I shimmied into it. A fresh-faced young woman stared at me from the mirror. She wore the uniform of a Laundress. I recognized her; her name was Nina.
“No,” I said. “This won’t work. I’m not going to the under-cellar. I’m going to the King’s library.”
The dresses bristled as if the ruffles, flounces, and ribbons had developed sharp edges. Forty-Nine stiffened. I felt a twinge of conscience. I hadn’t found out what Thirty-Seven wanted yet.
“Did you want to show me something?” I asked the dresses.
Forty-Nine bounced around my hips.
“It’s downstairs in the under-cellar, isn’t it?”
Lyric chirped. The dresses waited expectantly.
Laundresses did travel around the castle, picking up dirty laundry and delivering clean clothes. But they kept to the back stairs and side corridors. The library would have to wait.
“All right,” I said, smothering a sigh, “let’s go to the under-cellar.”
The dresses hummed with approval. So I jogged down to the under-cellar, looking purposeful. It helped to act confident when I wore one of the dresses; no one questioned people who looked like they knew what they were doing.
When I reached the cellar stairs, Forty-Nine trembled. The jet-black stones dangling from the bodice tinkled as they collided with each other.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered. “Are you scared?”
Light from the corridor above sifted down the stairs, brushing the steps before filtering into the cellar. Shelves and bins full of boxes, crates, and sacks of food waited in the cool dimness. Silence rang through the cellar. Only the Kitchen Maids and the Footmen went in there. No one and nothing else, not even a mouse or a spider, disturbed its stillness.
“It’s not dark in the under-cellar,” I told the dress. “Let’s go visit some Laundresses.”
Forty-Nine jiggled in agreement, and I raced down the rest of the stairs, past the cellar to the under-cellar.
A steamy warmth greeted me. Two worlds existed in the under-cellar: the laundry and the scrubbing station. Clothes, bedding, and linens were washed in the laundry. Pots, pans, utensils, and dishes were washed in the scrubbing station. Great hearths lined both sides. It took an ocean of hot water to do all that washing and scrubbing. I inhaled the under-cellar’s scent: soot, smoke, vinegar, and lavender. An odd bouquet indeed.
A rush of memories assailed me: months spent down here with Gillian. I scrubbed, she dried. I glanced around for her, but the scrub side was empty. On the laundry side, a knot of Laundresses stood over a basket of clean clothes.
They wore the sleeves of their brown dresses rolled up to their elbows, displaying their well-muscled arms. Laundresses scrubbed clothes over laundry boards, wielded heavy wooden paddles to dip clothes in boiling rinse water, and toted heavy loads up and down stairs all over the castle. They were strong. And not a little feisty.
A Laundress named Beatrice kicked the basket. Her damp tan apron lapped wetly against her front.
“I could swear it was right here!” Beatrice exclaimed.
“Are you sure?” Ursula asked, digging through the basket. “I don’t see it.”
“Well,” Beatrice said, “I know it was here before we had our tea!”
“Lady Marguerite will be so mad!” Rayna offered, as if that helped.
“What’s she want with a riding skirt in this weather?” Ursula asked.
“She’s crazy, obviously. Thinks her horse gets lonely without her.” Beatrice rolled her eyes. “She asked me to wash it special. Wants it right back. Like I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Nina,” Rayna said, spying me, “have you seen Lady Marguerite’s riding skirt?”
“No,” I said, secretly relieved. No wonder Mrs. Pepperwhistle had believed me the other night. Lady Marguerite did have a horse.
“Check your station,” Ursula suggested. “Maybe someone moved it.”
“Sure,” I said, going over to the area where Nina worked.
Forty-Nine jostled me along, and I tugged on its skirt. If this was what the dress wanted me to see, I would—it didn’t have to hurry me. Nina’s niche gleamed, as if she spent more time scrubbing it than the clothes. Usually everything was in order, but today bars of soap, brushes, and laundry were strewn about.
“Do you see it?” I whispered to Forty-Nine, turning things over, making a bigger mess.
The dress pinched my waist.
“Not here,” I called to the Laundresses.
A canvas flap across an opening in the brick wall flipped aside. Behind it was an alcove that the Head Laundress used as an office. Selma was the only one allowed to touch the Princess’s clothes. She washed some garments, but the more fragile and costly dresses were brushed and sponged.
“Finish up,” Selma said, bouncing out, a ball of pent-up energy.
“Lady Marguerite’s riding skirt walked off all by itself,” Beatrice said, snapping her fingers. “Like that.”
“Have you searched all the stations?” Selma asked.
The Laundresses looked at one another.
“I checked mine,” I said, angling for the stair.
Selma barked out orders. “You three look out here. Nina, go check the drying room.”
“But I took it down and folded it,” Beatrice protested.
“That skirt has to be somewhere,” Selma said. “Look everywhere. We don’t go losing folks’ clothes.”
I headed for the drying room. Forty-Nine sidled up my legs as I walked. I pushed it back down.
“You wanted to come here,” I reminded the dress.
The drying room was all that remained of the original castle before it burned to the ground. To reach it, you had to walk down a hall that sloped upward. Along its jagged stone walls, you could still see scorch marks. Once upon a time it had been a dungeon.
It was a huge, echoing space, lit by windows high up that peeked out to wink at the sun. Long iron hooks that were used to open the windows dangled from pegs underneath. Mounted on poles, row after row of clotheslines stretched across the room, lined with wet clothes. In good weather, the windows were opened so that fresh air dried the clothes. In the winter, the clothes hung, sodden and drippy. Pools collected on the floor, making it slippery. The air steamed around me. Fires burned in hearths at the back wall, supposedly hastening the drying. In reality, clothes took forever to dry at this time of year. If Lady Marguerite’s skirt was in here, she wouldn’t be riding anytime soon.
Forty-Nine fidgeted as I walked around, careful of puddles. Every possible variety of clothing swung sagging from wooden pegs used to clamp them to the clothesline. I leaned closer to squint at a skirt-shaped object. Forty-Nine stiffened like a scrubbing board.
“I won’t let you get wet,” I told it.
A fat drop of water splatted at my feet. Forty-Nine twisted backward.
“Do you think it’s in here?” I asked the dress.
Forty-Nine tugged at me to leave. I circled, taking one last look. No sign of a riding skirt. I hurried back down the hall.
The Laundresses and Selma were digging through a row of baskets.
“This doesn’t belong in here!” Ursula announced, pulling out a pair of long johns.
“It’s not in there,” I said, ready to dash for the stair.
“Someone’s gone and mixed everything around,” Rayna whined.
“Mark my word, I’ll find out who. And then there’ll be trouble.” Selma rubbed her chin with a red hand. A gleam lit her eyes.
“What’ll I tell Lady Marguerite?” Beatrice asked.
“Nothing. We’ll search till we find it,” Selma said. “Nina, go call the others in the kitchens. This is an emergency.”
“I hope you’re happy,” I told Forty-Nine as I jogged back up the stairs.
Rounding up the Laundresses and picking through a castle-load of clean clothes had eaten away a lot of time. Shadows lined the walls and hounded at my heels. No telling if the Princess was dressing for dinner now. Or if Lin
dy had returned to put away the clothes. Or where Marci might be. I had to get back into that closet super quick.
As I raced down a corridor, Francesca rounded the corner. I froze, clutching Forty-Nine like a life preserver.
Francesca stopped short. Her black braids swung ominously. Her gray eyes opened wide, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Um,” I said, my brain as frozen over as the lawn.
“The clean laundry was delivered early this morning, and the soiled laundry was taken away at the same time. So,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
Nina, whom Francesca thought she was talking to, was going to be in big trouble. I had to get her—and me—out of this fast.
I tossed my head to show her I was not scared. “I am not here for soiled clothes,” I said as if this was obvious. “I’m running an errand.”
“What errand?”
“A message for the Wardrobe Mistress,” I said.
Francesca chewed that over for a minute. “Let me see it,” she said.
A bead of sweat broke out on my forehead. Then I remembered that a lot of the Laundresses couldn’t read or write. I threw my hand over my heart.
“Are you mocking me?” I wailed. “You mean, mean girl! I’ll tell the Head Laundress, I will. See if I don’t!”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “All right, go deliver your message.”
Sobbing theatrically, I hurried off with Francesca stuck to my side. I couldn’t shake her. If I turned the wrong way, she’d surely stop me. So I headed straight to the wardrobe hall.
Marci was seated at the desk, writing in one of the white leather-covered books. She glanced up as I walked in with Francesca on my heels.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I have a message for you,” I replied.
“Oh.” She arched an eyebrow.
I could feel Francesca breathing down my neck.
“A personal message,” I added, hoping Francesca would take the hint.
“I found her wandering around the hall,” Francesca said, as if reporting a serious crime.
“I missed my way,” I said quickly. “And I was not wandering. I was coming straight here.”
A little too quickly. A suspicious gleam lit Marci’s eyes.
“Thank you for directing her, Francesca. I won’t keep you.” Marci smiled, a wolfish, gold-capped-tooth smile that never failed to instill fear in Under-scrubbers.
Francesca wavered. But Marci outranked her, so she turned on her heel and stalked out.
I sagged against the desk.
“Let’s hear this message, girlie,” Marci said.
“Um, well, the Head Laundress said to tell you that she—”
“The Head Laundress, eh?” Marci folded her hands over her stomach. “Go on. Oh, I should mention that I intend to verify your source.”
“Uh…,” I said.
“I thought so,” Marci purred. “Darling, get in that closet and take off that dress before I send you downstairs to work for Selma for the rest of your days.”
Relieved, I nodded and hurried into the closet.
“I didn’t get to the library,” I mumbled under my breath.
Forty-Nine sagged in my hands as I took it off and deposited it on its hanger.
“But Marci didn’t squeal on me either. That was good,” I said, giving Forty-Nine a little pat to show it that there were no hard feelings before going back out.
Only to find Francesca once again standing at Marci’s desk. She had her back to me. I slid over to the pressing room door and gripped the knob.
“She just left,” Marci told her.
“I didn’t see her in the hall,” Francesca said.
Marci shrugged. “Well, no one’s here now. Are they, Darling?”
“Nope,” I said, releasing the knob and dusting off my hands. “All finished.”
“Excellent,” Marci said.
Francesca eyed me as if she knew something was wrong but couldn’t put her finger on it. “You know the Laundresses. What was her name?”
“Whose name?”
“The girl who was here.”
I shrugged. “She didn’t come in the pressing room.”
“You’ve been in there the whole time?” she demanded.
“Some of us have been working,” I said.
“And some of us ought to be,” Marci added.
Francesca turned a bright shade of scarlet. It went well with her dark hair. She glowered at me as if somehow her confusion was my fault, and then she left.
I relaxed, ready to waltz downstairs and look for Gillian. I still owed her a story. Before I could go, a steely-cold voice stopped me.
“Those dresses aren’t playthings,” Marci said.
“I know.”
“Do you? If you get caught,” Marci said, “not even I will be able to save you.”
“I won’t get caught,” I said.
Marci arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t a game. Her Majesty likes you—trusts you—but don’t think that can’t change. Betray her confidence and you might not get it back.”
Francesca dogged my steps after that, turning up where she wasn’t expected—or wanted. I stumbled over her coming out of the washroom. She popped up outside the pressing room. If I visited the greenhouses to see Jane and the other Pickers, she lingered outside, stamping her feet in the cold. At dinner, she loitered at a nearby table.
Didn’t that girl have anything else to do?
I didn’t dare go near the closet. Whenever Lindy left the room, I heard the dresses clanging their hangers. I’d been to the under-cellar, like they wanted. I got the message: someone had poked around in the Laundresses’ stations. I wasn’t sure what they expected me to do about it, other than to keep an eye out for mischief. And it wasn’t as if I could be down there all the time. I had work to do. And a Librarian to talk to, just as soon as I could figure out how.
But Marci was right. Being caught wearing one of Queen Candace’s dresses could get me thrown out of the castle. I worked, tiptoeing around Lindy, who wore her bandaged arm like a medal earned in battle. She hadn’t liked it that I’d ironed the Princess’s dress. That was her job, she reminded me. I knew better than to argue. I did my work and then escaped to the safety of the under-cellar.
It was the one place where Francesca had no excuse to follow me.
The first time I showed up, Selma interrogated me. Had I been down there recently? Touched anything I shouldn’t? Seen anyone around who shouldn’t be?
“No, ma’am,” I assured her, crossing my heart.
She cuffed me playfully on the head. “Go bother someone else, then,” she told me.
I waltzed off to spend my free time telling Gillian stories.
Every evening, Roger nagged me. He was almost as bad as the dresses.
“We should go ghosting,” he insisted.
Ghosting. Whatever it was, it sounded spooky.
“What’s ghosting?” I said.
“That’s when you go sneaking around looking for stuff you can’t see,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” he said, “there’s safety in numbers.”
That didn’t answer my question.
I’d decided that whatever I saw in the corridor that evening was only my imagination. There were no such things as ghosts. Therefore, there weren’t any in the castle. I wasn’t sneaking around the castle in the dark without a good reason.
And so far Roger hadn’t supplied one.
But one evening, his pestering gave me an idea. Francesca was supposed to be with her mother in the Upper-servants’ lounge. Here was my chance to use a dress. But just in case Francesca wasn’t where she was supposed to be, I needed a lookout. And I knew the Stable Boy for the job.
“I’m going to the library,” I told him, dragging him into the closet, “and I need you to keep me safe.”
“Safe from what?” he asked, glancing at
the dresses.
“Ghosts,” I said.
Roger stood a little straighter. “You think there might be ghosts in the library?” he asked, yanking off his cap.
The dresses clanged their hangers together. Roger wrung his cap in his hands.
“Nobody, but nobody, goes anywhere near there,” I said, dropping my voice.
He nodded, all ears.
“Don’t you suppose that’s because something spooky lurks around that part of the castle?” I asked.
Roger’s eyelid twitched.
I let that soak in a moment, and then I added, “You can go ghosting outside the library while I hunt inside.”
He nodded slowly. “You’d be in calling distance if you got in trouble.”
I ground my teeth together. He’d be in calling distance if he got in trouble. I’d be the one with the disguise, able to swoop in to save him. But I nodded; he’d been ready to walk me upstairs that evening after we saw—whatever it was.
“Good plan, Darling,” Roger added, brightening.
The dresses rustled in agreement. They were ready.
Seventy-Seven wiggled a silver ribbon at me. I picked up the lilac satin with its silvery white underskirt and held it out.
“We have a volunteer,” I told Roger.
I unbuttoned it. Roger stepped back, giving me—and the dress—a wide berth. I slipped the dress on, and it whizzed around me, snuggling up tight. In the mirror, I saw the reflection of a girl a few years older than me, with long dark blond hair tied up in a velvet bow. She wore a purple velvet gown and batted her green eyes at me. She wasn’t very big or very tall. She was like a miniature lady-in-waiting, all velvet and jewels, except for her slightly crooked smile. I liked her at once.
“Who is she?” Roger squinted at me.
“Somebody who can visit the library.”
Roger squared his cap on his head and we sailed off. I’d done a lot of listening the past few days to whomever I could get talking, hoping to learn more about the Librarian. That Sweeper was right; he never left his library, and he was very choosy about whom he talked to. Evidently, Under-pressers were not his idea of interesting people to chat with.
Ghost of a Chance Page 5
