Dragonfly Maid

of the framed photographs on the mantel,” I blurted then gasped. Why on earth had I said that?
“Photographs? Why did you want to do that?” Her eyes remained fixed on me in that peculiar way.
Say nothing. I pressed my lips together, but the answer burst out anyway. “I thought I might see something about the Queen.” My hands shot to my mouth. What was happening to me?
“But you didn’t touch anything?”
I shook my head.
Finally, Mrs. Crossey looked away. She tapped her lips and muttered, “So Abigail is assigned to the sitting room now. How unfortunate.”
When her gaze left me, so did the strange compulsion. “You did something to me, didn’t you? How did you do it?”
She shook her head and led me back to our stove. “A conversation for another time.”
I watched her return to the porridge and our ordinary routine, but I was now absolutely certain that this woman was anything but ordinary.
~ ~ ~
The hours passed quickly in the Great Kitchen as work progressed on the nighttime meals, the centerpiece of which was a royal reception in the Waterloo Room for a contingent of German and Austrian dignitaries.
All around Mrs. Crossey and me, cooks and sous chefs and assorted maids worked on a trio of potages, a poisson, a goose stuffed with wild mushrooms and rice, asparagus with a frothy mousseline, a mocha souffle, and an array of jellied fruits and ices for dessert.
I, however, worked on batch after batch of savory bread pudding for the Servants’ Hall, baffled at the way everyone carried on without the slightest acknowledgment of the tragedy that had struck just beyond the castle wall.
There were no inquiries into the comings and goings of the staff to discover if anyone had witnessed anything that might be useful to the investigation. There was no call for vigilance. Nothing.
It was all so peculiar.
I would have thought no one even knew except by mid-afternoon the whispers and huddled conversations, meaningful glances, and conspiratorial visits to the pantry were unmistakable.
But rather than discuss it, it was as if everyone was holding a collective breath. Was it possible they all believed, as Mrs. Crossey seemed to, that it was merely an unfortunate accident?
I certainly didn’t. And I couldn’t stop myself from watching every door that opened and eying every person that strolled through our midst. Perhaps my suspicions would come to nothing, and if that was the case, then no one would be happier than I.
Until then, I watched and I listened and I waited.
After the final batch of bread pudding was dispatched to the oven, I gathered my dirty bowls and utensils for the washing maids. I cleaned the cutting board as Mrs. Crossey assembled the leftover ingredients. “I can return those to the pantry, if you like,” I said.
She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “No. I can take it from here. You’ve done enough for today.”
I had?
She gave me one of her motherly looks. “You need to rest,” she whispered. “We have a long night ahead.”
I was too tired to argue. After two nights of little sleep and a long day on edge, the thought of crawling into bed made me weak in the knees. I yearned for my pillow. I nodded and scraped the last sausage nubs free from the board. “Midnight, then?”
She shooed me from my place and took the cutting board. “Midnight. Mr. MacDougall’s office.”
I grabbed a clean dishtowel, wiped off my gloves, and headed for the door.
“And, Jane,” she said, a warning in her voice, “no side trips tonight.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After midnight, after all the meals have been served and all the sous chefs and cooks and maids and pages have retired for the night, a certain stillness descends on the Great Kitchen. The busy worktables and stoves stand empty, the copper pots and pans hang silent, and an eerie darkness fills the lantern roof windows that usually glow with sunlight.
At least that’s how it seemed when I slipped in at the witching hour on my way to meet Mrs. Crossey. The only soul in sight was the nighttime cook, who was already propped back in his chair beside a stockpot, a simmering beef broth by the smell of it, probably for the next day’s use. He appeared to be asleep.
Lucky man. Every time I drifted off, I inevitably returned to images of the attack. As if they were always there, waiting for me. And now, to know a young woman had lost her life out there certainly didn’t help.
As much as I didn’t want to believe Mrs. Crossey’s warnings, that girl’s death had given them credence.
I tried to console myself with the reminder that the Constable and his men were investigating and the castle guards would be on high alert. It was the only thought that gave me comfort as I waited in the darkness, watching the moon creep across the starry sky through our room’s sliver of a window.
It had seemed an eternity before that glowing crescent finally crested, when I could slip out of bed—quietly so as not to disturb Marlie’s sleep—and make my way to meet Mrs. Crossey.
Passing the snoring cook on tiptoes, I had nearly reached the corridor that led to Mr. MacDougall’s door when the sound of slow footfalls stopped me short.
I turned, expecting to see Mrs. Crossey, but I saw no one save the sleeping cook. I listened again but heard only the thumping of my own heart. Then the cook’s long, sonorous snore.
My fears really were getting the better of me.
“Roaming again?”
The familiar tenor stopped me mid-stride. I resisted the urge to run. It would do no good anyway. With his larger size, he could catch me if he wanted.
Carefully, I turned to find Mr. Wyck leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and his lips tucked up in a sly grin.
“I’m not roaming.” I hoped the irritation in my voice masked my trembling.
He pushed off the wall. “Then what else could you possibly be doing here at this hour?”
My