But which one? I had no memory of it. I looked behind me. I couldn’t go back that way. The men may have summoned the guards, and guards would undoubtedly have questions.
Where else could I go?
What I needed was to collect my thoughts. A moment to focus on Mrs. Crossey’s handkerchief and—I hoped—discover the identity of her attacker.
Because one thing was now painfully clear: it wasn’t Mr. Wyck.
I stepped into the chamber, closed the door, and slumped against the nearest wall. The full weight of my failure pressing me down.
I had been wrong all along.
And what if Mrs. Crossey succumbed? I didn’t want to lose her because I’d been too stubborn to see the truth. I pulled off my mask and threw it to the ground, along with the fan. What good was a disguise if I was too stupid to see what was right in front of my face?
The handkerchief was my only hope. I tugged the small square of white linen from the elbow of my left glove. If Mrs. Crossey had seen her attacker, perhaps I could see it in a vision.
I tugged away both silky gloves and gripped the linen. Please, Mrs. Crossey. Please show me.
Vertigo set in almost instantly. My thoughts swirled into a disorienting blur, and I searched for images to resolve.
The blur continued. After a moment, the swirling increased to a dizzying pace.
I tightened my grip and increased my concentration, focusing every thought on the fabric.
Only spinning. Incessant spinning.
I dropped the fabric and keeled over, grabbing a knee with one hand and my stomach with the other. Nausea threatened to overwhelm me.
Finally, when the ground stopped shifting beneath me, I straightened and tried to compose myself. Nothing like that had ever happened. Despite the surge, I saw nothing.
I’d failed again.
~ ~ ~
With my mask firmly in place, I made good time getting back to St. George’s Hall, despite spending a good deal of it searching for a way back that avoided the Grand Staircase.
Once there, I faced a relentless stream of exiting guests. I wove and ducked between people and nearly collided with a footman.
“Where is everyone going?” I asked him.
“Leaving, miss. They’re all leaving.” He bowed, swerved around me, and hurried on.
Leaving? All of them? I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised considering the commotion. But what of the Queen?
I hurried into the ballroom against the tide, and it seemed an eternity before I reached the window that overlooked the northern slopes. The musicians were still milling about, packing their instruments, dumbstruck by this abrupt end to the festivities. The royal seats, however, sat empty.
Were they gone? Were they safe?
I approached a sentry beside the closed Throne Room door. I didn’t recognize the man, but I lifted my fan over my lips to be sure he wouldn’t recognize me.
“I do hope the Queen departed before the trouble.” I mimicked the condescending tone the Queen’s ladies took when they spoke to servants.
“Yes, miss. All is well with the Queen.”
Somewhat relieved but still wary, I turned back to the entrance and headed to the only place where I thought I might still do some good.
~ ~ ~
I found the reception room overrun with guests clamoring for their belongings. Chester was taking tickets, and Marlie was pulling the garments. Two other maids who had been assigned to the ladies’ sitting room had been recruited to help as well.
When Marlie spotted me, she pulled me into the empty sitting room.
“What are you doing? You can’t walk around like that.” She shook her hands at my gown.
Her complaint caught me off guard. “What else can I do? I have no choice.”
“Yes, you do.”
I threw up my hands in confusion, but she was already marching to a side cabinet, where she grabbed a canvas sack and thrust it at me.
“Change. I’ll watch the door.”
I opened the sack to find my uniform and boots within. “How did you get these?”
“I went back. I had a feeling you’d need them. Now turn around.”
I followed her command and felt her tug the laces of the bodice free so I could extricate myself. The skirt I managed on my own as she stood watch at the door. After folding the silk garments as best I could, I bundled them into the bag. “How much trouble am I in?”
“None that I know of.”
I tucked the bag under my arm. “But I left.”
She shrugged. “Female issues, remember? Chester hasn’t said a thing.”
“Nothing?” I was relieved, I couldn’t deny it. “Isn’t that odd?”
“To be honest, we’ve been dealing with this flood of people.” She craned her neck out the door. “The line is backing up again. We should get back or Chester really will have a fit.”
I held the bag close and followed her back. Chester gave me a funny look when he saw me, but Marlie stepped in.
“Look who’s back. And perfect timing, too.” She winked at me before approaching an impatient man who was thumping his walking stick beside his feet. “Yes, sir, how may I assist you?”
The burly man thrust his number at her. “My coat, if you please. And my wife’s stole.”
“Yes, sir. Coming right up.” Marlie took the white slip and disappeared to the racks, conveniently avoiding Chester’s suspicious glare.
When he turned it on me, I tucked the sack out of the way and addressed the next frantic guest. “How may I help you, sir?”
Over the next half hour, we worked our way through the requests, and when the last one had left the room, it was apparent we still weren’t done.
The shelves and rack held dozens of remaining items—coats, shawls, hats, gloves.
“What should we do with all of it?” I asked Marlie.
“You’ll need these.”
I turned to see Chester carrying an armload of empty canvas sacks.
“Bag them and pin the number to identify them. Can you manage that, or will you be needing to run off again, Miss
