Free Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer Page B

some things out.
    “She ain’t dead, praise God,” Nellie said. She carried me into the parlor and was about to lower me to the sofa, the special, never-to-be-soiled one my aunt guarded like it was made of diamonds.
    “Not there!” my aunt called. “Take her to the cellar and wash her off in the privy.”
    No! I thought. Nellie’s son and the slaves might still be there.
    I sat straight up, startling them. “No! My room, I need my bed!”
    Nellie carried me up the stairs while the rest remained below, muttering to each other.
    In my room, spare as it was, the bed was blessedly soft. “Oh, child,” Nellie said, wiping my face with a damp cloth, “What done become of you?”
    “My father? Has he come here?”
    “No, baby, there’s been soldiers and their wounded in the streets for hours. He ain’t come . . . yet.”
    “Were Aunt Salome and Mr. Webster celebrating?” I asked in a voice much stronger than I felt.
    “Hush, child.”
    “Were they?” I grasped her hands.
    “Yes, they was cheering the Yankee defeat, talking about how them soldiers was running back to the city like rats, I’m afeered,” Nellie answered, her face grave.
    “Oh, Nellie.” I pressed myself to her bosom, tears running from my eyes.
    “There, now, there now,” was all she said. “I’m going to fetch the hip bath and some hot water. I got to see you ain’t broke anywhere under all this here dirt.”
    “Wait, Nellie.” I grabbed her hand again. “I know about your son.”
    She drew away from me.
    “He’s helping slaves escape, isn’t he?”
    “You don’t know nothing, Miss Madeline, you hear?”
    “I came upon them, or they came upon me, uh, him, I was in the woods, and I saw him, or someone exactly like him guiding a woman and child through the trees.”
    Nellie put her hands over her face.
    “He’s gone, Nellie. But he was just in the cellar with the same people.”
    Nellie’s hands trembled. “Oh, Lord.”
    “I’ll never tell anyone, Nellie. I swear it.”
    Nellie was shaking all over. “That’s why you wanted your bed, and not the cellar like Mrs. Salome ordered me?”
    “Yes,” I answered.
    Her voice was ragged with emotion. “My son Isaac, he is my heart. And he tears at it until it has gone to fraying with fear.”
    “He’s brave, Nellie.” I leaned my head back, accidentally exposing the knife scratch on my neck.
    “He hurt you!” she cried.
    “No. Some. It doesn’t matter.”
    “Yes, it does.” With that, she handed me a clean, white cloth. “Hold this ’crost your neck, baby. I’ll come back.”
    I passed out the minute she left the room.
    When I woke, through waves of dizziness, I saw a figure sitting by the bed, watching me. I couldn’t make out just who it was because it was like I was seeing though a glass in blinding sunlight.
    “Papa?” I reached toward the figure. A hand clasped mine. It was warm and strong.
    For a moment, I was small again, and hugging his shoulders as we waltzed in the meadow, just near the river.
    “They say you are all right, Miss Madeline.”
    His face was not yet in focus.
    I blinked again and again.
    “You made it back in one piece,” he said. “I figured you would. You’re a real scrapper.”
    I blinked hard. His face was blurred. I blinked again. Papa? No. Kind green eyes and black hair, curling black hair, hands holding mine.
    “Miss Madeline, oh, Miss Madeline,” Jake Whitestone said, sighing.
    I felt so many things just then. Feelings like pebbles pelted me. Relief, a kind of joy at seeing Jake, worry for my father, and disappointment it wasn’t him.
    I tried to get up. I was so weak that when I stood I fell forward. He caught me in his arms. I was frozen for a moment. His face was so close to mine, he held me tightly. His hair brushed my cheek.
    I pushed him away, trying to catch my breath. “I have to find my father!”
    I tottered past him to the door. Mr. Webster, my aunt and Nellie were blocking the entrance.
    “Get out of my