Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  “What?” I asked, my voice echoing down the empty corridor.

  I’d sat by the fire thinking until late. With winter, darkness came early and the cold wormed its way into the castle through every crevice it could find. Most of the Under-servants were already tucked beneath layers of quilts for the night. Candles flickered in sconces along the dark walls, casting dancing shadows across the flagstones.

  “How’d you get it back?” Roger asked. “Were you foolin’ with me?”

  I shrugged. “Get what back?”

  “Your ribbon.”

  I reached up to touch my aquamarine ribbon, remembering.

  “No, it was gone. But then this morning, it was lying on my ironing board.”

  Roger glanced over his shoulder, considering. “Who put it there?”

  “An Upper-duster, maybe.”

  “How’d they know whose ribbon it was?”

  “A good guess?”

  He licked his lip, brow furrowed. “Doesn’t seem likely.”

  It didn’t. A stray ribbon in a castle this big, with this many people…I hadn’t even lost it anywhere near where I was supposed to be.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Roger said, lowering his voice. “It wasn’t a ghost.”

  “No,” I agreed fervently. “It couldn’t have been.”

  “ ’Cause there ain’t such things as ghosts,” he added.

  We stood there in the ghost-free corridor, staring at each other.

  “I could walk you upstairs,” Roger offered, twisting his cap on his head.

  I thought about the miles of empty, silent corridors between me and the Girls’ dormitory. For a moment, I was tempted. Not that I was scared, but only because Roger seemed so concerned.

  Just then, I caught a glimmer of something out of the corner of my eye—a shifting bit of icy whiteness in the shadows. It seemed to flow out of a doorway and toward the far end of the hall. Goose bumps rose on my arms.

  Roger’s eyes widened; his freckles bleached away. “Did you see that?” he whispered.

  “See what?” I said, hoping he hadn’t seen what I’d seen.

  Down the corridor, a faint creak sounded.

  “Did you hear that?” Roger asked.

  I nodded, unable to speak. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.

  I grabbed Roger’s arm. We pivoted to peer behind us. A glimmer of white coasted into the deep darkness at the end of the hallway. Then—as if someone blew out a match—it vanished.

  “Should we go check?” Roger asked.

  Of all the dumb ideas he’d ever had, that was the dumbest. But then he started off down the corridor without waiting for me to reply. Which meant I had to either stand there all by myself with who-knows-what lurking who-knows-where or run after him.

  So I grabbed a candle out of its sconce and pelted down the hall. The darkness raced ahead of my tiny circle of candlelight. My heart galloped right along with it, pumping like a Kitchen Maid fetching water.

  Roger stood at a dead-end wall, running his hands over the panels.

  “It went right through here.”

  I held the candle close to the panel. The scent of lemon wood polish tickled my nose. But all I could see was an ordinary wall.

  “It went right through it,” Roger said. “Like it wasn’t even there.”

  My eye twitched. My knee trembled. I held on to my candle as if it were the only solid thing in the castle. You could climb out on the roof and reassure yourself that the dragons were still there, hardened to stone and nicely chained down. Ghosts were a different matter.

  You couldn’t exactly tie one up or lock it in a cupboard.

  “The castle is haunted,” Roger breathed, his brown eyes aglow.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, loud enough for any phantom to hear. “There’s no such things as ghosts.”

  Ghosts, the corridor echoed in response.

  The echo stayed with me as I cowered under my covers, willing myself to go to sleep. But all thoughts of ghosts melted away in the morning light. My hair crackled with static electricity. My hairbrush felt solid in my grip. The mirror held only my reflection. Not a spectral shadow was in sight.

  Did I really look like my mother? I wondered, studying my pale, snub-nosed face. Warden Graves had said so. He’d said she was fair, like me. I batted my pale lashes, watching the light reflect in my almost-aquamarine eyes.

  “Here,” Francesca said, thrusting a dress under my nose.

  I took the gray wool dress in my hands, marveling at its softness. Around the Girls’ dormitory, the other Princess’s Girls were pulling on their new dresses.

  “I hate wool dresses,” the smallest Girl said. “They itch.”

  “Here, Dulcie,” one of the others called, tossing her something. “Try wearing a petticoat for once.”

  The room exploded in giggles. Dulcie turned crimson, twisting the petticoat in her hands. At nine, she was the youngest Girl. She dashed around, braids flying, fetching and carrying, quicker than any of the other Girls. She was Francesca’s favorite when it came to running messages around the castle. But. She hated wearing her apron. Hated braiding her long red hair. Hated washing before bedtime. And most of all, hated wearing petticoats, which she claimed slowed her down.

  “Don’t forget your camisole,” another said.

  “Or your long stockings,” a third added.

  The flush on Dulcie’s face crept down her cheeks and across her neck. She yanked on her clothes, muttering under her breath.

  “Stupid, stupid clothes,” I heard her say.

  I slid into the new dress, settling it over my petticoat. It was a shade darker than the silver-gray fall dress I’d been wearing, and different in style. The fall dresses were cut from a heavier cotton than the summer dresses and had three-quarter-length sleeves. This dress had a stand-up collar and long sleeves with an edging of lace at the wrist. I’d never owned anything with lace on it before. I admired myself in the mirror as I tied on my crisp white apron with the silver butterfly embroidered on the pocket.

  “At least Dulcie isn’t like Darling!” the oldest, Ann, exclaimed. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the vainest of us all?”

  They howled with laughter.

  “You should have seen her yesterday with her coat,” Francesca sputtered between fits.

  “Don’t they wear coats in the under-cellar?” Kate, the tallest, asked.

  “Don’t need them down there,” another Girl answered. “It’s too damp and smoky.”

  “I wonder, Darling, did you have your own pet rat down below?” Ann asked.

  I twirled around, letting my petticoat flare the skirt of my new dress.

  “I can get you one,” I told Ann. “A nice, plump, greasy-tailed friend. Just say the word.”

  “Oh,” Kate cried, jumping on her bed. “You wouldn’t!”

  “My mother does not allow vermin in the castle,” Francesca thundered. “Now get dressed and look sharp.”

  I grinned at the thought of Mrs. Pepperwhistle menaced by rats.

  “Did you see the Princess’s new plaid dress?” one of the Girls asked.

  “Oooh, it was so pretty,” another replied.

  “That silk came all the way from Tamzin!” a third exclaimed.

  They would prattle on until Francesca sent them packing. I, Darling Fortune, Under-presser, had more important matters to pursue. Magnificent Wray, for one. His starburst was on the castle terrace, my locket, and his gravestone. That had to mean something.

  I reached for my locket, which was hanging from my bedpost, and spied two tiny black eyes staring at me from behind my pillow. Iago. He and his family lived under my bed in a wooden crate stamped ARTICHOKES. His whiskers grazed the top of my pillow as he blinked twice; he wanted to talk to me. I held up a finger to tell him to wait a minute. Then I took my time putting on my locket and selecting a roll off the breakfast tray. I loitered, nibbling on my roll while the other Girls hurried out of the room.

  “Do
n’t be all day,” Francesca called over her shoulder as she left.

  The moment the door closed, Iago bounced up on the pillow. I crouched down to whisker level.

  “Still keeping watch over those dragons?” I asked.

  Iago straightened up, tail stiff. He nodded sharply. He was on guard.

  It was a good thing. Not that the dragons were apt to go anywhere. They were fettered by magic collars and chained to the castle’s tallest spire—not to mention hardened to stone—but, still, they were aware and watching. Iago was my eyes and ears as far as the dragons were concerned. He could scurry up to the roof to check on them. I couldn’t; I didn’t have the key.

  “Good,” I told him. “I’ll see if I can save some cheese out of my supper.”

  His tiny black eyes twinkled. His whiskers twitched. I could tell he was pleased.

  “Iago,” I said, “did you take my ribbon?”

  He stared pointedly at my head.

  “Yes, I have it now, but I lost it downstairs. Then yesterday morning, I found it on my ironing board. Did you find it and put it there?”

  He shook his head.

  “Oh,” I replied. Thinking that in his scurrying about he might have seen who’d returned the ribbon, I asked, “Do you know who did?”

  He shook his whole body violently and tumbled off the pillow onto the eiderdown.

  “Someone did.” I stood up; it was getting late, and I’d soon be missed.

  Iago wrinkled his tiny white forehead.

  “Good day,” I said. “Stay sharp.”

  I waved to him as I left. A gnawing uncertainty filled me. Who had taken my ribbon? And who had put it back?

  —

  When I walked into the wardrobe hall, Marci pounced on me.

  “Lindy burned herself; I need you immediately,” she said, rushing me into the pressing room.

  “Oh, no, is she hurt?”

  “Her arm. I sent her to Pepperwhistle to have it dressed. Meanwhile, you’ll have to iron that,” she said, pointing to the dress draped over Lindy’s ironing board.

  One of the Princess’s dresses.

  “Oh my,” I said.

  “There isn’t time to waste—Her Highness is waiting.” Marci shook my shoulder.

  “But I’ve never pressed anything like that.”

  “I know. I laid it over a chair, and the Baroness sat on it. The sleeve is creased. Just touch it up.”

  I hesitated, twisting my fingers together.

  “I’d do it myself, but I’ve never ironed,” Marci admitted.

  I walked over to the dress. It was a heavy emerald silk with an elaborate trim of black velvet ribbons. They traced the bodice down to a sharp point at the waist, like a fan. They edged the sleeves and scrolled across the bottom of the skirt, which flared out in a long train.

  “It’s awfully fancy,” I mumbled.

  “It’s a court dress.”

  In the winter, Princess Mariposa met with counselors and advisors, attending to the business of the kingdom. One day a week she sat on her throne and heard petitions from her subjects.

  Marci patted my arm. “You can do this. Just avoid the ribbons.”

  I nodded. You couldn’t press velvet; it would squash flat and turn shiny. I took a deep breath. When Lindy had to iron touchy dresses, she used a series of what she called hams and rolls—linen shapes stuffed with sawdust that kept clothes rounded while she worked on them. I selected an arm roll and slid it inside the heavy sleeve. Then, wetting my lower lip with my tongue, I picked up Lindy’s iron and kissed the surface of the silk with the tip of it.

  The crease melted away.

  “Perfect,” Marci said.

  I set the iron down and slipped the arm roll out. Marci gathered up the dress, holding it across her arms like a baby.

  “Come with me,” she said, turning on her heel.

  I walked after her—straight into the Princess’s lavender-and-gold dressing room. The Princess stood before her tall mirror, dressed in thick petticoats and a lace-trimmed camisole, reading a letter. Lady Kaye, the Baroness Azure, sat on one of the plush chairs with her fist wrapped around her silver-capped cane. Her dark hair, piled high and glinting with diamond pins, shone with streaks of the same silver as the knob on her cane.

  “Well, my dear, if I had a petition, it would be that you were happily married to some nice prince,” Lady Kaye confided.

  “Imagine that,” Princess Mariposa said.

  “Now. Seriously, you’ve turned down any number of suitable young men. Don’t you want to be crowned Queen?”

  Princess Mariposa rolled up the letter. Her father, the late King, had left a will that stated that the Princess could not be crowned Queen until she married.

  “What man writes a letter proposing to a woman he’s never met?” she asked.

  “You won’t always be young, you know,” Lady Kaye continued. “Your dear, dear parents have been gone a long time now. Eliora needs a queen on the throne. You owe it to your people, if not to yourself.”

  “I’m not marrying some stranger,” Princess Mariposa said.

  “No, you shouldn’t. I merely meant you might meet this King and see what he is like,” Lady Kaye replied. “I have heard good reports of him.”

  Princess Mariposa waved Marci forward, and the Wardrobe Mistress proceeded to help her into the dress. I stood, hands clasped behind my back, watching the Princess’s transformation. The pointed waist made hers seem even smaller, and the dark emerald color suited her sea-blue eyes. She was so beautiful.

  “Maybe,” the Princess said doubtfully while Marci buttoned up the back. “But if he’s anything like his letter, he’s already in love with himself.”

  The Baroness winked at me. “Of course, my dear, there is always that very nice Prince Sterling. It’s much too late in the year for him to hazard the trip back over the mountains to Tamzin. Perhaps you could arrange for his stay to become permanent?”

  Princess Mariposa blushed a deep pink.

  “My dear Mariposa,” Lady Kaye said, inclining her head, “I’m only thinking of your best interests.”

  “Of course,” the Princess agreed.

  “But those interests do include one’s subjects and the future of one’s kingdom,” Lady Kaye added.

  Princess Mariposa sighed. I had the feeling that on the inside she rolled her eyes.

  “It’s her kingdom,” I told the Baroness, unable to resist saying so.

  Marci glared at me.

  “Indeed,” Lady Kaye said, caressing the knob of her cane. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Darling?”

  “Lindy injured her arm, and Darling stepped right up to iron the Princess’s court dress,” Marci told her.

  That wasn’t exactly the way it happened, but Princess Mariposa beamed at me.

  “Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed, “you saved me from having to wear that dreadful black dress today!”

  “A terrible fate indeed,” the Baroness replied.

  I ignored that. “You look beautiful in all your dresses,” I told the Princess.

  “Yes, she does,” Lady Kaye said, rising. “Perhaps you should order some new clothes, Your Majesty. I hear Prince Sterling is partial to royal blue.”

  “I like him,” I said. “And royal blue.”

  “Not you, too,” Princess Mariposa said, wagging a finger at me. “Run along.”

  When the Princess’s handkerchiefs, towels, and sheets were ironed, folded, and tucked neatly into the waiting laundry baskets, I dusted my hands off in satisfaction. The scent of lavender and fresh-pressed cotton hung in the air. Lindy insisted on personally putting things away in the Princess’s drawers and cupboards. My work was done.

  A quick glance around the wardrobe hall assured me that I was alone.

  I fetched Lyric from the dressing room and hustled into the closet. A quick change and I’d be off to make friends with the Head Librarian. Outside the windows, an icy-blue winter sky gleamed. The sunlight shimmered through the stai
ned-glass canary in the center of the window. I paused to look out over the frost-glazed lawns below.

  Lyric chirped at me, swinging on his little gold perch.

  “Do you need a quick breath of fresh air?” I offered, turning the crank on the side window.

  I leaned out, breathing in. My fingertips burned on the icy sill. I closed my eyes and pressed a palm to the castle wall. Magic coursed through the castle, every stone and timber, every wall and spire—a rich, bubbling well of sensation akin to music, color, and joy, all tangled together.

  “Hello,” I whispered, and felt all the creatures echoing my greeting. They were stone and metal, plaster and resin, birds and animals from great to small, seemingly carved and added as decorations inside the castle and out. But they were actually real, alive and waiting, bound by the magic. A hummingbird far away in a drawing room tickled my mind.

  I laughed and the castle laughed with me.

  Then I sensed the dragons. Chained to the tallest spire, they brooded. I felt their talons sink into me and yank—hard. I pulled against them, struggling to get loose. The bitter cold of their hatred wrapped itself around my mind, squeezing.

  And then they spoke to me.

  We will break these collars. We will wreak vengeance on you!

  “Me!” I squeaked. “Why me?”

  But the dragons didn’t answer. Instead, they flicked me away like some bug they couldn’t waste time squishing.

  I stumbled forward, gasping. My heart clanged against my rib cage as if it meant to abandon me to face the dragons on my own. I pressed a hand to my chest to prevent that from happening.

  I grimaced; no dragon would get loose as long as I, Darling Fortune, was on guard. Break their collars, indeed! I doubted that was possible—as long as the magic coursed through the castle. Until someone wore the cuffs from the King’s regalia and said the magic word, Sarvinder, to let them loose, the dragons would remain stuck where they were. I cranked the window closed. The dragons weren’t going anywhere this afternoon.

  “I need to take a little stroll,” I said.

  The dresses quivered. A bronze sleeve waved at me. I went over to Forty-Nine and lifted it off the hanger. Forty-Nine shone like burnished metal, dripping jet-black stones and sporting black lace trim. It consisted of a fitted dress with a short fitted jacket worn over it, quite unlike the other dresses. It had a serious air about it, seeming to blink owlishly at me. The perfect dress to wear to a library.