~ ~ ~
I found no sign of Mrs. Crossey back in the kitchen.
“You missed a dandy of a tantrum,” Marlie whispered. She’d left a bowl of fresh strawberries at her worktable to join me at mine, which was uncharacteristically bare.
“Mrs. Crossey threw a tantrum?” Alarmed, I scanned the kitchen, looking for the woman.
“Not her. Chef. The orangery delivered a crate that sent him into screaming fits. Mr. MacDougall calmed him by sending Mrs. Crossey into town to find something more suitable.”
“She’s gone?” I was already envisioning an afternoon of leisure. An unexpected boon.
“She is, but you can lose that grin. Mr. MacDougall wants you to report to the wash room.”
“Please, no. Not the wash room.”
She shrugged and I could see it gave her no pleasure to relay the unwelcome news. It was a dismal assignment, and she knew it.
Frankly, I wasn’t surprised. Mr. MacDougall had found no proof of my guilt but had found a way to punish me nonetheless.
For the next few hours, my naked waterlogged hands and I worked alongside the small army of washing maids that scrubbed piles of grimy pots and pans, as well as the hundreds of dirty plates and bowls, cups and utensils carted into the dank, windowless room on carts.
At least it gave me time to think.
While the washing maids gabbed about their many complaints and gossiped endlessly, I mentally replayed the confrontation with Mr. MacDougall and Abigail, and her ridiculous desire for an introduction to Mr. Wyck.
As if I could manage one even if I’d wanted to.
Which I didn’t. I may regret taking her locket, but I drew the line at matchmaking. Certainly with him. What did she find so appealing about him anyway? What did anyone?
He wasn’t exactly awful to look at, if you didn’t mind that messy hair or that brooding, faraway stare. It was more the way he strutted around as if he owned the place. Honestly, why had he even been near the Queen’s rooms?
The question pricked me.
What was he doing there?
And why had he given us—given me—such a funny look when he passed by? That strange look of consternation.
Two words snapped to mind. Getting. Caught.
They stayed with me the rest of the day and by the time I joined Mrs. Crossey in the Library, I could think of nothing else.
“It’s him,” I said as we collected our robes from the hooks, after explaining the events that had led me to be standing in the corridor with Abigail. “I don’t know why or what he has against the Queen, but it has to be him.”
She pulled her robe around herself and tied it closed. “I’m quite sure I told you to disregard Mr. Wyck.”
“But you also said to watch out for the Queen. He’s up to something. Why else would he be there?” I fastened my own robe.
“And what of the foretelling? How could ‘a face is not a face’ apply to him?”
Why was she protecting him? “He could be here under false pretenses. Or hiding his true intentions.”
She shook her head. “Let’s not deviate from the plan.”
Her plan. “The masquerade ball?”
“Precisely.”
But that was still days away. “Why should we wait when the threat is already obvious?”
She reeled back. “Because it’s not obvious. Not to me, and it shouldn’t be to you. You shouldn’t be reckless with your assumptions.”
It was absurd that she wouldn’t see reason. “Then what do you suggest?”
“I suggest we take the time we have to strengthen your ability. To continue to see how we might use the Faytling to advantage. Now come with me.”
I trudged along behind her to a table, where she proceeded to lay out a variety of new items she pulled from a leather pouch—a handkerchief, a cuff link, a hairpin, and a slender wooden comb.
“Where’s the Faytling?” she demanded.
I pulled it from beneath my collar and let it hang freely over my chest.
“Hold it and touch an item then tell me what you can about the item’s owner.”
More games. Fine. I did as she asked and discerned that each item belonged to a different servant who worked within the castle. The identities came quickly, much more quickly than they had before, but I still couldn’t divine any anger or malice.
And why should I? Not a single item belonged to Mr. Wyck.
“Don’t pout,” she said sharply. “It’s unbecoming.”
I looked away. Good sense told me I should drop the matter, yet I couldn’t help myself.
“Why can you not at least include something that belongs to him?”
“It isn’t necessary.”
I clenched my teeth. She had accused me of not taking the threat to the Queen seriously. But I had to wonder, did she?
“Even you must see there’s something off about him. Doesn’t it bother you that he was out there the night that poor girl was killed?”
“You were there as well. Did you have something to do with it?”
That frosty stare stopped me cold. “Of course not. You know I didn’t. What could I possibly have against an innocent farmer’s daughter?”
“What would he have against such a girl?”
“I don’t know. But when I touched him, I felt nothing. It’s like he’s hiding something.”
She grimaced. “Be that as it may, until we know more, we owe him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?”
“I suggest we do what we’ve been doing.” She glanced down at the scattering of belongings on the table. “The faster you learn to use your ability to sense danger—real danger—and who’s behind it, the better off we’ll be. Until then, I say whatever prompted that young man to be on the Slopes, you should feel lucky for it. There’s no telling what might have happened to you if he hadn’t come along when he did. And for now, we’ll assume our culprit intends to use the ball as an opportunity to get close to the Queen. Do you agree?”
She wouldn’t continue until I nodded.
“Good. Now get yourself to bed. You need to be well rested and ready for
