Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  I hadn’t eaten breakfast. My stomach ached. I had just put that pin on the table next to Her Highness’s bed yesterday. Now it lay on Francesca’s rug.

  And I knew how it had gotten there.

  “Where was it found?” Mrs. Pepperwhistle asked, picking up the pin.

  “In my boot,” Francesca answered, pale and straight. Her apron bow sat perfectly centered at her back. Face scrubbed. Boots tied. Hair braided.

  “And how did it happen to be there?” Mrs. Pepperwhistle asked.

  “I don’t know,” Francesca said. “The last time I saw it was yesterday, when Darling put it on the Princess’s bedside table.”

  “Is that true, Darling?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The pin had been damaged in the laundry. Her Highness asked me to put it in her room,” I said.

  Francesca gave me a pleading glance.

  “Francesca was dusting the Princess’s room; she saw me,” I added.

  That wasn’t all she’d been doing, but now didn’t seem like a good time to mention her toying with strings of priceless pearls. Francesca might play around, but she wouldn’t take something of the Princess’s. The ghost had moved it. Why, I couldn’t imagine, but it had gone and stuck the jewel in Francesca’s boot!

  “Were any other Girls in the Princess’s rooms yesterday?” Mrs. Pepperwhistle asked.

  “Maybe Darling went back later and picked it up,” Francesca said. “She has access to all rooms while she works.”

  So much for not tattling on her.

  “No, I didn’t!” I roared. “Ask Lindy.”

  Mrs. Pepperwhistle frowned. “Her Highness woke this morning and was quite distressed to discover the pin gone.”

  “Stolen, she said,” the Head Polisher added.

  “Put your foot up,” Mrs. Pepperwhistle said to her daughter. Francesca lifted her booted foot, and her mother ran her finger around the laced rim. “Too tight for the pin to have fallen in accidentally while she was cleaning the Princess’s rooms. Someone put it in there.”

  She straightened up and walked down the row of Girls, looking at each one of us.

  “Does anyone have anything to say?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Ladies,” she said to her assistants, “search each Girl’s things. Be thorough.”

  My heart fluttered. The only thing I had was the box stamped ARTICHOKES, and Iago and his family were in there. What would happen to them? The Head Housekeeper didn’t tolerate mice. They were friends to me, but to her they were vermin.

  I felt woozy as, one by one, each Girl’s trunk or box was hauled out and searched. Several had candy or cake, which was against the rules, and the Head Duster was quick to confiscate it. One had a packet of letters tied up with a pink ribbon. These were slipped into Mrs. Pepperwhistle’s pocket for later discussion with the guilty Girl.

  I caught a couple of Girls smirking. Ann’s love letters, one mouthed.

  I didn’t care if every Girl had a stack of love letters and a basketful of muffins hidden in her things. All I cared about were my mice.

  Finally, Mrs. Pepperwhistle’s assistants reached my bed and yanked out my box. As they flipped the lid off, I gripped the bedpost to keep from falling over.

  “What is this?” the Head Sweeper exclaimed.

  I turned to look, certain that I’d be confronted by a row of tiny frightened black eyes. But Iago had heard the commotion and escaped. Instead, there lay my lavender socks next to the library book, shimmering in all its gilded crimson glory on a bed of sand. Time stopped. My heart refused to beat. My brain refused to think. All I could do was stare at Magnificent Reflections.

  Mrs. Pepperwhistle swooped up the book as if rescuing it from the rubbish bin.

  “What is this doing here?” she demanded.

  “I—I borrowed it from the Librarian,” I sputtered.

  “And you put it under your bed?” she said. “One of Her Majesty’s priceless books?”

  Francesca stared at the crate, dumbfounded.

  “Where did the sand come from?” the Head Polisher demanded.

  “Where indeed?” Mrs. Pepperwhistle agreed.

  “I found it in my bed every night. I didn’t know what else to do with it.” I couldn’t tell the truth—Magic mice swept it up, your Head Housekeeperness, and that’s where they stowed it. Ask them. They’ll tell you.

  “Is that true—sand in her bed?” she demanded of Francesca.

  “Um…,” Francesca said. Caught without an excuse.

  Mrs. Pepperwhistle’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “It seems a great deal has been going on around here besides your work, Girls.”

  The Princess’s Girls studied their boots.

  “Ann, you’ll be in charge today. See to it that all chores are completed promptly. Francesca, you and Darling will wait here until sent for.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” we muttered in unison.

  Mrs. Pepperwhistle swept to the door with her henchwomen in her wake. She paused with her hand on the knob. “And, Ann, see to it that something is done about that sand.”

  And then she strolled out the door with Magnificent’s magic-humming book in her hand.

  Francesca collapsed on her bed. Ann and Kate glanced at each other. Dulcie helped herself to a second pastry. I settled on the edge of my eiderdown, rolling my lavender socks in my hands. Why hadn’t I cried out when I’d seen the ghost?

  “Do you think they’ll both be fired?” someone whispered.

  “Take the box out and dump the sand into the rubbish bin,” Ann ordered one of the Girls. “And then put it back under Darling’s bed.”

  “Why not throw the whole thing away?” the Girl asked.

  I bit my lower lip, determined not to cry.

  “Just put it back,” Ann said with a sigh.

  “But it looks heavy,” the Girl whined. “Why drag it back up here?”

  I gnawed on my knuckle.

  Crimson spots warmed Ann’s cheeks. “It’s all she has. Put it back, like I said.”

  A roomful of eyes stared at me, Darling the Poor Girl. The only one with nothing but an old vegetable crate that had a pile of sand, a pair of socks, and a book that didn’t belong to her inside it.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Ann offered.

  “About the sand—or the glue?” I replied, remembering what they’d done to my hairbrush.

  They all shifted uneasily.

  “Are you going to tell on us?” Kate asked.

  The door opened, and a Footman stuck his head in.

  “Francesca and Darling, come with me,” he said.

  Laying my socks aside, I stood up.

  “Where to?” Francesca asked, collecting herself and straightening her apron.

  “Her Highness’s office,” he said.

  I walked past clusters of anxious-looking Girls. They were scared I’d talk. Not one of them was worried about what might happen to me—or Francesca. I followed the Footman and Francesca out the door, closing it behind me without a backward glance.

  —

  Princess Mariposa’s office glittered like the inside of a jewel box. A rich carpet covered the floor. Gilded chairs were scattered about. Gilded picture frames held beautifully painted scenes of forests and pools, bowls of lush fruits, and portraits of royal-looking people. Thick curtains clustered at the tall windows. Fancy little tables displayed gleaming porcelain statuettes.

  At the center of it all, behind a gilded desk, Her Highness sat on a gilded chair. She wore an elaborately ruffled dressing gown that tied in a big bow at her throat. Her ebony curls rested about her shoulders. Her face was pale, as if she hadn’t had much sleep.

  The emerald pin lay on the desk before her, next to my book.

  Francesca and I stood, hands clasped behind our backs, trying our best to look innocent. Mrs. Pepperwhistle, Marsdon the Head Steward, Lindy, and Marci were grouped to the side. Lindy glowered at me as if she meant to iron the wickedness right out of me.

  “So,”
the Princess began, “my pin mysteriously appeared in your boot this morning, Francesca.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Francesca said.

  “And you have no idea how it got there?”

  “No.” Francesca shook her head.

  “No one saw anything? Heard anything?”

  We both shook our heads. I decided that no matter what, I wasn’t going to mention the ghost.

  “You saw Darling put it on my bedside table?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Was it there when you finished your tidying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Darling, did you reenter my room after Francesca left?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “She was workin’,” Lindy put in.

  Princess Mariposa eyed Lindy. “You are certain of that?”

  Lindy colored. “Pretty certain.”

  Her Highness frowned.

  “I was there all afternoon. Darling didn’t go near your suite,” Marci added.

  “So, someone snuck into the Girls’ dormitory while they were all asleep and put my pin in Francesca’s boot. After, of course, sneaking into my suite to get it. Quite an accomplishment, all in one evening.”

  Lindy, Marci, and Mrs. Pepperwhistle grew pale.

  They were in just as much trouble as Francesca and I were! Any one of them could have taken the pin. Not that they had. The ghost did it. But Princess Mariposa didn’t know that.

  What could I say? Pardon me, Your Highness, but the ghost has it in for you?

  “Perhaps it was some kind of bizarre accident?” Marsdon suggested.

  “Can you explain how such an accident could occur?”

  “No, Your Majesty, I am at a loss to explain it. Only to say that I have the utmost confidence in my senior servants. Children, however, are known to play pranks.”

  Princess Mariposa’s eyes blazed. “A prank?”

  Francesca trembled so hard, I felt my sleeve shake.

  “I wouldn’t!” she cried.

  “I see,” Princess Mariposa said, picking up the book. She dusted the cover. “Why is there sand on this book?”

  Francesca whimpered.

  “Darling had sand in the box under her bed.” Mrs. Pepperwhistle spoke as if she wished she didn’t have to.

  “How did sand get in the box under your bed?” the Princess asked.

  “I put it there?” That sounded silly, even to me.

  Princess Mariposa set the book down and folded her hands on top of it. I had the feeling that she was prepared to sit there until she got answers, no matter how long it took.

  “Why did you have sand in the Girls’ dormitory?”

  My cheek twitched. The truth threatened to pour out of me. I pressed my lips together.

  A knowing gleam lit the Princess’s eyes.

  “Francesca?” she said. “Explain.”

  “It was a joke,” Francesca said in a tiny voice.

  “Was Darling amused?”

  “No, ma’am.” Francesca hung her head.

  “Neither am I.”

  Silence filled the room. A tear trickled down Francesca’s chin.

  “So you do play pranks, just not on me,” the Princess said in a chagrined tone. “Francesca, until we can resolve the matter of my pin in your boot, you are suspended from my service.”

  Francesca sobbed.

  Mrs. Pepperwhistle took a step forward, but the Princess held up a hand to stop her.

  “Now then, Darling, why was my book under your bed?”

  “I borrowed it from the Librarian; I wanted to read it. I was going to take it back.”

  “I see.” It was obvious from her tone that she didn’t. “Shouldn’t you have asked my permission first?”

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out. It had never occurred to me to ask.

  “Am I unkind? Am I such an ogress that you felt you couldn’t talk to me?”

  “Um.”

  “Is this the sort of behavior I can expect from the last Wray?”

  The last Wray. The words drummed in my heart. I’d not only disappointed Her Highness, I’d let down the Wrays.

  “Well?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry,” I said with a sniffle.

  “So am I,” she replied. “The Librarian handed you this valuable book? For the asking?”

  I nodded; it was true and, at the same time, not exactly true.

  “I will speak to Master Varick,” she said.

  My heart fell to my stomach. Marci had warned me. And now I was well and truly caught.

  With her mouth set in a grim line, Mrs. Pepperwhistle led a sniveling Francesca away. I almost felt sorry her. Almost. I was too busy ignoring Lindy’s glares and Marsdon’s disapproving glances. Marci stared at me as if to say, I told you so.

  Princess Mariposa read through a pile of letters, making a note here or there with her quill pen. Two red spots glowed on her cheeks, betraying her anger.

  The door opened and the Footman announced, “Master Varick, Your Majesty’s Royal Librarian.”

  Master Varick surveyed the scene before him, scraping the shock of white hair back from his forehead. He squinted as if the light outside the library was too bright for his eyes. The Princess inclined her head, and the Librarian jerked into a sudden bow, as if remembering where he was and whom he stood before.

  “Did you lend out this book?” she asked, picking it up for him to see.

  Master Varick fingered his coat buttons. “Well, yes, I suppose I did.”

  “You suppose?”

  “I did. I remember it clearly.”

  “And whom did you lend it to?”

  “Lady Sara Mallory.”

  I felt every eye bore into me. Not only was I a liar; I was a thief.

  “She usually reads stories, frivolous things; it wasn’t like her to want something so serious,” Master Varick continued.

  The Princess wet her lip with her tongue, considering. “And you never thought to seek my permission before unlocking my father’s special collection?”

  “I’ve never received any instructions regarding the collection,” Master Varick protested.

  Princess Mariposa blanched; evidently that was true. She turned to Marsdon.

  “Fetch Lady Sara at once!”

  The Head Steward bowed and left with an efficient gleam in his eye.

  The ache in my stomach expanded to fill my chest. Should I speak up and tell the Princess about her grandmother’s closet? My head popped up, and my mouth fell open. I caught Marci’s eye. She held my gaze and then subtly shook her head no.

  I snapped my mouth closed. If Marci thought I should stay silent, then maybe I should. I gritted my teeth as the door opened again and the Footman spoke.

  “Lady Sara Mallory and Mr. Marsdon.”

  Lady Sara stared in wide-eyed wonder at the gorgeous room and its gorgeous occupant.

  “You—you sent for me, Your Highness?”

  Lady Sara wore a lavender dress and a silver hair bow. She smiled at Master Varick and then at me. Apparently, she was unaware that she stood next to a notorious criminal.

  “A question,” Princess Mariposa said. “Did you borrow this book from the library?”

  A frown furrowed Lady Sara’s smooth brow. “Why, no, Your Highness, it isn’t my sort of book!”

  “You are sure you didn’t?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  The Princess sat back; this wasn’t what she’d been expecting to hear.

  “But I lent it to you several days ago!” Master Varick protested.

  Lady Sara shook her head. “I’m still making my way through Tales Long Ago, and after that, you promised to mend Stories Far Away for me.”

  “I did mend it,” the Librarian grumbled. “It’s been waiting for you, but you said you wanted that book.” He pointed to the crimson volume.

  “I’ve never even seen that book,” Lady Sara exclaimed. “Much less asked for it.”

  Princess Mariposa cleared her throat. �
�Is it possible that you’ve mistaken Darling for Lady Sara?”

  Master Varick peered at me as if confronted by a volume of particularly unsavory tales. He unbuttoned his patched coat to reveal an even shabbier waistcoat. He dug a handkerchief out of an inner pocket and proceeded to mop his brow.

  “They are about the same size,” Marci suggested. “And not far apart in age.”

  “It’s very dark in the library,” I said, grabbing onto that like a Stable Boy catching a runaway pony.

  “It is!” Lady Sara agreed. “Too much light is bad for books.”

  “Anybody’d mistake those two in the dark,” Lindy put in.

  “Maybe so,” Marsdon commented, rocking on his heels.

  “I know what I saw!” Master Varick shouted, pointing a bony finger at me. “And I’ve never seen that girl in my life.”

  Princess Mariposa rubbed her temple. “You’re sure it was Lady Sara?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And, Lady Sara, you’re sure you didn’t borrow the book?”

  “Oh yes, Your Majesty, quite sure.”

  “I have a headache,” the Princess said, covering her eyes with a pale hand.

  “Here,” Marci said, setting a box of buttons before me. “Sew one of these on each spot that I’ve marked with a tailor’s tack. Just like I taught you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  I picked the bodice up off the desk. It shone a soft orange, like a melting sunset. On one side was a long row of neat buttonholes; on the other, a series of Xs marked with white thread. A pile of coral buttons waited in the box. I scooped one up as a sigh escaped me.

  “I don’t feel sorry for you,” Marci said, sorting through her keys.

  She didn’t, but I did. Across the room, lined up against the wall, were six—count them—six baskets full of mending. And I, Darling, had to do it all.

  Marci saw my glance. “That’s just the beginning. That previous Wardrobe Mistress was as slack as they come. I don’t think she did a stitch of mending the whole time she worked here.”

  Probably not; she was too busy plotting to release the dragons to spend time sewing.

  I poked my needle into the first X.