His words were crazy. “How on earth could you think such a thing?”
He threw up his hands. “Why else would you disguise yourself except for some devilish purpose? And then to get so close to the Queen?”
The way he said it, it did seem plausible, even probable, that I was up to something. Except… “But why would I want to harm the Queen?”
“Why not you? Someone clearly means to—information that isn’t common knowledge, by the way, yet you seem fully aware. And that girl who was killed just over the wall, so very near the spot where I found you. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.”
“But you were there, too! You could have done it.”
He all but laughed. “Do you really think so?”
“I did, until someone attacked Mrs. Crossey.” I turned to the fountain and stared into the cascading waters. After a quiet moment, I turned back. “How do you know someone is after the Queen?”
He shifted and seemed to consider his words carefully. “Haven’t you guessed?”
I had guessed many things, and they had all been wrong. I no longer trusted myself.
After another long pause, he said, simply, “I’m a Fayte Guardian.”
I scoffed. He was lying. Mrs. Crossey would have told me.
Wouldn’t she?
Perhaps not. The truth was, there were many things that woman hadn’t told me. Too many. The castle was apparently filled with Fayte Guardians, yet I knew of only four: Mrs. Crossey, Mr. MacDougall, Marlie, and Chester, and he was still only a guess.
But Mr. Wyck?
“If it makes a difference,” he continued, “I don’t think Mrs. Crossey knows. My family left for Balmoral years ago. I was barely out of short pants back then.” He kicked at the dirt. “And I’ve altered my name.”
“You aren’t Lucas Wyck?”
“Not exactly.” Still he stared at the ground. “Officially it’s James Lucas Starwyck, Jr. I go by Lucas, but Mr. McDougall thought I should alter my last name for anonymity.”
It sounded like something Mr. MacDougall would do.
“Should I call you Mr. Starwyck, then?”
His dark eyes shot up and locked on mine. “Best to stick with Wyck, I think. But I wanted you to know the truth.”
Was it the truth? I still wasn’t sure. Why would Mr. McDougall go to such trouble?
Mr. Wyck—or Starwyck, or whoever he was—must have sensed my thoughts.
“He believes Mrs. Crossey is acting recklessly. Against the Order’s interests, you might say,” he continued. “With no Supreme Elder to turn to, he sent word to the Elder Council. My father sent me to see if Mr. MacDougall’s suspicions were correct.”
“What were his suspicions?”
He rubbed his chin and again seemed to cherry pick his words. “That you were a threat to the Queen.”
“Me?” I choked back a laugh. “Why on earth would he think that?”
Mr. Wyck—for I decided Mr. Wyck he would remain—pushed back a lock of hair that fell over his eyes. “You must admit, your actions have been suspicious.”
Was he serious? The way he scrutinized me told me he was. “How in the world am I suspicious?”
“You have no people here. You keep to yourself. You wander off alone and mutter to yourself.”
Was that how I was perceived? A misfit with peculiar habits? “I don’t mutter to myself.”
“That’s what people say, but I suppose it’s still better than the truth. Which, I gather from tonight, is that you converse with a dragonfly who may or may not be your pet.”
His mouth twitched. He was finding humor in this after all.
“I didn’t realize people paid any attention to what I do.” How many of my secrets were known? “But that still hardly explains why anyone would think I intended to harm the Queen.”
“Why would anyone intend such a thing? You could have your reasons. Do you? Have reasons, I mean?”
“No, of course I don’t. Mrs. Crossey wanted my help to protect her. That’s all I was trying to do. It’s what I’m still trying to do.”
The recrimination faded from his eyes. “I believe you.”
Relief. It was the only feeling that registered.
“Are you all right?” He moved closer and put his hand on my shoulder. My instinct was to shrug it off, but then I remembered. He was a void. A blessed reprieve from the onslaught of images and emotions. Instead of brushing off his hand, I stripped off my gloves, let them fall to the ground, and grabbed his hand with both of my own.
My skin tingled with the chill of the night air, except where we touched. His inner heat seeped into me through his fingers, the soft pad of his palm. I couldn’t remember the last time I had touched someone without some modicum of fear.
When I looked up, his eyes were wide with questions.
Of course he didn’t understand. How could he?
“When I touch someone,” I said, “I can see things from their past, or sometimes things that they’re thinking or feeling. It can be overwhelming. But I don’t feel anything with you. Why?”
“I-I don’t know.” He tried to step back, but I tightened my grip.
“I thought it must be a sign of your guilt. That you were causing it somehow. I thought it was a sign of magic.”
He nodded, as though it made sense. As though any of this made sense.
“What do you think it means now?” he asked.
I looked up and nearly lost myself in those haunting eyes. “I wish I knew.”
We stood there for so long, he and I. An eternity. Then he brushed my cheek with his fingertips. I was sure he was bending closer, dipping his head to perhaps…
But the buzz of my dragonfly interrupted whatever he was about to do.
He pulled back and watched her dart in a crazy pattern in front of us.
He lifted his hand to swat her away, but I pulled it back.
“She’s trying to get my attention.” Still I hoped she noted my
