Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  “Oh,” I said, “really?”

  Selma bobbed her head. “Oh yes, insisted. And here it is! Too nice to wear, of course. But lovely all the same.”

  Gillian ambled over, yanking off her apron.

  “But it’s too pretty not to wear!” Gillian exclaimed. “Try it on.”

  “Well, a quick try-on.” Selma wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. Her dark eyes sparkled as she clutched the shawl’s ends together in her chapped hand, turning this way and that, showing off her prize. “Do I look like a regular queen?”

  “You do!” Gillian and I agreed.

  “Get along.” Selma blushed. She took the shawl off and folded it carefully. A tear glistened on her cheek. “Such a kindness,” she murmured. “My favorite color.”

  “White?” I’d never heard of it being anyone’s favorite color before.

  Selma nodded. “It’s the same color as the one that went missing.”

  “Let’s go.” Gillian grabbed me.

  Selma’s head popped up. “Wait, Darling. I was a-wondering: what color of shawl does Lindy wear?”

  She had the same gleam in her eye she’d had when Lady Marguerite’s riding skirt went missing. It wasn’t a look I liked to see.

  “She wears a long black cloak. I’ve never seen her with a shawl.”

  “How’d you say she got burned?” The gleam in Selma’s eye intensified.

  I hadn’t said.

  “Um, one of her irons, I think,” I said. At least, that’s what I assumed had happened. Marci hadn’t ever said.

  Gillian bounced on her toes, eager to leave.

  “It wasn’t boiling water?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. What did shawls and boiling water have to do with anything?

  “You girls run along now,” Selma said.

  “Bye,” Gillian said, and hauled me off to the stair. “I heard,” she said as we climbed, “that you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Roger the Freckled Blabbermouth!

  “I’m not saying it was a ghost. It might have been anything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…well, like…,” I sputtered.

  “Were you scared?” she asked.

  “Maybe a little. For a minute, but it was a trick of the light or my imagination—”

  “Ooh, it’s all so exciting.” Gillian twisted her hands together, eyes shining. “Whose ghost do you think it is?”

  I shrugged.

  “A brokenhearted lady, an abandoned child, or a murder victim,” Gillian breathed, “from some horrible unsolved crime.”

  “Uh.”

  “Did it seem sad or angry or”—Gillian gulped—“evil?”

  A shiver crept down my spine. My knees knocked together. I stopped right there.

  “There aren’t any ghosts,” I said.

  A frown creased her heart-shaped face. “Don’t be silly. If there are dragons, there are ghosts!”

  I had no argument to refute that. But the logic of it filled me with a gnawing unease. I wasn’t afraid of dragons…well, not so long as they stayed put. But ghosts? My whole being twitched nervously at the thought.

  What if I’d really seen a ghost? The specter took shape in my mind—and weight, pushing back my resistance. A tremor ran down my leg. Somewhere a phantom, secreted in some shadowed nook, waited to haunt the castle corridors once more. I pictured it growing denser and darker, eager to come out.

  “The Princess took you to that cemetery to see your mother’s grave,” Gillian continued, oblivious to my discomfort.

  I flinched.

  She leaned closer. “Maybe it’s your mother’s ghost, and she’s followed you home.”

  “No, the ghost showed up before then,” I protested.

  “Aha!” Gillian exclaimed. “So you did see a ghost!”

  She trembled with excitement; now there was no chance that she’d stop until she had answers.

  “May…be,” I said.

  Gillian squealed with delight.

  “Hush,” I said, dragging her up the stairs, away from any listening ears below.

  “So who do you think it is?” she asked. “Maybe it’s a long-ago queen. Or it could be a servant!”

  We arrived at the upper-cellar landing and started up for the kitchens.

  Who was this ghost?

  “Some overeager Upper-duster who fell while trying to clean the crown molding?” I said, picturing the accident.

  “Could be!”

  Suppose the ghost had been a servant? Servants tidied things up—like misplaced ribbons.

  “You’ve heard lots of stories,” I began.

  “Most of them from you,” Gillian said with a laugh.

  “Not all.”

  “No, not all,” she agreed.

  “So in all those stories, have you ever heard of a ghost who could pick stuff up and move it?”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “I’m not sure. Moving objects around doesn’t sound very ghostly. Usually, ghosts walk through walls or wail or scare people. Stuff like that.”

  “But what if they could?”

  Her dark eyes twinkled. “Maybe I can go with you and Roger on your next ghost hunt and find out?”

  “Um…” My voice caught in my throat. Despite what I’d told Roger, I didn’t plan to go looking anytime soon. “I—I’ll think about it.”

  “Deal!” she said, grabbing my hand and shaking it.

  Winter tightened its grip on the castle. Snow swirled around the towers, and icicles hung at the windows. Extra blankets appeared on the Girls’ beds, and pairs of new slippers lined the dormitory. I wiggled my toes in their toasty warmth as I dressed in the morning. Even so, I scurried to get ready, eager to jump out of my nightclothes and into my dress before the sharp air nipped me.

  Several Girls came down with nasty colds and were tucked back into bed. Which meant that someone was always in the dormitory, night and day, their wheezing and sneezing standing between me and the secrets of Magnificent Wray’s book. But it also meant that Francesca was distracted, having to get the same amount of work done with fewer Girls. She had less time to spy on me.

  “I’m back!” I sang as I waltzed into the closet with the birdcage.

  The dresses vibrated with delight. Several reached out sleeves or ribbons, tempting me in their direction. I set the cage down on the table and pretended to think, a finger against my chin.

  “What do you think, Lyric? Should I take one out for a walk?”

  Lyric preened his feathers, as if to suggest his total indifference.

  I ran a finger along the shoulders of the dresses, feeling the buzz of magic beneath my fingertip.

  “Who’d like to go to the library?” I’d botched my first visit. I hadn’t asked any questions. I still didn’t know if Master Varick knew anything about the Wrays.

  Twenty-Seven clanged its hanger against a bouncing Twenty-Eight.

  “You?” I asked Twenty-Seven, picking it up.

  The vivid pink dress, sparkling with crystals and gold embroidery, rippled around my forearm in a wave of flounces. I slid it on and it quivered into shape, squeezing my waist excitedly before settling down.

  A woman with silver curls greeted me in the mirror. She wore a black dress with a plaid shawl pinned at the front with a ruby brooch. I’d seen her before around the castle. Her sparkling blue eyes hinted at a warm sense of humor.

  “You’ll be hard for Master Varick to say no to,” I told the mirror.

  Twenty-Seven fluttered its flounces in agreement.

  I headed out the door and through the wardrobe room only to run into Princess Mariposa in the corridor.

  “Marie!” she exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  The Princess wore a silver-gray dress with charcoal trim and the same emerald pin she’d worn to the cemetery. The pin seemed too bright and cheery for the somber dress, but I’d noticed her wearing it a lot in recent days.

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness,” I said, hoping for a polite hel
lo and a quick escape.

  But the Princess had other ideas. She took me by the elbow.

  “Oh, Marie, if you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you privately.”

  I squirmed in my borrowed dress. I’d always enjoyed spending time with the Princess, but hearing things meant for other people’s ears made me uncomfortable. What could I say? What excuse would Marie make?

  “Of course,” I replied. Hopefully, she would want to tell Marie something unimportant, like Baron Somebody had bad breath.

  Princess Mariposa led me into her private suite. She hurried to a door I knew all too well. As her hand turned the knob, a lump formed in my throat. She opened the door and waved me inside. The gallery gleamed a blinding white, from the floors to the walls to the white velvet curtains at the white-trimmed windows. And scattered over all that white sparkled a sea of butterflies in cases, mounted in white picture frames and set in white cabinets and curios.

  “Well?” Princess Mariposa said. “Do you see?”

  I gave an involuntary glance toward the ceiling. White butterflies had once hung from silver cords up there. They used to dance in the breeze of the open window. They were Princess Mariposa’s private joy. But now an empty arc loomed overhead.

  “They’re gone,” I said. The lump in my throat hardened into a rock.

  “Marie, what do you think happened to them?” she asked.

  Marie probably had no idea, but I did. I had let them loose. Not that I was about to tell the Princess.

  I shook my head.

  “There was that day,” Princess Mariposa said, “when the whole courtyard was filled with butterflies.”

  I’d never forget that day in a million years. That was when she’d almost married that imposter, Dudley. I’d deliberately let the stone gryphon loose to stop the wedding—right after I’d accidentally set the butterflies free.

  “Maybe something caused them to get loose,” I offered, hoping that she’d think something wasn’t someone.

  She nodded slowly. “Maybe. Maybe they were trying to warn me.”

  The rock in my throat dropped to the pit of my stomach.

  “I thought it was true love,” she whispered. “How could I have been so wrong?”

  Her eyes filled with the look she’d had the day she’d taken me to the Royal Cemetery—that longing for something she couldn’t find.

  “He fooled everyone,” I said. Everyone but me.

  A frown creased her forehead. “He didn’t fool my Under-presser.”

  The rock grew to a boulder.

  The Princess’s lip trembled; she wanted an answer.

  “Well,” I said, trying to sound as grown up as possible, “nobody notices servants—or children. Maybe she overheard someone.”

  “Perhaps, but shouldn’t I have known?” she demanded. “Or realized that my Wardrobe Mistress, Cherice, was in league with him the whole time?”

  I wiped my sweaty palm on Twenty-Seven, which bunched under my hand in protest. I’d never liked Dudley, the fake Prince Baltazar. Not for a minute. Even before I’d overheard him plotting with Cherice—only I hadn’t known it was her. She’d been so kind to me that I’d never suspected her.

  I’d been deceived just like the Princess.

  “She came highly recommended. Can you imagine?” Princess Mariposa continued.

  “She’s gone now, and so is that imposter,” I said quickly. “It might be better to forget about it.”

  The Princess eyed me as if that wasn’t what she had expected Marie to say.

  Twenty-Seven tensed as though it meant to run off without me. And I was tempted to escape myself. I thought longingly of all those magic-filled books waiting in the library for someone to open them. And a Librarian full of answers, the very thing I longed for and couldn’t find. If I was Darling Dimple Wray Fortune, then who did that make me?

  Princess Mariposa ran her hand over a butterfly-filled cabinet with a sigh.

  My heart throbbed. First and foremost, I was the Princess’s Under-presser! I loved her and the castle and the Under-servants and—I realized what the Princess wanted. The very thing she’d thought she’d found but hadn’t.

  “I know you’ll find true love, Your Highness,” I said.

  “Thank you, Marie,” she said after a long silence. “But I thought I was sure then; how can I be certain now? How can I ever trust myself again?”

  She toyed with her pin.

  I remembered the evening when the rare butterfly had flown into the dressing room. Princess Mariposa had been sure its appearance was a sign. The next morning she was engaged to the fake Prince Baltazar. She hadn’t been sure before that.

  “Maybe something made you think he was the right one?”

  She laughed bitterly. “You mean like the moonlight?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “A sign, perhaps?”

  She rolled her pin between her fingers, a serious look lighting her eyes. “There was something that happened one night that made me feel…sure.”

  “What?” I asked, feeling like a phony.

  “A butterfly. A very rare one. I thought it was a sign.”

  “If you were sure,” I asked cautiously, “then why did you need a sign?”

  Her eyes widened. “I never thought of that!”

  “Maybe you weren’t so sure.”

  Her forehead creased in thought. Twenty-Seven tugged at my knees, urging me to go. I wished I could, but I had no idea how to leave without offending Her Highness.

  “You are always such a comfort,” the Princess said at long last. “This gives me a great deal to think about.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” I said.

  Princess Mariposa sighed. “I apologize, Marie, for bothering you with all this. Allow me to offer you tea.”

  “How sweet of you,” I said. Twenty-Seven sagged against me; I gave it a reassuring pat.

  Princess Mariposa swept me off to a beautifully decorated room in the main wing. There I sat, sipping tea and nibbling on cake, while she told me about the petitions she’d received from her subjects.

  I eyed the door, anxious lest the real Marie appear. Another day I’d have been thrilled to take tea with the Princess, but Twenty-Seven simmered around me, a constant reminder that time was passing and my chance to get into the library was dwindling with it.

  “And what do you suppose the Baroness has suggested?” she asked.

  “What?” I asked, balancing my dainty china cup on my knee.

  “New clothes! What do you think, Marie? Should I order some?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A new court dress would be nice.”

  Princess Mariposa pinked with delight. “Oh, what color?”

  “Royal blue?” I suggested just as a Footman popped through the door.

  “His Highness, Prince Sterling!” the Footman announced.

  Prince Sterling wore a beautiful royal-blue coat with silver buttons and held a book in one hand. I felt my face grow warm. I hoped he hadn’t overheard my suggestion.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Prince Sterling said, flashing a warm smile.

  “Not at all,” I said, forgetting myself.

  Princess Mariposa laughed. “I’ve been boring Marie with all my woes. Please join us.”

  Prince Sterling sat down next to the Princess.

  “I thought you’d enjoy this,” he said, holding out the book: Butterflies of the Indigo Islands.

  She took it reverently.

  “Oh,” she said, opening it. Gorgeous illustrations of butterflies flitted across the paper. “Thank you.”

  “They’re beautiful,” the Prince said, leaning over to turn the page. “And I thought you’d rather have pictures than—”

  “Than a real butterfly pinned down for display,” she finished with a sparkle in her eyes.

  “Yes,” he said with a grin.

  She turned another page, and we spent the rest of the afternoon admiring her new book.

  The next day Lindy was her old self, buzzing
around the pressing room, loading me down with linens that had to be ironed now—or else. Towels that didn’t even look wrinkled. It was as if she was making up for her lost time. Or rather I was making up for it. She flipped her long straight hair over her shoulder and plucked a towel out from under my iron.

  “Can’t you move any faster?” Lindy asked. “Time’s a-wastin’, girl.”

  It sure was. I didn’t have a spare moment to sneak a peek at that book or nab a dress or chat with Gillian. I ironed so many miles of fabric that my arms ached and my back hurt. When I hauled myself out of bed the next morning, I moved like an ancient Picker with a bad knee.

  “Get going, Girls,” Francesca boomed, all bright and chipper.

  What did she have to be in such a good mood about? My hair snarled in my brush. My shoestring broke. And my breakfast roll was filled with apricot jam. I hate apricots. I chewed the sour filling while my crate stamped ARTICHOKES waited under my bed skirt, bursting with information I didn’t have.

  Information I ought to have!

  A fiery determination burned away my gloom. I ate slowly as, one by one, the Girls hurried off to work. When the last had left, I knelt down by my bed and pulled out my box. Whisking the lid aside, I grabbed the book.

  Magic sizzled in my fingertips, causing me to juggle the book between my hands. The crimson cover slapped open. A torn page waved at me. The top half was missing, but writing marched across the bottom:

  …my great service accomplished.

  “Build my castle anew,” His Highness had said.

  So I bade the dragons build to my design. But more than building was required; a structure more than stones, a mighty edifice of magic was urgently demanded.

  I drew out of past Wrays that which had made them special, mighty, and powerful. My reach was such that only the generations closest to me could be tapped. So I extracted wisdom, courage, joy, and tenacity: these I funneled into the very stones of the castle. Then I set the starburst seal on my efforts. On the day the stars were born, the light shone. And now its very emblem marked my work, holding it fast. The castle and the kingdom guarded! The dragons subdued! Oh, lasting peace!