My wrist, actually. My bare skin. It should have caused a vision, but it didn’t. It didn’t do anything.”
Though she’d had her suspicions and I’d played along, my secret was now confirmed and laid bare. There was no going back.
If she noticed my discomfort at this, she didn’t let on. At least not in the way I’d expected. “Nothing at all?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
I shook my head. Could it mean my visions had left me? And why wasn’t that thought a relief?
“Touch me.” Mrs. Crossey stuck out her arm.
I knew what she was doing. I looked again at the night cook. His chin was on his chest, and he appeared oblivious to everything. Slowly, I slipped off my right glove and did as she asked.
The instant my flesh met hers, the familiar swirling swept me away. The room twisted and colors collided into a mass of black and gray. When images emerged, I wasn’t in the Great Kitchen. I was sitting in a country cottage, at a wood table beside a smoldering hearth. An open window showed night had fallen, and I was leaning over a book, a massive thing bound in worn, dark leather. I was holding a candle over its brittle pages, browned with age and tattered at the edges from use.
I leaned forward to read the script, but the vision faded. I was back in the Great Kitchen, facing Mrs. Crossey.
“A vision?” She reached over to pull the steaming kettle from the stove.
“Yes.” I circled my fingertips over the spot where her hand had touched mine. So, I hadn’t lost the ability. Strangely, I was glad for it. Relieved, even. But the question remained. Why had I seen nothing from Mr. Wyck?
I mulled over the possibilities while Mrs. Crossey poured the boiling water into a ceramic teapot and added heaping spoonfuls of tea leaves from her tin. “I’m concerned about the fainting. Tell me what you were doing before it happened.”
“Don’t you want to know what I saw in the vision?”
She shook her head. “I want to know what happened to you tonight.”
I rubbed my fingers and wished I could change the subject. “I already told you what happened.”
She frowned, and I knew she saw through me.
“Was anyone else there?”
I thought of my dragonfly. I thought of the shadow with the flaming red eyes. I shook my head.
She sighed. Perhaps with relief. Perhaps from doubt. I didn’t ask and she didn’t say as she collected two teacups and the sugar bowl. Finally, she said, “I was worried to pieces about you, you know. When I checked your room and you weren’t there, I feared the worst.”
She poured the tea, and I took a cup. Its heat was a comfort, and I breathed in the earthy scent.
“I didn’t mean to be late for the training,” I said after a sip. “Should we get started now?”
Her gaze shot up. “It’s too late for that.”
The Darjeeling was doing its job. I could feel the tension draining from my elbows and knees. “You’re probably right. I need to sleep.”
She lowered her cup to its saucer. “I’m sure you do, but you’ll be lucky to get a couple hours tonight. Or should I say this morning? You’ll need to pick up the Queen’s firewood, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” I didn’t see the cause for her concern, though.
She gave me a funny look, and I followed her gaze to the kitchen clock. I blinked. That couldn’t be right. I blinked again but nothing changed. “It’s three in the morning? It was only eleven when I went out.”
Mrs. Crossey set her cup down, and I could see a tremble in her hands. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I should have stayed with you,” she mumbled. “I should never…” Her words trailed off then she lifted her chin and met my gaze squarely. “I don’t know what happened to you beyond the wall, but you must promise not to venture out there again. Not alone. Not ever.”
I nodded, too unnerved, too baffled by the lost time, to speak.
She took up her teacup again with both hands and with such force I thought the porcelain might shatter. “It’s too late to do anything tonight. We’ll begin tomorrow. In the meantime, do your best upstairs. Pay attention to anything out of the ordinary.”
I didn’t want to go up there, and I told her so.
She reached over to pat my hand but stopped mid-reach and pulled back. “You’re simply picking up a basket in the cellar and delivering it to the Queen’s sitting room. She and her ladies may not even be present. You’ll be in and out in a jiffy.”
I’d been so sure her concerns were nonsense, but now I didn’t know. What if there was a plot against our sovereign? What if it had something to do with that terrifying creature? And Mr. Wyck?