Dragonfly Maid

Crossey had already warned I might lose control. Cold fingers scraped down my spine. “Do you think it could be harmful?”
“I don’t think so.” She stepped away from me and went to her bed. With one hand, she pulled back her covers, and with the other, she again touched the place on her chest where her own Faytling rested beneath the fabric. Was it for comfort or courage? “Just wear it,” she said. “Then we’ll see.”
“You’re right. We’ll have to wait and see.” I lowered the black leather lace around my neck, dipped the pendant beneath my collar, and slipped into bed.
But something else tugged at my thoughts. “Before the ceremony, when you tried to leave, why did Mrs. Crossey stop you? Why can’t she do the ceremony by herself?”
Marlie rolled onto her side toward me. “I’m sure she can, but it’s against the rules. Not just for her, but for anyone.”
“Why? Is it dangerous?”
Her lips twitched. “I’ve never seen anything that was dangerous, but something happened a long time ago. No one talks about it, but I’ve heard stories about a young scryer, just a little girl still new to her talent, who was trying to communicate with the Lady but who welcomed in someone—or something—else by mistake.”
“Who was it?”
Marlie shook her head. “No one knows, but it frightened the Council enough that when they found out, they prohibited any scryer from ever Converging alone after that.”
“It’s never happened again?”
“No, it can’t. But like I said, we shouldn’t be talking about it. Please don’t mention it to Mrs. Crossey. I’ve probably said too much already.”
Why did everything have to be so secretive? I knew it was an argument I wouldn’t win, so I wished her a good night, closed my eyes, and tried to fall asleep.
Despite my efforts, all my questions still burned like flames within me. There was so much I didn’t know, but there was knowledge in the Faytling. I sensed it.
I knew I shouldn’t, but at the sound of her soft snores, my resolve weakened. I ignored the common sense telling me to be patient and the voices of Mrs. Crossey and Marlie telling me to leave it alone.
Something else whispered, go on… touch it.
So I did.
With my bare fingertip, I stroked the cold metal filigree once and waited.
I ran another finger across it, then two.
Nothing.
I wrapped all four fingers and my thumb around the talisman, nestling it in my palm. I half braced and half begged for a vision.
Absolutely nothing.
I let it go and rolled onto my back to stare at the ceiling, disappointed and frustrated, until sleep finally took me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
My new daily routine deviated little over the next few days. Wake with the first morning bell, collect firewood for the Queen’s sitting room, help Mrs. Crossey prepare the servants’ morning meal, start the servants’ evening meal, return to the Queen’s room to collect the afternoon tea service, and finally help Mrs. Crossey finish the servants’ evening meal before being released for the day.
Then, after snatching a couple hours of sleep, the real work began at midnight.
The first night we descended to the Library and spent our time testing the accuracy of my visions. I’d never had reason to doubt them, but Mrs. Crossey wanted to be convinced.
To begin, she produced an assortment of items from her pocket that belonged to individuals I’d never met. An ivory pipe that had belonged to her father, a silver spoon from a neighbor, and buttons that were the property of various royal attendants. She seemed relieved, if not outright pleased, when I correctly identified each owner.
The second night she pulled out the same items with new instructions: instead of sifting through the past to discern an identity, I was to look into each owner’s future. That effort proved less fruitful. With each attempt, the visions only led to the past, no matter how much I tried.
“Let’s try something different,” she said after several failed attempts. “What does the belonging tell you about the owner? Do you sense any emotion? Happiness or sadness? Anger or frustration?”
Although thoughts, feelings, and occasionally sensations had been accompanying the visions produced from my memory box trinkets for weeks now, those produced by Mrs. Crossey’s items were scattered at best, even with the Faytling gripped tightly in my fist. Her father’s pipe rendered only a vague, forlorn feeling. The spoon, a surge of eager, happy thoughts centering on the sweet smell of ripe strawberries. The buttons produced nothing discernible at all.
The one emotion all the trials shared, however, was Mrs. Crossey’s disappointment—in me—though she tried to hide it behind kind and encouraging words.
After two hopeless hours, she sent me back to bed with a reminder to keep the Faytling close and not to be discouraged. “Even a natural-born gift requires practice to master,” she said. “You have only begun to master yours.”
Perhaps if she hadn’t been so agreeable, I wouldn’t have lain awake wondering what I was doing wrong. And perhaps if I hadn’t lost so much sleep, I wouldn’t have stumbled on the edge of a rug the next day and nearly dropped the tray that held the Queen’s empty teapot and cups. I watched in horror as a handful of silver teaspoons bounced over the tray’s edge and tumbled across the carpet.
Luckily, the Queen was already off to the stables for her afternoon ride, so only her ladies and Abigail witnessed my mistake. The latter wasted no time rubbing it in.
“Do pay attention,” she whispered harshly when she came up beside me.
“Of course,” I said, embarrassed and angry at my clumsiness. I already suspected she’d been placed in the sitting room for the sole purpose of spying on me. I imagined the delight she’d take in relaying this bit of news as I bent to collect the scattered spoons.
As I was on the floor, the door opened. I shot up, expecting to see the Queen, but it was only a page. At least I assumed it was a