Mr. Bailey cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he and I will be having a discussion about that when this is finished.”
I smiled to myself. Mr. Wyck was clever, I’ll give him that much.
“Now that I’m looking at the instrument,” Mr. Bailey continued, “I’m sure we’re going to need another man or two.”
I pulled the door open a sliver and saw Mr. Bailey standing beside a rather large rectangular box painted a shiny red with golden curlicue trim. There were piano keys on one side and brass pipes of varying heights protruding from the top. Mr. Wyck was leaning down, his hands on his knees, eying the strange contraption.
“I’m sure I can handle it, sir,” he said, his gaze still on the instrument. “This part here, is it where the water goes?”
“Do step away from that,” Mr. Bailey urged.
“I won’t hurt it. I was just…”
But I didn’t hear the end of his sentence because a large hand took hold of my right shoulder. Long, sinewy fingers dug into my flesh.
“What do you think you are doing?”
The voice behind me, the one dripping with venom, belonged to Mr. MacDougall.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It took every ounce of courage I had not to slip out of Mr. MacDougall’s grip and run. “Nothing, sir,” I said. It was a lie and he knew it. I faced him. His bony hand fell away. I thought of Mr. Wyck. If I called, would he come?
I shook away the thought. I didn’t need his help. I squared myself to the man and stared into his pale blue eyes. “Mrs. Crossey sent me to help.” Another lie, but I needed something to get me into that room.
His lips pulled into a razor-straight line. “I see.” His thumb and index finger rubbed the bony tip of his chin. “Let’s see what Mrs. Crossey has to say about that, shall we?” He moved up beside me, forcing me away from the door and back toward the hall.
I was more than happy to go. Mrs. Crossey would set things right. I’d seen well enough how she could put him in his place.
I followed him down one hall. “This isn’t the way to her room.”
“No,” he said, offering no other explanation.
Had she already left her sick bed? We turned down another corridor then another. We were approaching a part of the castle completely unknown to me. The hallway narrowed, and the walls were bare. No art, no furnishings. Where was he taking me?
I was about to ask when he stopped in front of a simple paneled door. He opened it and stepped aside. His hands swept forward, indicating I should enter.
“She’s in there?” But I didn’t wait for his response. I hurried over the threshold, eager to see her.
The room was dim except for hazy light filtering through gossamer sheers that covered three tall, narrow windows. If I had a better sense of where we were in the castle, I would know whether they looked north or east, but it could have been either. Or neither, I suppose.
I searched the empty chairs along the wall and the settee in front of a cold, empty fireplace. I searched every shadow for her cheerful grin.
But she wasn’t here. Mr. MacDougall had made a mistake.
I turned to tell him so just as the door closed behind me. A lock dropped into place.
I ran to the door and pounded with my fist. “Let me out! You can’t do this.” I pounded again, harder. “Mr. MacDougall!” There was no response. I leaned my ear to the surface. Not a sound. I bent down to peer through the keyhole. I could see only the wall across the corridor. “Mr. MacDougall!”
There would be no answer. I knew that, but I yelled again. When my voice cracked from the strain, I leaned back and wiped my eyes.
Stop it. Crying wouldn’t help anything. It certainly wouldn’t get me out of this room.
I scrutinized the wood-paneled walls. In the castle, doors were often disguised as panels. Beginning with the nearest one, I ran my gloved fingers around the trim searching for an edge, then pressed against the places that might release a spring. Nothing gave. I moved to the next panel, then the next.
When I reached a window, I peered out and recognized the Northern Slopes. Below, along the terrace, I searched for someone, anyone to hail for help. Had it been the Quadrangle, there might have been someone. Perhaps a guard making his rounds or a page on an errand. But the northern side was less traveled. I saw only the wall and the woodland beyond with those strange, menacing trees.
That image came roaring back. Red tendrils snaking around my arm, pulling at me. Draining me. Was he still there? A shiver shot through me.
Join me. Don’t fight.
That was his voice. His words. Fear filled me all over again. A wave that could crash and drag me down. I pulled back from the window and shook off the thought. It was my own fault. I’d been stupid to follow McDougall. Stupid to believe he’d take me to Mrs. Crossey.
I berated myself as I scoured every panel, and again as I tried each one a second time before sinking—sprawling really—into a heap on the floor.
How could I help the Queen? I couldn’t even help myself.
I pulled the Faytling from beneath my blouse and worked it over my head. Stupid, useless thing. Mr. MacDougall must have known I would be helpless here.
I clutched the cold metal and crystal to my chest. I don’t know how long I sat there on my knees. It felt like hours, wallowing in my failure, until a distant horn perked my ear. Its strange, sonorous notes breathed deep and long.
The calliope. It had to be. Full-throated gusts of sound that weren’t yet a tune. Only a check. A test before the performance. It was enough to send me scrambling from the floor and running to the walls, listening at each. From which direction was
