Dragonfly Maid

relief.
And with that, she resumed the underground journey and her recitation of all the trouble there would have been if the guards had found us, which led to anecdotes about the times she’d been caught after curfew and a number of uncomfortable discussions in Mr. MacDougall’s office.
At least I think that’s what she was saying because I was hardly listening.
Instead I was concentrating on the tunnel and searching each new length of stone wall and flagstone path the candlelight revealed. Who could have built this place and why? And where on earth were we going?
I lifted my collar over my nose to lessen the rank smell of moist earth and mildew that was so thick at times it choked me. The extra layer didn’t help much, but at least the stench dissipated as we moved deeper along the path.
“Is it far?” I asked.
“Not really.”
I took her answer to mean we weren’t close, either.
When we approached a door of rustic wood and heavy iron hinges, I stopped.
But Marlie didn’t. She didn’t even slow. Apparently, this wasn’t our destination.
“How much farther?” I asked as I hurried to catch up to her.
“Not much.”
She wasn’t convincing.
When another door came into view, I brightened again.
But again, she didn’t stop. The other doors—I counted ten in all—I passed without excitement or expectation.
Instead, I hugged myself for warmth and wished I had brought a coat. The air that had already been cool and damp at the beginning of the tunnel was downright cold now and the air was filled with the scent of forest trees and underbrush.
We walked in silence, with only the scrape of our boots against the flagstones, but by the time we reached the thirteenth door, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Where do all these doors lead?”
“All over,” Marlie answered. “Some to places inside the castle, some elsewhere. But no one uses them. They haven’t been needed for ages.”
Needed for what? I was about to ask, but Marlie stopped and held out a hand to stop me. “Rat.”
I looked down as a brown rodent scurried across our path a few paces ahead. I tensed despite myself. A single rat hardly posed a danger, but I still didn’t like them. When the animal disappeared into a crevice on the other side, Marlie pulled her hand back and resumed her pace.
Now the walls began to change. The large, sharply cut stones gave way to a smaller, less uniform variety. Some were thin and narrow, others thick and wide. The variety created sloping, uneven layers that made the walls appear to undulate. It was a wonder they stood upright at all. “How long has this tunnel been here?”
“As long as the castle, I suppose. Maybe longer.”
“It looks so old. The stones...” I trailed a fingertip over the worn edge of one that protruded beyond the rest. I was tempted to remove my gloves. Could there be memories locked in these stones? I was mulling the possibility when I stumbled into Marlie’s back. She had stopped when I wasn’t looking.
Marlie scowled over her shoulder. “Please watch where you’re going.”
“Sorry.” I shuffled back and realized the tunnel had come to an end.
Before us stood a wide door, wider than the others and made of a finely polished cherrywood that narrowed to a point like a leaf’s apex ten or so feet above our heads. Twin pillars of a whitish stone flanked it, and upon each was engraved a winding vine of chiseled symbols.
“Take this.” Marlie thrust her candle at me.
I took it, and she grabbed the door’s scrolled brass handle in one hand and pressed a lever above it with the other. From somewhere deep in the stones and the wood, something clanked and clicked, and the door groaned open.
She entered, and slowly, reluctantly, I followed.
It was as if we’d stepped into a cathedral. Above us, the vaulted ceiling was supported by pillars that soared far above our heads. Thirty feet, maybe forty, all terminating in an arched ceiling framed with heavy beams. The polished marble beneath our feet reflected and amplified our candlelight, though I could also see small blazes in the mouths of stone dragon heads set into the walls at intervals around the room. Between the stone dragon heads hung tapestries, mounted cross swords, daggers, and medieval crests.
“What is this place?” I murmured, my voice low and reverent.
“Officially, it’s the Great Hall of the Windsor Order of the Fayte, but we usually call it the Library. This part anyway.” Marlie set the candle on a wooden pedestal beside the door.
The Library. It was an apt name. Ahead of us six curved wooden towers formed a circle that stretched almost to the ceiling. Each tower was divided into dozens of shelves. Some were stuffed with books and boxes, tattered scrolls and loose pages. Others looked as though they’d been scraped bare.
Gazing up, I wondered how anyone could reach the highest shelves until I noticed a scaffold contraption made of brass ladders and pipes, pulleys and levers, all cobbled together with caster wheels at the bottom and handles at the sides so the entire structure could be pushed from one tower to the next along a brass rail that connected the towers like a shiny necklace.
“Robes, Marlie. Don’t forget the robes!”
I knew that voice booming from somewhere farther ahead, somewhere deep within this mysterious hall. It was Mrs. Crossey.
Marlie rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Of course, I wouldn’t forget the robes.”
She blew out her candle as the Library’s light was sufficient and looked at me. “Pick any one you like.”
I followed her glance back to the door and saw behind us a tidy line of indigo robes hanging from their hoods.
When I didn’t move, she grabbed the closest one from its hook and thrust it at me.
“You have to put it on.” She wrinkled her nose in apology. “Everyone has to wear them. It’s a rule.”
There was that word again. “Who is everyone?”
“The Fayte Guardians, of course.” She shook the robe, urging me to take it.
The Fayte Guardians.