“No, no, no!” the man cried over his shoulder. “It must be now. It cannot wait.”
Another man still hidden in the staircase called out from behind him, “Sir, we cannot leave our posts.”
I recognized the voice even before I saw the man emerge into view, a dark sweep of hair escaping beneath a tweed cap, as usual. It was Mr. Wyck.
“This cannot wait. The shipment must be unloaded immediately.”
The two of them disappeared down the turn of stairs descending to the lower floor, and I craned my neck to watch until I could no longer see them.
“What are you doing?”
I hadn’t heard Marlie come up behind me. She was looking down the stairwell, trying to see what I was looking at.
“Who’s down there?” she added.
“No one. I thought I saw something, but I must have been mistaken.” It was better not to tell her what I suspected of Mr. Wyck. One question would lead to another, and I had no sufficient answers. Not yet anyway.
“We should get back,” she said. “We can’t miss the early arrivals.”
“Of course.” I was growing more certain, however, that the threat we sought was already here.
When I fell back, she stopped and whipped around with a scowl. “What’s taking so long?”
What, indeed.
“I forgot something in the kitchen. Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”
Before she could object, I darted back to the stairs. Only when I’d reached the bottom did I pause to look back, so I was sure she wasn’t following me. No sign of her.
Good. But where had Mr. Wyck gone? The narrow stairwell had corridors leading in all four directions. I scanned each, and one looked as promising as the next.
“Careful, boys, careful.”
Voices! It was Mr. MacDougall somewhere along the corridor to the right.
I looked around the corner and saw him, standing beside a door opened to the castle’s North Terrace. He was ushering through the workmen, each carrying a crate emblazoned with the word “fragile” in bright red letters. Some crates were large, some small, and they all were being taken to the same place.
But where was Mr. Wyck?
I edged closer. One man, then another, and another. I had seen these men in the Servants’ Hall, but not one of them was the one I sought.
Suddenly, he was there, stepping over the threshold, his arms embracing a crate.
I leaned farther to get a better view, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Then Mr. Wyck spied me. I shot back behind the wall, but it was too late. My heart thundered in my chest as I searched the corridor for somewhere to hide. Could I get up the stairs and out of view before he reached the corner? Hardly. Then I heard Mr. MacDougall call out.
“Not that way, son,” the man said. “We must stay clear of tonight’s preparations. Backstairs only to the Rubens Room, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Wyck grumbled.
I exhaled the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and waited. After a long moment, when I no longer heard footsteps, I peeked around the corner again to see the door still open, but no one coming or going. I ventured closer and heard the voices outside.
Keeping to the shadows, I saw Mr. MacDougall and four of the men, Mr. Wyck among them, standing around the cart, where one enormous crate still waited. It was as big as a stove and even taller.
“We’ll have to take it up in pieces,” one of the men said with a rough rub to his beard.
“Absolutely not,” Mr. MacDougall said. “It cannot be dismantled.”
“How about a pulley?” another suggested, pleased with himself. “We could hoist it up to the room.”
His neighbor wheeled around with a grimace. “And how do you suppose we’d manage that without plucking out the window?”
The one who had made the suggestion scratched his head. “Yeah, guess that wouldn’t work.”
“Guess not,” his neighbor scoffed.
Mr. Wyck, who had been standing apart from the others with his head down, jumped into the cart, tipped the large crate, and watched it balance on its edge.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. MacDougall said with obvious concern.
Mr. Wyck didn’t respond until he had set the crate back down. “What I’m thinking is, there’s a dolly in the stable that we use to move feed sacks. We could use it to move this box.”
The way Mr. MacDougall’s eyes widened I thought he might embrace Mr. Wyck, right then and there.
“Capital idea. You there, go get it.” He gestured to the bearded man, who nodded and jogged off.
When he was gone, Mr. Wyck leaned against the cart. He looked at his two colleagues then at Mr. MacDougall. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple strong backs to get this up to the Rubens Room. I know Mr. Jameson would prefer someone get the horses out for their exercise before the crowds arrive.”
Mr. MacDougall appeared to have been lost in thought but perked at the mention of a crowd. “What? Oh, yes. Of course. Go on along then. One of you stay behind, though. Yes, how about you?” He indicated the bigger, burlier one with the beard.
Mr. Wyck stepped up. “I’ll stay.”
The other two stable hands looked at him like he was crazy for volunteering. Mr. MacDougall looked suspicious.
“I’ve lugged feed around the stables enough to have a pretty good handle on that contraption. I can manage it, with Charlie’s help, of course.”
The scrawnier one grinned and shuffled back from the cart, tugging the other one with him. “As long as you’re sure, mate. We should be getting back, now that you mention it.”
Before Mr. MacDougall could argue, they hurried down the lane.
“What in the world are you gawking at?”
I wheeled around to find Marlie behind me.
She was eying the cart. “What do you suppose that is?”
“I believe it might be something called a calliope.”
“A what? Oh, now I see what you’re up to.” She turned to me with a wide, knowing smile. “Mr. Wyck?”
“Hardly.” I didn’t
