I would not repeat that old mistake. If nothing else, Miss Trindle had at least taught me that.
“Listen to the girl, Mrs. Crossey.” Mr. MacDougall’s voice rattled the walls. He rose to his feet, and his gaze bored into her. “Just as I said. This is nonsense. I insist you stop this madness.”
Mrs. Crossey shot up from her chair. “It is not madness. Jane, whether you like it or not, your gift marks you for a particular purpose. An important and noble purpose.”
Was she trying to trick me with flattery? It wouldn’t work. I knew the truth. My visions were no gift, and I had no important or noble purpose. “Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.”
Her bosom rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “I wish we could give you more time, so this would be easier for you. But time is a luxury we do not have.”
I listened without reacting, silently begging her to release me from this room and this interrogation. I almost wished for a permanent dismissal now. At least my secret would still be safe.
She rose and paced and pinched her bottom lip, retreating into her own thoughts. When she turned back, her eyes sparked with fresh determination. “Here is the whole of it, Jane. The Queen is in danger, perhaps mortal danger.”
“Mrs. Crossey!” Mr. MacDougall’s face bloomed red with rage. A vein bulged in the middle of his forehead. “I must protest.”
She ignored him.
Yet her statement was absurd. It was beyond belief. “If that’s true, why are you telling me? Go alert the guard.”
“We cannot,” was Mrs. Crossey’s curt and ready answer. “There would be questions.”
“What’s wrong with questions?” She was comfortable enough asking them. Why not answer a few?
She clasped her hands. Her jaw clenched. “We couldn’t explain how we came by this information.”
I looked at Mr. MacDougall. He rolled his eyes, whether at me or her or the whole mess of this exchange I didn’t know.
“The answers would be troublesome,” she added. “Suffice it to say, we don’t wish to share our secrets for reasons much like your own.”
I stiffened and chose to ignore the obvious trap. “If you cannot share your source, are you sure you can trust it?”
Mr. MacDougall and Mrs. Crossey shared a look. He seemed to be screaming with his eyes, “Please stop!”
And for once, I agreed with him. This back and forth was tiresome. I would not give in and, it seemed, Mrs. Crossey would not give up. I only wanted to leave this room. This cold, airless, windowless cave of a room.
Mrs. Crossey ignored the House Steward’s silent plea. She pulled a kerchief from the wrist of her sleeve and held it out to me. It was a small scrap of white linen with a border of simple lace that she always carried with her. “Take it.”
Before I could move, Mr. MacDougall lunged across the width of his desk, trying to grab the square himself. “You cannot do that!” he cried.
Mrs. Crossey pulled the kerchief back before he could snatch it and stared him down. “I can, and I will.”
Despair clouded his expression. Or was it fear? He pulled back.
Again, she extended the kerchief to me.
I knew I shouldn’t take it. I’d been tempted many times to swipe it in the kitchen. To spirit it away for a momentary window into her past. But now that she was offering it of her own free will, I was powerless to resist.
I grabbed it, tugged off a glove, and held the kerchief’s gentle fabric in my bare hand. Such a soft weave, worn smooth from years of use. I imagined I could feel every thread, every fiber, every loving touch.
I glanced up. In Mrs. Crossey’s eyes, I could see she knew what she was doing.
And she knew I could no longer deny the truth.
I closed my eyes and waited for the vision.
~ ~ ~
The sun sat low on the horizon, glinting through the green canopy of an ancient oak, its gnarled branches rising like crooked fingers to the sky. In its shadow stood a gray stone house, thatched with straw that glowed gold where the sunlight brushed its edges.
A small but tidy dwelling. Five paned windows along its length. Two chimneys, one at each end, and a Dutch door beneath a bundle of dried rosemary.
I caught the scent of the herb in the whispering breeze and breathed it in.
“We’re home,” squealed a young girl beside me, a long blond braid swinging across her back. She kicked pebbles as a basket filled with carrots, eggs, and a fresh loaf of bread dangled from her arm.
Her blue eyes sparkled with delight, and freckles gleamed upon her nose. “C’mon, Sylvie, let’s race.”
I shook my head. “You’ll drop the eggs. Mother will send us back to the village if you break them.”
We’d already spent more than half the day walking to the market and back, and I didn’t want to waste the rest repeating the errand. There were still kitchen chores to do, and I’d have to hurry to get to the woods before sundown. Mother never let me out after nightfall, and I knew he’d come this time. I just knew…
“Let’s race, Sylvie. C’mon.”
I shook my head. “Ida Trindle, I already said no.”
~ ~ ~
Ida Trindle. The name jolted me out of the vision. I opened my eyes, curled my fingers into my palms, and waited for the swirling sensation to stop. Slowly, I settled back into myself.
Mr. MacDougall leaned over his desk, his gaze as sharp as a sword.
Mrs. Crossey watched me, too, her fingers clenched in her lap.
I stared at her, trying to reconcile the stern, mature woman in front of me with the young woman I’d inhabited only a moment ago. “Sylvie?”
Mrs. Crossey’s eyes widened. She nodded, a glint of triumph in her eye.
“Did you see something?” barked Mr. MacDougall.
“I saw…” I clamped my
