“I believe I can manage,” I muttered.
“And I’ll help,” Marlie piped in.
“Fine.” He looked at another two maids who had been recruited to help. “You two, back to the kitchen. There’s nothing left for you to do here.”
I could hear their exaggerated sighs as they brushed past on the way to the door, with Chester close behind.
Marlie gathered the sacks and spread them out on the table. “You collect, I’ll stuff and tag.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
“Would you prefer the bags?” she asked. “I’ll collect, I don’t mind.”
“How can you do it?” I said. “How can you act like nothing happened?”
Sudden anger rushed through me. Anger at her. At myself. At whoever had attacked Mrs. Crossey and left her for dead.
Marlie’s cheerfulness fell away. What remained was raw and unsettled. “Because I have to,” she said. “It’s the only way to help her.”
I knew she meant Mrs. Crossey.
“It’s going to be all right,” she added.
But that was just it. It wasn’t all right. Perhaps the Queen was safe—at least for now—but Mrs. Crossey was fighting for her life because of my mistake. If I hadn’t been focused on Mr. Wyck, I might have seen the culprit. The real culprit.
And now our chance—maybe our only chance—to catch the killer was gone.
I shook my head. “It’s not all right. And it won’t be until I make it right.”
To her credit, Marlie tried to help. She uttered sweet, encouraging words as we sorted and bagged the items left in the reception room. And then, she left me to the silence.
I was grateful. It gave me time to think.
Chester returned with a rolling cart and helped us load the bags onto it. I added the one with the costume and promised myself I’d find it later and get it back where it belonged.
“The Queen,” I asked. “Is she safe?”
He nodded. “I understand she’s quite well. She was taken to her rooms by the guards, where she remains in their safekeeping.”
Some of the weight I’d been feeling lifted. But not all of it.
“And Mrs. Crossey? Is there news of her?”
A shadow clouded his expression. “Dr. Holland is tending to her.”
“Is she awake?” I pressed.
He glanced up and seemed to struggle with his next words.
Every second of his hesitation dug the burning dagger in my heart deeper.
“Will she live?” I blurted and gritted my teeth, willing myself to maintain my temper.
“What she means is,” Marlie offered in a gentler tone, “we’re terribly worried. Is there any news?”
Marlie’s sweetness worked. The footman softened. “She isn’t conscious, but her breath is good. Strong, the physician said. At least that’s how it was relayed to me. There is reason to be hopeful, but the extent of the injuries cannot be known unless… until she awakes.”
It was not the news I had hoped to hear, but it was better than it might have been. I took what solace I could in that.
“Where is she?” I asked.
He glanced away. “She isn’t to be disturbed.”
“We understand that,” Marlie said, interceding again. “But when she wakes, which I’m sure will be soon.”
He turned so he was facing Marlie and eclipsed me completely. “She’s in a private room near the Queen. It was deemed best to keep the physician near to both.”
“Of course,” Marlie said. “If you have an opportunity, please let us know if there is any change in her condition. For good or…” She didn’t finish her sentence.
“Yes, you can be sure of it.”
We loaded the last bag onto the cart, and he wheeled it away. To where, I didn’t know or care.
A clock in the adjoining room chimed ten times.
“I suppose we’re done here,” she said.
The chamber was almost back to its usual state. The shelves, racks, and chairs that had been brought in would likely stay until the morning staff removed them.
“I suppose we are.” I was still lost in my own thoughts about Mrs. Crossey and the Queen and the mysterious figure who threatened them both.
“Shall we get back to the kitchen?” Her tone was hopeful, if not quite cheerful. “I’m sure there’s still work to be done there.”
I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to that little corner without Mrs. Crossey. I’d probably be assigned to another cook or the washing room, but all of it would only reinforce my failings.
“You go.” I mustered something close to a smile. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Marlie frowned but didn’t argue, only nodded and slipped out the door.
We both knew I wasn’t going to the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The night staff had extinguished most of the candles on the main floor, but a few still flickered in the vestibule and St. George’s Hall, casting dancing orange light against the legion of lonely blooms and garlands. I roamed among them, weaving in and out of the shadows, by turns clutching and releasing the Faytling that rested, exposed, atop my pinafore.
I craved its help to find Mrs. Crossey’s attacker, if it had any to give. I begged for it, but I also feared the consequences. I’d never felt anything like that strange malaise that had afflicted me in the Quadrangle. It was far more disorienting than any vision, and Marlie had no explanation for it. How could I guard myself against another bout when I knew nothing of its cause?
But then there was so much I didn’t understand. About the Faytling. About the Fayte Guardians. About any of this.
Mrs. Crossey had been struck down. That I knew. And the same could happen to the Queen. I believed that.
After nearly an hour, my prospects were dim, I knew, but I still couldn’t give up. Marlie would be in our room eager to discuss and dissect all that had gone wrong, and I couldn’t face her.
So, I pressed on into the dark hallways, hastening my pace whenever I passed a footman or a guard. I didn’t slow for pleasantries. I didn’t make eye contact. I moved with haste and purpose, so I would be left alone.
When I
