I’d spent the late afternoon in the stables, watching Roger polish tack. Running in and out of the castle had left me windburned and cold. Now, stuffed with a hot supper and basking in the fire’s glow, I was ready to wheedle answers out of Jane.
But first, I unrolled the stockings to admire them. Elaborate cable stitching decorated the sides.
“I love them!” I told her, beaming. “Thank you.”
“That’s lovely work, Jane,” Marci commented.
Jane blushed, her blurry blue eyes sparkling. “Nothing, just a time passer.”
“Didn’t Francesca give you mittens?” Marci asked, eyeing my chapped hands.
“No,” I said. Why hadn’t I thought to ask her for them?
Jane’s eyes flashed. “Upper-servants! I have half a mind to speak to Mrs. Pepperwhistle about this.”
“You should knit her some,” Marci said. “Some fancy mittens.”
“The Girls’ mittens have velvet cuffs,” the Head Cook pointed out, choosing that moment to chime in. “Silver-gray with pewter buttons.”
Jane turned to her. “Do they now?” Then she nudged me in the ribs. “You should have said so sooner.”
“Sorry,” I said, anxious to turn the conversation in my direction. “So I was wondering—”
Gillian appeared across the room, joking around with the other Under-dryers. Steam rose off their aprons as they wormed their way closer to the hearth. One of the Cooks vigorously batted away the steam as if the air around her was aflame.
“Can you get buttons for me?” Jane asked Marci.
“—about my mother,” I said.
“I’ll ask the Head Seamstress,” Marci told her, and then looked at me. “What about your mother?”
Jane pursed her lips, ready to repeat her favorite phrase: she was a sweet, kind person.
“Why’d she marry my father?” I blurted out. “If he was a good-for-nothing?”
“You shouldn’t repeat unpleasant gossip,” Jane retorted.
“As I recall,” Marci said, “he was handsome and charming. A spinner of tales.”
Jane glowered at Marci.
“About what?” I asked, eager to learn more.
“Oh, adventure, the sea, the Indigo Isles…treasure,” Marci mused. “Your mother had a small inheritance. He convinced her to invest it in his new venture.”
“That’s about enough,” Jane said.
“He swept her off her feet,” the Head Cook added. “She married him before she had time to think about what she was doing.”
Jane’s cheeks burned.
“And?” I urged.
“He sailed away.” Marci studied her hands. “Later, we had word that pieces of wreckage had surfaced off a cove north of the kingdom.”
“He would have come back,” Jane interrupted. “They’d have been happy.”
“We hoped so,” the Head Cook said quietly, “but now we’ll never know.”
Gillian wove her way to us, waving good-bye to her friends.
“I’m here for a story,” Gillian said.
“Some things never change,” Marci replied, glancing at me.
I pictured a pretty blond woman waving good-bye to a sailing ship. The woman seemed like someone in a story, not like a real mother. But then I’d never known my mother, so it was hard to imagine her.
“Yes, well, I thought you could tell me if there are stories about the castle being haunted, seeing how you’ve lived here for ages,” Gillian said with a wide-eyed, innocent smile that didn’t fool Marci a bit.
“But what about—” I said, eager to pry more details out of Marci.
“Hauntings!” the Head Cook exclaimed. “Nothing like a roaring fire on a wintry night for a good ghost story!”
A collective oooh resonated through the room.
Marci adjusted the mauve scarf knotted under her collar, eyeing Gillian like a flame that needed quenching.
“Oh, Marci,” Jane said, straightening up. “Tell them about the ghost in the tower.”
I frowned at her.
“Ghost in the tower!” Gillian breathed. “Oh my.”
“Marci was already telling me a story.” I poked her in the ribs.
“Did it involve ghosts?” Gillian said, poking me back.
The whole group stared at me as if to say Shut up before you ruin our chance to hear this story.
“No,” I said, wilting.
“Then be quiet and listen,” Marci began. “Years ago, an old woman lived in the south tower of the castle. She’d been a lady once, beautiful and rich, but over the years, her fortunes turned. She’d lost her lands, her title, and, ultimately, her looks. She was reduced to sewing for the other ladies of the court.”
“How dreadful,” Gillian said. “And then she died?”
“Are you telling this story?” Marci asked in a steely tone.
Gillian shook her head, lips sealed.
“Soon her fingers became gnarled and she could no longer sew. The Head Housekeeper felt sorry for her and gave her a room with the Cooks. The Head Cook set a place for her in the kitchens every evening. One little servant girl washed her clothes and saw to her needs. But she was very proud and ashamed of her poverty.”
“Sounds like them court people,” a Footman chimed in.
“She withdrew to a room high in the south tower, in an area that had fallen into disuse. There she lived, bent and twisted, creeping down only for meals. The servants begged her to come back, but she refused. Over time, she developed a rattling cough and grew increasingly ill. The little servant girl who washed her clothes procured medicine for her, digging into her own pockets to pay for it. She went up to the tower, medicine in hand.”
Marci paused, massaging her wrist. I knew she was waiting for someone to beg for more.
“And?” the Head Cook prompted.
“And the old woman had vanished.”
The fire crackled in the grate, shooting sparks upward. The flickering light played over Marci’s hair. The darkness in the kitchen’s corners seemed to crouch with bated breath. I leaned forward, drawn into the story.
“No one had seen the old woman come down from the tower. Her possessions were all in her room. The servants heard an eerie moaning and followed the sound, thinking the old woman had wandered to some other part of the tower and had fallen or been injured.”
The log in the fire snapped. Gillian jumped.
“They searched the entire tower, high and low, but the old woman had disappeared without a trace.”
“Do you think she’s still up there?” Gillian said.
“Afterward, on several occasions, a ghost was seen walking the passages of the south tower. A pale specter holding out a hand, like someone groping their way through a maze.” Marci lowered her voice to a whisper. “And the question remains: what became of the old woman? How did she vanish into thin air?”
“Did your grandmother tell you that story?” Gillian asked.
Marci nodded. “She knew the old woman well.”
“Maybe it was some other ghost, not the old woman,” Gillian supplied. “Who would know? Ghosts all look alike.”
“Ghosts and more ghosts, why not a whole platoon?” the Footman asked.
“I don’t hold with medicine, myself,” the Head Cook said, shuffling her recipes. “A nice chicken broth, that’s the cure for what ails you.”
—
I shivered in the darkness. Wind howled against the windows, rattling the panes. Icy cold bit the tip of my nose. I pulled my blankets closer to my chin. Thoughts chased around inside my skull. My mother sobbing over the loss of her sailor. The old woman haunting the south tower.
Roger and I had seen a ghost. A real, actual, live ghost?
No, ghosts weren’t alive. They were dead…which meant—I refused to think about what it meant. No. I would think about my poor sobbing mother and my poor dead sailor father….
I rolled over. It was late, and it was best that I should go straight to sleep.
Unfor
tunately, I rolled in the direction of the dormitory door. It just so happened that the door chose that moment to creak open. And a vague, tall, whitish shape flowed into the room.
My every nerve tingled. Every hair on my arms rose. Dread pooled in my stomach. Every muscle tensed, waiting for the ghost to glide its way over to my bed. Was it the ghost of that old woman? I gritted my teeth, transfixed by the sight of it. It glided over to Francesca’s bed.
Part of me thought that I should scream or jump up or do something. The rest of me lay frozen in fear. A soft sound grazed my ear. A quiet sch-pop coming from the direction of Francesca’s bed.
Then the ghost turned in my direction.
What I should have done at the moment, I didn’t do. My eyes slapped shut, and my entire being pretended to sleep, willing the ghost to leave me alone. Please go away.
I heard a rustling sound, a soft scraping, and then silence. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted my heartbeats. Why didn’t it leave? There was a whole castle full of people to haunt. Why did it have to come here?
After what seemed like a century, I heard the door open and close.
It was then that my senses returned to me. What was I thinking? A real, actual ghost had come into my dormitory and I’d let it? Just like that?
I sat straight up, flinging the covers off. I, Darling Wray Fortune, was no coward!
The freezing night air gripped me like a Laundress wringing out a wet towel. All the breath whooshed from my lungs. Shivering, I slid out of bed and wiggled into my slippers. I wished I had a candle or a lantern, but if the ghost could get around in the dark, so could I.
I crept across the room and inched the door open. Down the corridor, a glimmer of white swayed in the cold air.
Aha! I crept after it, clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. The moon had set, and the darkness in the corridor was such that I could barely see my slippers. The ghost coasted down the corridor and toward a stair. There it hovered, and I stopped in my tracks, holding my breath. It slid down the steps, and I waited a few moments before I tiptoed to the top of the stairs. The ghost sailed away below me, down another corridor.
Where was it going? I hurried after it, my slippers soundless on the marble. The ghost drifted in the direction of the Princess’s rooms. I always went into her room from either the pressing room or the wardrobe hall, but there were fancy gilded doors in the main corridor that Her Highness used. And the ghost headed toward them.
I stopped at the nearest corner and hid behind it. I snuck a peek at the ghost down the corridor. It hovered in front of the doors. My heart skipped a beat. It didn’t mean to hurt the Princess, did it? Could it? It had moved my ribbon. Sliding a ribbon around the castle was one thing; doing someone real harm was another. I clenched my fists.
If the ghost slid through the Princess’s doors, I’d have to pound on them to wake her up.
I had no idea what I’d say when she answered her door. Excuse me, Your Highness, for disturbing you, but a vicious ribbon-swiping ghost was headed your way. I ground my teeth; how much trouble was I about to get into?
The ghost hung there, glimmering in the dim passage, twisting slightly as if uncertain what it wanted to do. Then it turned back around. Could ghosts see? Hear? Smell? I was afraid that I was about to find out. I held my breath, too frightened to run away.
And then it slipped around again and wafted to the end of the passage. I felt a sudden breeze, and then the ghost vanished.
At that moment, I wished fervently that I’d brought Iago. I could have sent him scurrying down to the end of the passage to check up on the ghost. But I hadn’t; I’d been too busy being brave.
I stood, trying to scrounge up the nerve to stroll down there and see what I could discover, but my burst of bravery had melted away. I shook so hard that my knees knocked together. My teeth chattered. My flannel nightgown crackled with cold. I felt frozen in place. The only warm parts of me were my slippered feet. Which, thankfully, woke up and began to walk, moving me away from the corridor and any contact with ghosts.
I decided that tackling ghosts was best left to Roger.
Except, my conscience murmured, when they threatened the Princess. Not that that had happened; maybe the ghost had gotten lost. After all, it was a big castle with lots of corridors. Yes, that was it. The ghost was confused. Maybe it was really old and had trouble remembering.
I consoled myself with that thought as I hastened back to my warm bed.
The next morning I woke up tangled in my covers like a fly in a spider’s web. I scrambled my way out into the morning, which was bright with sunshine. I climbed up on my bed and looked out the window. Icicles hung in a row from the sill. The world beyond was one of those blinding-bright winter days that look warmer than they are. A glistening river of snow rolled over the lawns below. My breath fogged the glass. I wrote my name in the mist before it disappeared.
“You can write?” Dulcie asked, squinting at the window.
“Sure,” I said, hopping down onto the braided rug beside my bed. “Can’t you?”
She shook her head.
Francesca shuffled over to us, hair in a snarl, eyes bleary.
“What were you writing?” she snapped.
Dulcie ducked into her clothes. I eyed Francesca.
“Secrets,” I said, grinning.
“What secrets?” she said.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret.”
Her eyes narrowed; she glanced at Dulcie, who was studiously buttoning her dress.
“Can’t read,” Dulcie volunteered.
I retrieved my clothes from their hook. It was too cold to stand around in a nightgown while Francesca glowered at me.
“You better not have any secrets,” she said at last.
“Everybody does,” Ann said from across the room.
“I know Ann’s,” another Girl sang out.
“No, you don’t,” Ann said, throwing a rolled-up sock at the other Girl.
“Does this secret have a name?” Kate giggled.
Ann blushed.
“Get dressed,” Francesca said, evidently deciding that secrets weren’t a subject she cared to discuss.
She marched over to her bed and began pulling on her clothes.
Ann stuck her tongue out at Kate.
Muffled noises sounded outside the dormitory. A short Kitchen Maid came in, holding the door open for a taller Maid, who lugged our heavy breakfast tray into the room. Behind her a distant shout echoed down the hall.
“Good morning, Girls,” the tall Maid called, putting our tray down on the side table.
Dulcie popped up, eager to grab a jelly-filled pastry. She snatched up the gooiest selection every morning, as if she couldn’t wait to muss up her clean clothes.
“What is all that racket?” Kate asked the Maids.
“Some to-do,” the tall Maid confided, eyes shining. “Her Highness has half the castle astir over it.”
“Over what?” Francesca sniffled as she tied her apron.
The tall Maid took a breath, ready to spill whatever juicy tidbits she had, but the short Maid spoke first.
“They don’t tell us anything in the kitchens. Ask your mother what’s what,” she said.
“I will.” Francesca reached for her boots.
“The Head Steward is up, and I saw the Head Cook running about in her dressing gown!” the tall Maid said, twisting her hands together, unable to contain herself. “You don’t suppose it’s a war?”
“War!” Francesca scoffed. “If it was something like that, the Guards would be out, not the Head Steward.”
“Isn’t the Head Cook in the kitchen cooking?” Dulcie asked, nabbing her roll.
The short Maid shook her head. “She doesn’t do little things like breakfast. She oversees the big meals.”
“It must be some calamity,” the tall Maid persisted.
Shaking her head, Francesca shoved her right foot into her boot. She screamed and snatched her foot back out again. The bo
ot dropped with a clatter. She clutched her toes.
“Something bit me,” she hollered. A dot of blood oozed up through her sock.
“Was it a spider?” another Girl asked, turning pale.
Several Girls froze, hairbrushes in hand.
“Spider?” one squeaked.
“It’s too cold for spiders,” Francesca snarled, grabbing the boot.
“Is it a snake?” one cried.
“A mouse?” another guessed.
I flinched; they’d blame Iago if they knew he was under my bed.
Francesca upended her boot and shook it.
Something tumbled onto the braided rug beneath her. Francesca’s face drained of all color; her lips whitened. The Girls surged forward; one grabbed a pillow to combat whatever creature lay there. They gasped in unison.
I scrambled over them to get a look.
There, glinting in the winter-morning sunshine, was Princess Mariposa’s emerald pin.
The Girls clustered around Francesca, a mix of wonder, surprise, and outrage on their faces. Francesca sat, boot in hand, staring in horror at the incriminating flash of green nestled in the rug.
“What is that?” Kate asked.
“Jewels,” Ann breathed.
“Oh my goodness,” the tall Kitchen Maid exclaimed, clasping her hands to her cheeks.
“Thief!” the other Maid cried.
Francesca’s boot hit the wooden floor with a thunk. “I didn’t put that in there!” Francesca exclaimed.
“Where’d it come from?” a Girl wondered.
“Whose is it?” Dulcie asked nobody in particular.
“I’ve seen the Princess wearing it,” Ann said.
“We have to get the Head Steward!” the short Maid said.
“We have to find the Head Housekeeper,” the other added.
They goggled at each other and dived for the door. They nearly fell over each getting through it.
—
Mrs. Pepperwhistle swept into the dormitory, flanked by her henchwomen: the Head Duster, the Head Polisher, and the Head Sweeper. We Girls stood at the foot of our beds, having jumped into our clothes and put our hair in order as fast as we could. Ann’s cheeks bulged with the pastry she was gobbling down. Mrs. Pepperwhistle arched a prim eyebrow at her, and she swallowed the rest whole.
Ghost of a Chance Page 9
