Not that I’d actually set foot inside the library. Yet. But all that listening hadn’t been a waste of time. Oh, no. I’d learned a few juicy morsels about my quarry. The Librarian’s name was Master Varick. He had camped in the library for the last twenty years, favored lemon cookies, and imagined himself the keeper of great secrets. Nobody else thought he had any to keep, but maybe everyone was wrong.
I, Darling Fortune, Under-presser, had the biggest secret in the castle: the magic in the hundred dresses. Only Marci knew about that. And Roger. Despite what the others thought, the Librarian could be hoarding the deepest, darkest secrets imaginable.
At the very least, he could recommend a good book.
We hurried down to the second floor and coasted along the deserted corridor to the southwest corner. Roger nodded at me encouragingly and set off on his own. A pair of great carved doors guarded the King’s library, with a snarling lion’s-head doorknob standing sentinel on each. Gingerly, I turned one. The brass lion’s teeth pricked my palm. I snatched my hand back as the great door opened, gliding silently away from me to reveal a patch of inlaid floor.
A breath flowed out to me, a curious mixture of paper, leather, and lemon oil, as if the library exhaled at my approach. Ridiculous—the library certainly hadn’t been holding its breath! But when I stepped across the threshold, every hair on my body rose; every nerve tingled. Seventy-Seven scrunched against me. I froze. Rows and rows and tiers and tiers of books soared to the carved ceiling above. Thousands of books. More than one person could open, let alone read, in a lifetime. The air around me crackled with excitement.
Those books ached to be read, just as the dresses yearned to be worn.
I glanced back, anxious to spot Roger in the corridor, but he was out of sight. I turned into the library. I had a dress and a mission. I couldn’t falter now.
Shafts of light from lamps set here and there on tables fell on the floor’s inlaid squares, guiding my footsteps. I gravitated to the nearest shelf. Cracked leather covers squinted at me in the dim light, the dyed leather faded and worn. Tracings of gilded titles, rubbed thin by many fingers, glinted at me. My hand lifted of its own accord and sought a book, my fingers grazing the edges of the covers until they curled around one and snatched it off the shelf.
The book fell open in my hand. And magic poured out of it into my skin. The letters blurred on the page as the magic jumped and pulsed. The printed words danced. The music sang out.
I gasped; the books were as full of magic as the dresses, if not more so. Startled, I snapped the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf. The books hummed at me. I took a step backward. The humming sharpened as if they were demanding I read them.
But I hadn’t come for that; I’d come to find things out from the Librarian.
“You there! What are you doing?” an indignant voice called.
I whirled around and found a stooped, thin man stepping out from behind a bookcase. A shock of white hair fell across his forehead, obscuring his sharp blue eyes. He wore a long formal coat that must have once been costly but now was covered all over in patches of every color. The effect was such that he blended in with the bookshelves.
“Well,” he said, squinting at me, “what have you to say for yourself?”
My mouth fell open, but nothing came out. I hadn’t actually planned what I’d say to the Librarian if I found him.
“Have you come for a book?” he prompted. “A volume of poetry, perhaps?”
I stood frozen and mute; all my cleverness had deserted me.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I’ve been wondering about Magnificent Wray,” I blurted out.
The Librarian sucked on his teeth. “Magnificent Wray?”
I nodded. “He has an interesting tombstone.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “What would Lady Sara be doing mucking about with tombstones?”
What would Lady Sara be doing in the cemetery?
“Um…” I decided that the closer I stayed to the truth, the better. “Warden Graves showed it to me.”
He frowned. “Nobody reads those books.”
“What books?” I asked, fighting the urge to shake him.
“I have that collection of fairy tales. Had to replace the spine, but still, if you’re careful…I could let you borrow that.”
I patted my skirt. Seventy-Seven quivered under my fingertips.
“Thank you, but I’d like a book on Magnificent Wray, please.”
He harrumphed, turning back to the recesses of the library. I tripped after him, anxious not to lose him in the dimness. He walked to a dark corner where a series of bookcases with smoke-tinted glass doors stood like indignant old ladies clutching their books to their chests. I squinted through the gray glass, unable to read any titles on the books’ spines.
The Librarian dug in his pockets, produced a small brass key, and unlocked a case. I held my breath as the glass door opened and the books were revealed. Cracked, faded, and worn from use, the battered row of ancient books expelled a rich perfume of roses. Dark, dried petals were scattered everywhere—on the shelves and littering the tops of the books.
The Librarian ran his bony finger along the row until he touched a dark cherry-red spine. He inched the book out, carefully dusting the petals aside. He held the book, caressing its cover, which was blackened in spots by the oil from numerous fingertips.
My fingers itched. An overpowering urge to grab the book out of his hands possessed me. I gritted my teeth and hung on to Seventy-Seven.
The Librarian held the volume out to me; the gold-inscribed title glinted in the lamplight: Magnificent Reflections.
“This book comes from the King’s private collection. It’s priceless.” He coughed. “Take special care of it and return it promptly. Please,” he added, as if he realized he was speaking to a member of the Princess’s court.
“I promise I will, Master Varick,” I replied, closing my hands around the book, shivering with the thrill of the magic that buzzed under my skin.
I walked out of the library, hugging the book to my heart. Finally I would know who the Wrays were and what made them special. I opened the cover.
The Thoughts and Ideas of Magnificent Wray, the page read.
Magic bubbled up through me, making my hair dance and my nerves sing. I couldn’t wait to read this book! I ran my finger down the book’s gilded edges. The pages parted and fell open. Spidery lines flowed across the paper, tracing the outline of the great cathedral in the city. Notes were scribbled in a cramped corner: measurements that meant nothing to me. I turned the page. More spidery outlines. I turned the book sideways. This drawing looked like the cathedral cut in half.
The next page held elaborate drawings of stained-glass windowpanes. Smears of colors ran down the side of the page. Each color had a number next to it, and those numbers also appeared inside the window. I flipped faster: drawings of beetles, a little girl, and a house; mathematical equations; and lists—umber, indigo, linseed oil, chalk. Ingredients?
And then faded handwriting, a tangle of loops and whorls, as if the words had danced out of Magnificent Wray’s pen and onto the paper. Vision compels action. What is illuminated is truly seen. None of it made sense, but the words themselves tingled with magic.
I shuffled past several pages until a single sentence caught my eye: Light shines.
I felt a throb under my breastbone. Somehow, some way, these words mattered. I put a fingertip on the handwriting. The magic there vibrated as if the pen had just left the page. It was like the magic coursing through the castle, but different. Like musical notes. The pitch was lower. Deeper. Like the sound of a rock plunked into a pond.
I could almost see ripples in the air. The magic rang like a bell striking midnight. My lungs tightened. My heart hammered. A bead of sweat trickled down my face. I slammed the book shut.
This wasn’t any ordinary book. It held thoughts and ideas. And not any old stuff…extraordinary th
oughts. Magical ideas. This book couldn’t be gulped down like a glass of milk; it needed to be sipped slowly, like hot chocolate. I had to sit down and study these pages one by one.
But I couldn’t, because Roger the Freckled Ghost-hunter was on his hands and knees, crawling along the baseboard. Clutching the book, I tiptoed down the hall and snuck up behind him.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Looking for tiny ghosts?”
Roger jumped; his cap slid over one eye. He snatched it off and rocked back on his heels, glowering.
“Course not. I felt a draft.”
I grinned. “What do drafts have to do with ghosts?”
He shook his head. “You don’t know much about ghosts.”
I put a hand on my hip. “And you do?”
He nodded. “Lots of talk out in the stables.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. Ghosts like horses.”
He shot to his feet, leaning toward me so that his nose was only inches away from mine. “You think you know so much, Darling. But for all you know, every one of those dresses is haunted.”
I swallowed. Hard. That was ridiculous.
“So what is the talk in the stables?” I asked.
“You know the saying as cold as the grave?” Roger asked.
“Yeah?” I trembled involuntarily.
“They say that ’cause the dead are cold. A ghost chills the air wherever it goes. So some drafts are drafts, but some are ghost trails. See?”
I nodded. It made a weird sort of sense.
“I felt a draft,” he said, his breath tickling my cheek. “I followed it until it disappeared.”
His face glowed with the thrill of his hunt. He was almost handsome.
“Right into the wall,” he said, eyes shining.
I took a step back. The book tingled beneath my fingertips. Then I felt a sliver of cold air graze my cheek and set me shivering.
“I should get back,” I said. “We’ll have to do more ghosting another night.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “We will.”
We walked to the main staircase and went our separate ways. It was only about the middle of the evening, but shadows filled the corridors. Dark shapes danced against the windows. I heard a faint tapping. I stopped, clutching my precious book like a shield.
All this talk of ghosts was making me nervous. I marched to the window to peer outside. Snowflakes flitted past the glass.
I exhaled.
Of course I’d felt cold. It wasn’t proof of ghosts; it was winter!
I raced back to the closet and put Seventy-Seven away. Then I stood caressing my book and looking about for a hiding place for it. I couldn’t leave it lying just anywhere, and I certainly couldn’t carry it around with me. There was no place in the closet to put it.
I walked out into the wardrobe hall, thinking. Marci would be furious if she found the book in her drawers. The pressing room? Lindy with a bandaged burn was crabbier than usual. I didn’t want her to find it. I needed to put the book someplace where I could get hold of it when I had time to read it—
Where could I go to read a book I couldn’t be seen having?
I chewed my lower lip. What a pickle!
It was then I heard muffled sobbing coming from under Marci’s desk. If all the stories are correct, ghosts don’t sob; they wail. I slipped the book onto the desktop and looked under it.
Dulcie huddled in the darkness like a little wet hen, her bedraggled braids working loose of their ribbons. Tears glistened on her cheeks. She had gathered up her apron to use as a handkerchief.
“Are you sick?”
She shook her head.
“Have they been picking on you again?” I asked.
“N-no,” she blubbered.
“Then what’s wrong?”
She gulped air and wiped at her eyes.
“You can tell me, Dulcie. I won’t tell anyone. I’m good at keeping secrets.”
“I miss my family,” she whispered.
“Oh,” I said, and plopped down on the floor beside her. “Tell me about them.”
“We all used to live on our farm together, me and my two big brothers and two little brothers.”
“That sounds like a nice family,” I said, wishing I had one.
“I always took my younger brother to gather eggs.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Cole; and then there’s Andy, Charlie, and baby Phillip.”
“I bet they all miss you.”
“Really?”
“Sure. But I bet they’re proud of you too. Not every girl is a Princess’s Girl.”
She thought that over and nodded.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked, remembering my book.
“I’m okay.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. I dug in my pocket and handed her a clean handkerchief.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Don’t forget to put that in the laundry,” I said. Francesca kept a close count of items like stockings and handkerchiefs.
I stood up, walked around the desk, and reached back across to pick up my book so Dulcie couldn’t see me grab it. Then I took it and hid it in the one place I could think of.
The wooden crate stamped ARTICHOKES.
The next morning, the rosy glow of dawn dappled the white eiderdown coverlets on the dormitory beds and turned the polished wood floor to a glossy cinnamon. I inhaled the lavender scent of the sheets as a tiny paw tapped me on the tip of my nose.
“Morning, Iago,” I mumbled through a yawn. “Hope you don’t mind sharing the box.”
He twitched his whiskers and curled his tail. I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I changed the subject. “Why do the dragons hate me so much?” I asked.
He eyed me as if this was a dumb question. Dragons hate everyone.
“Well, I know why, but why me?”
His tiny black eyes flashed. Then he vanished under my pillow and emerged with my aquamarine hair ribbon in his teeth. He shook it at me and dropped it onto my pillow.
I picked it up and curled it around my finger.
“Because they hate ribbons?”
Iago put a paw over his eyes.
I thought harder. The ribbon had been a gift from the Princess.
“Because of the Princess?”
He threw his paws wide and staggered back as if in amazement at my genius. I frowned. Sometimes he was a little overly dramatic.
“But she hasn’t done anything to them,” I argued.
And she hadn’t. Sure, she owned the castle, but she hadn’t built it or chained up the dragons. Did she even know they were real?
Iago crawled over my forehead and up on the post of my bed, where my locket hung. He lunged at it. Caught it in his paws and started it swinging. Then he looped back to my pillow and waited, ears tuned.
“My locket,” I said, closing my fist around it. “Huh?”
Across the room, Francesca sat up and stretched. Iago vanished under the bed.
“Everybody up!” Francesca called, rubbing her eyes.
I fought the urge to groan. Trust Francesca to interrupt. I rolled out of bed, and so did the other Princess’s Girls. I dressed, mulling the matter over in my mind.
What was Iago trying to say about the locket?
—
While I worked, I thought about the magic buried in the pages of Magnificent Wray’s book. Which made me wonder: why was the magic in the castle walls, the dresses, and the library books, but not in the pots or draperies or furniture? Why was I the only one who was aware of it? Once I read the book, would I possess powerful secrets? Could I harness the magic? Make it do my bidding?
The thought made me shudder. Maybe I shouldn’t read that book.
Maybe it was dangerous.
I shook that off; Master Varick wouldn’t have let some lady of the court have a perilous book, would he? I didn’t think so. He knew who she was.
He knew who she was.
How could I return the book once I
’d read it? I couldn’t wear Seventy-Seven again, and I’d never seen the same person twice in the mirror. I sighed so loudly that Lindy glared at me.
Finding answers was a complicated business. I’d just have to read the book and think of some way to sneak it back into the library.
Which made me curious: could I put on a different dress and borrow another book?
—
Once Lindy had gone off to nurse her sore arm by drinking tea with the Head Cook, I sidled over to the closet and opened the door.
“What do you think you’re up to?” Marci asked, appearing out of a closet with a shawl over her arm.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You almost got into real trouble the other day,” she began.
“But I didn’t.”
Marci arched an eyebrow, pinning me to the floor with her stare.
The dresses flapped disappointedly. I shut the closet door.
Marci held out the white shawl edged with tassels. “Her Highness said to send this down to Selma. And since you don’t appear to have any useful work to do, you can take it for me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, folding it over my arm.
I headed off to the under-cellar, arriving as the Scrubbers were finishing up for the afternoon. A stray bubble drifted my way. I caught it on the tip of my finger. It glistened with a thousand colors until it popped, vanishing into thin air. With a sigh, I walked across the hard floor, searching for Selma.
I spied a cluster of Under-dryers stacking the last of the pots.
Gillian dried her hands on the towel tied around her waist. Her dark curls had tightened in the steamy fog that hung in the air. The hem of her brown dress sagged with moisture, and her canvas apron had a streak across it.
She smiled when she saw me. “Come for a visit?”
“I have to deliver this to the Head Laundress. Have you seen her?”
“Halloo,” Selma called from across the room, waving me over.
I walked to her and held out the shawl. “Marci sent it,” I said.
Selma held it up, admiring it. “How lovely. Doesn’t even look like it’s been worn,” she said. “That Princess heard about my missing shawl and offered me one of her own.”
Ghost of a Chance Page 6
