From the flash, an onslaught of images emerged. I focused on the present, and soon I could see the woman in pink harping in the carriage, then a cold and stingy lump of grisly beef on a plate alongside a bare potato, then a ledger with a meager and dwindling balance.
I dropped the glove. Woe, regret, and resignation filled that man, but malice? No, at least none I could sense.
I breathed deeply, releasing all that I could of that vision. With more reluctance, I took up the woman’s stole and blanked my mind again. Just as quickly, another swirl settled over me.
Sadness. Disappointment. I saw the man slumped at the carriage window, dark rooms that were cold and bare, rough hands stitching rips in a gown long past its prime.
Sorrow, so much sorrow, but nothing suggesting danger to the Queen.
“Where’s the ticket?”
Marlie’s question broke the spell.
“The ticket? Yes, of course.” I swallowed the residual emotions and set down the stole, grabbed a gold-embossed card from the stack, and scribbled the shelf number.
“Here.” I handed it to her.
“Well? Did you see anything?” She leaned close, her eyes wide with expectation.
I shook my head.
“Maybe this one then,” she said. “He looks unsavory.” She handed me a caped Ulster folded over her arm and a gauzy shawl. “You must be quick, though. There’s a line now. We can’t keep them waiting.”
“Quick. Right.” I found a hook for the coat and shawl and ran bare fingers over the sleeve.
Polished leather shoes, an embrace with a comely maid in a hallway shadow, an older woman—a wife?—waiting in the drawing room.
Nothing to do with the Queen. I set the coat aside and took up the shawl.
A sick child in bed, a tear-stained letter, a vial of laudanum hidden among a shelf of perfume bottles. Despair and desperation, but again nothing directed toward Her Majesty.
I grabbed a ticket, scribbled the number, and hurried back.
The eye roll the footman gave me when I put the card in his hand told me I was still taking too long, but at least he didn’t complain. Not to me anyway.
And that’s how the time passed. A footman delivered a bundle, and sometimes I detected something close to danger, but each time, when the vision clarified, the bitterness focused on a spouse or an in-law or a neighbor. One old curmudgeon was particularly irritated that his wife forced him to attend the ball at all, as he staunchly believed masquerades were silly, juvenile affairs.
Not a single guest, however, presented violent thoughts or ill will toward the Queen, and I wasn’t surprised.
The chime of the first hour came far too quickly. Between visits from the footmen bearing items to check, I scanned the crowd beyond the door for Mr. Wyck. It was next to impossible, though. Curious guests wanted to linger in front of the crisscrossed swords, the mounted pistols and daggers that climbed the vestibule’s walls, the suits of armor astride stationary steeds that flanked the staircase like the ghosts of medieval knights, or any of the myriad treasures tucked here and there.
“What’s wrong with you?” Marlie asked the next time she handed me a coat. “Do you need a water closet break?”
I cringed at the bluntness of her question. Yet it was the perfect excuse. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Cover for me. I’ll be right back.”
I hurried out the door before she could stop me or complain then disappeared into the mingling crowd.
I kept to the perimeter, worried that I would stick out in this throng of well-heeled guests. But no one looked my direction. Or, if they did, they didn’t look for long. I was only a servant after all.
I could go anywhere.
That thought carried me through the crowd to the corridor that would lead me to the stairs and, I hoped, the Rubens Room above.
There was no time to spare. I had to find Mr. Wyck before he reached the Queen.
Up the stairs and down the hall, I passed no one, which was odd. Where were the usual pages, porters, and footmen that were ubiquitous in this part of the castle?
Finally, I found the room I sought and paused at the door, listening for voices. Nothing. I pushed the door open a crack and peered in. Sunlight poured through the open window, glinting off the gilt furniture and dozens of gold-framed portraits.
But there was no one. Not a soul.
I opened the door wider and spied the crates in a far corner beside a window. After checking that there was no one behind me, I slipped inside and closed the door. I padded to the crate and examined them. Nothing unusual. Only a dozen or so closed wooden boxes, the Crystal Palace’s seal intact.
Disappointment set in. I would have liked to have seen this marvelous new invention, this steam instrument they called a calliope.
Behind me, a door closed. I whipped around, searching the shadows. Was someone here? My heart quickened.
Footsteps in the hallway. I rushed to the door, threw it open, and saw a man dressed in a lavishly trimmed pirate coat with black trousers and shiny boots. I would have assumed him to be a guest who had lost his way if it wasn’t for the distinctive flop of tousled chestnut hair I spied beneath his feathered tricorn as he rounded the corner.
I gasped and pulled back into the shadows.
The figure stopped at the sound and turned. His face was obscured by a silvery mask, but it was unmistakably Mr. Wyck.
He stared my direction for what seemed an eternity, then turned and continued on his way.
The shadows had saved me.
I breathed with relief, even as the implications sank in. He was dressed for the ball. That’s how he intended to get close to the Queen. That was his plan.
My heart raced. The Queen was not only in danger. She was in danger now.
I rushed back to Marlie as quickly as I could without drawing undue attention.
“You’re red as a
