Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  Lindy stalked into the wardrobe hall, pulling an awestruck Gillian along behind her.

  “No dawdling,” Lindy snapped at her. “There’s a pack of work, and you’ve got to start from scratch.” She watched me mournfully.

  I threaded a coral button onto my needle as if this required a monumental amount of concentration.

  “Oh,” Gillian gasped. “I really get to work up here?”

  “After you’re suitably dressed,” Marci said.

  Lindy favored Gillian’s canvas apron and brown dress with a frown.

  “She looks fine; it’s not like she’s stayin’. This will all be back to normal in a day or two,” Lindy exclaimed. “Right, Darlin’?”

  “They made me come up here,” Gillian said. “I’m not trying to steal your job.”

  “I know,” I told her.

  The thread made a slithering sound as it ran through the bodice fabric. Would it be a day or two? I had my doubts. Princess Mariposa had been so upset by her missing-and-recovered pin and the discovery of the library book that she’d gone back to bed.

  And stayed there for three days.

  The Head Cook had said that the betrayal of one’s servants cut like the sharpest knife—a comment I hadn’t found all that helpful, especially since the sentiment was shared by most of the Under-servants. If they viewed Francesca with suspicion, they saw me as a traitor. By taking that book, I’d stepped over a line. They half expected an Upper-servant to do wrong, but one of their own?

  It was inexcusable.

  “But I borrowed it!” I protested for the thousandth time.

  Jane’s incessant sobbing didn’t help matters. The Under-servants eyed me with a disapproval bordering on affront. Lines were lines, and you knew better than to cross them. Taking—borrowing—one of Her Highness’s own books? Well, it wasn’t something a good servant would do.

  What business did Darling have with a book?

  Lindy had rallied to my defense. She protested my innocence—not to mention, my outstanding pressing—to anyone who would listen. But to no avail.

  “It’s out of my hands,” Marsdon had said.

  The Princess had left no instructions that I was to be fired, but in light of my alleged misdeeds, I would not be returning to my position. Something else would have to be done with me. For a while it looked as though I would be headed out of the castle for good. I heard murmurings about the orphanage.

  That’s when Marci volunteered to keep an eye on me.

  “I’ll see to it that she’s kept out of trouble,” Marci promised in a tone that made me flinch.

  Not that I wasn’t grateful; I was. But Marci undertook her duty as my keeper with the same relish that the Head Cook lavished on a new dish. She kept me stitching away on my stool, where she could keep an eye on me every minute.

  You couldn’t accuse Marci of slacking.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Marci asked, snapping me out of my reverie.

  Gillian bounced on her toes, so excited that she could hardly contain herself. Lindy planted a fist on her hip and tapped her toe.

  “Gillian is a hard worker,” I told Lindy.

  Lindy snorted and hauled Gillian to the pressing room. I scooped up another button. I’d never realized how many buttons, seams, hems, and laces and trims and little bits of decoration were sewn on Her Highness’s clothes. And how many of them had come loose or undone. All that dancing and dining and ruling—being a Princess was hard on clothes.

  And she had six closets full of them.

  “Marci,” Princess Mariposa said from the dressing room door, “can I get your opinion of these swatches?”

  My heart quivered; the Princess didn’t look at me, but she clutched the door like a shield. I had disappointed her. I felt like a rat.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Marci replied, hurrying to the door. “What are you ordering?”

  I peeked through the open door and saw fabric squares in mouthwatering colors strewn about the carpet.

  “Oh, a few things for winter, dresses for court, balls, that sort of thing.” Princess Mariposa sighed. “Such a lot of bother,” she added as the door swung shut.

  I scooped up another button. It glimmered in my hand like a jewel. Like something sewn on one of the hundred dresses. I heard a subtle whistle from the Queen’s closet. Lyric was in there, banished during the reign of Her Majesty’s headache and yet to be returned. There were piles of samples to sort through….Marci would be busy for half an hour, easily.

  I crept over to the pressing room and snuck a look. Lindy stood over Gillian with a hot iron, demonstrating. Baskets of clean laundry waited to be pressed.

  I dashed to the closet and popped inside.

  “We have to get that ghost!” I told the dresses.

  Lyric ruffled his feathers. He cocked his head. The dresses shifted on their hangers uneasily.

  “Well, are you with me?”

  Silence. If the dresses were capable of being disinterested, they were then. I ground my teeth together. Marci would be distracted for only so long.

  “Don’t you care about what happens to me?” I asked, angry. “Or the Princess?”

  Eighty-Three flapped a grape-colored sleeve toward the window.

  The sun shone, painting the yellow of the glass canary at its center on the rose-strewn rug. Shadows scattered to the far corners of the closet.

  Lyric bobbed his head.

  “Ghosts don’t come out in the day,” I said, understanding.

  The closet door opened. Marci stood there.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Feeding the canary.” I’d fed the canary earlier that morning.

  She pointed in the direction of the stool. Shoulders slumped, I trudged back to my spot and plopped down.

  Marci settled behind her desk and laced her fingers together. “Don’t lie to me,” she said. “I don’t appreciate it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Let’s get a few things straight,” she said. “One, I am not your enemy. Two, you got yourself into this mess, and you’ll have to get yourself back out again.”

  “I know.”

  “Three, you should avoid getting in any more trouble than you’re already in.”

  I picked up a button. I knew that.

  “Four,” she said, with particular emphasis, “the Princess has a guest in the castle, a harpist who will play this evening for Her Highness’s enjoyment.”

  “That’s nice,” I muttered.

  “It is,” Marci agreed. “Even more so because all the Head Servants are invited to attend.”

  “You’re invited to join the court?”

  Marci favored me with a sour glance. “The servants will gather in the minstrels’ gallery above the ballroom.”

  “Oh.”

  “I expect the concert will last for some time,” she finished, taking out her pincushion and scissors. “It will be very widely attended, I’m sure. The halls will be practically empty.”

  “Oh,” I said with a smile.

  “Get to work,” Marci ordered as if she hadn’t said anything else.

  Gillian, Roger, and I crouched over our dinners in a corner of the kitchens. The chatter around us centered on the evening’s concert. Even those who weren’t invited to attend quivered with excitement.

  “Ooh, she’s supposed to play just like the fairies,” cooed a Kitchen Maid at a nearby table. “All romantic-like. They say people fall in love just by listening!”

  “Then they better be careful about who they sit by,” Roger said.

  Gillian giggled, her dimples deepening.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, relieved that they were still willing to eat with me.

  Earlier, a row of Laundresses had scooted together so that the open spot on their bench disappeared before I could sit down. And a group of Under-dusters had pointedly avoided my table as if roast weasel were being served there. But Gillian and Roger had shown up and saved me from eating alone. Again.

&n
bsp; Eventually, the Under-servants would forgive me. Or I hoped they would. But that would happen a lot faster if I could prove I hadn’t put the pin in Francesca’s boot or swiped the library book from Lady Sara.

  “So,” Gillian said, “what is the story with this book you stole?”

  “I didn’t steal it!” I stabbed my potato with my fork. “I borrowed it from the library.”

  Roger studied me over his glass of milk. I could see thoughts percolating in his brain. He knew I was telling the truth; he’d seen me with the book—or he’d seen me as Lady Sara with the book.

  “What did you want with that book anyway?” he asked.

  “It’s about my family. I only wanted to read it.”

  “It’s too bad you won’t get to. It’s probably full of adventures, battles, great love stories, and everything,” Gillian said.

  I shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. I could picture it in my hands and feel the magic rising out of it. It wasn’t just a book—it was a depository. Knowledge and magic: the very essence of the Wrays themselves simmered between its covers. I’d lost hold of it, and it didn’t seem likely that I would get it back.

  “Do you think Francesca took that pin?” Roger asked in a low voice.

  “No.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening. Then I told them about following the ghost. “It had to have done it,” I finished. “No one else could have.”

  “I dunno,” Roger said, scratching his head. “Ghosts don’t carry things around; they’re dead, and they’re filmy like fog.”

  “I’ve been asking around,” Gillian said. “And the Pickers say there’s this rare kind of ghost called a polterghost or something like that. And it throws things. Maybe this ghost picks things up and then throws them in boots?”

  Roger frowned, thinking this over.

  “The thing is,” I said, “how do we prove it? How do we catch a ghost?”

  “Why would we want to catch it?” Gillian asked, scooping up a bite of carrots.

  “To show everyone it’s real,” Roger added with a nod. “Everyone thinks Darling is behind this, but if we can catch the ghost, they’ll all see she’s not.”

  Catch the ghost. The ghost could be anywhere at any time. It could appear without warning. It put the pin in Francesca’s boot; what would it do next?

  “Catching the ghost won’t explain how she got hold of the book,” Gillian said.

  “No,” Roger agreed. “But if we prove that Darling didn’t steal the pin, then more servants will believe that she didn’t take the book either.”

  “Okay. Where do we start looking?” Gillian said, eyes glowing as if she thought this would be great fun.

  If I were wearing one of the dresses, I’d be disguised. But now, with Gillian along, I couldn’t do that. If we found the ghost, it would see us. See me.

  “The south tower!” Gillian said, pointing her spoon at Roger. “I bet this is that ghost Marci was talking about. And it probably hides in the south tower in between hauntings!”

  “I don’t think we should go up there,” I said, pushing my plate away. My appetite had suddenly disappeared.

  “Why not?” Roger asked. “It’s as good a place to start as any.”

  “Afraid of a little bitty ghost?” Gillian asked.

  “No,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I followed it all alone in the dark, didn’t I?”

  Roger glanced around. “Soon as the concert gets going, we’ll go have a look.”

  I tried to nod enthusiastically. But failed.

  —

  Nobody lived in the south tower. Shorter than the other towers, it looked like an ornament on the front of the castle. It had rooms, of course, and stairs and passageways. But they were cramped and narrow. The ceilings hung low, so you felt the weight of the stones overhead pressing down on you. But it was very pretty from outside, like a plume on a hat.

  Now it sat dark and, hopefully, empty. Somewhere an unlatched shutter banged. The wind moaned. At least, I thought it was the wind. But what if it wasn’t? I turned to race back down the steps when Roger grabbed my arm.

  “Should we split up?” he asked, as if we were playing hide-and-go-seek.

  “Um…,” I said.

  “We should stay together,” Gillian said. Her dark curls kinked in a frenzy of excitement. “That way, we can compare notes later.”

  “Yeah,” I said, weak at the knees. “We should stay together.”

  The main landing of the south tower crested the center front of the castle. It held a huge arched window that boasted a lovely view over the broad drive that ran up to the front steps. In the daylight, when royal guests were expected, a Messenger Boy would wait there to be the first to spot their arrival. Whereupon he would race down to the main level to alert the Footmen.

  In the dark, the same window was a black hulk lurking over us. Roger had brought a small lantern from the stables, and now he stopped to light it. Gillian and I waited in the dark. She’d thought to bring one of the paddles that the Laundresses used to ladle clothes into scalding vats. All I’d brought was my wits.

  Overhead, a beam creaked. Wind whistled through cracks.

  I wrapped my arms around myself. I wished I’d thought to bring a paddle or a candle or maybe even a Guard or two along.

  “C-cold?” Gillian asked, teeth chattering.

  “Yeah.”

  “Course it’s cold,” Roger said, striking a match. “Ain’t no fires lit up here.”

  The match flared. Roger pushed it into the lantern, and the wick caught. A rosy glow filled the space, brightening Roger’s face and highlighting Gillian’s curls. And silhouetting the head of a beast skulking outside the window.

  “Yikes!” I hollered, jumping back.

  Gillian spun around, brandishing her paddle. Roger laughed so hard that the lantern bobbed in his grasp, sending splashes of light everywhere.

  “Y-you g-guys,” he chortled. “It’s one of the stone gryphons. It c-can’t hurt you!”

  “It could,” I grumbled under my breath. If I released it with the magic word, that is. I’d done it before. And watching Roger nearly collapse with hilarity tempted me to do it again.

  “It’s okay.” Gillian patted my arm. “It would have startled anyone.”

  “Let’s go look for the ghost,” Roger said with a snicker. “Now that you’ve warned it that we’re coming, maybe it will be waiting at the top of the steps to meet us.”

  “Oh, I hope so!” Gillian said.

  “Yeah, me too,” I mumbled.

  Roger took the lead, lighting the way. The stones at our sides were polished smooth and decorated with carved vines that snaked their way up into the darkness. Our boots echoed on the slate steps; we sounded more like a battalion than three kids. Boom-boom-boom. I hoped the ghost was listening and reconsidering its evening adventures.

  “So, Roger,” Gillian began, “how’re we catching this thing?”

  “We’ll find it first and see what kind of ghost we’re dealing with. Then we’ll set a trap.”

  “A trap?” The stone rail felt icy under my hand as I groped my way up the stair. “What kind of a trap?”

  “Well, it depends on what kind of a ghost.”

  Sure. That sounded reasonable.

  “You mean like a rabbit trap, where you bait it with a carrot?” Gillian said, obviously warmer to this plan than I was.

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “What bait?” I said.

  “Whatever bait appeals to this kind of ghost,” he replied, sounding annoyed.

  Clearly, this was all obvious stuff that everybody knew. Everybody but me.

  “Jewels might work for this one,” Gillian suggested.

  “Where are you going to get those?” I snorted. “They don’t keep them in the kitchen.”

  Gillian turned around, a hand on her hip. “You borrow a few from someone who has them.”

  “The Baroness is rich; she’s got lots of jewels,” Roger put in. “And y
ou know her, Darling.”

  “Huh.” I could see it now. Me waltzing up to the Baroness to borrow a few jewels to bait my ghost-catching trap.

  “We’d give them right back,” Gillian explained.

  “We have to find the ghost first,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.

  They nodded and started back up the stair. I dragged along behind. When I’d followed the ghost, I’d kept my eye on it. Now it could be anywhere. A prickly sensation tingled between my shoulder blades: what if the ghost snuck up behind me? I darted a glance back—pitch blackness haunted my footsteps. I hurried to catch up to Roger and Gillian.

  We scoured the south tower—every room, every nook, every cobweb-laden niche. Our footsteps echoed through the passageways. My fingers cramped with cold. With each draft, I thought of Roger’s theory that the chill meant a ghost had passed by. I scrunched my head into my shoulders, anticipating an attack from behind. We saw old trunks, benches, and the occasional wooden chair. But no ghosts. When we reached the top of the tower, we stopped to discuss what to do next.

  “We should go back,” I suggested, rubbing my aching neck. “Before anybody misses us.”

  “We could feel for cold spots,” Roger offered.

  “I’m too frozen to feel anything,” Gillian said.

  “Should have worn a shawl, then.”

  “I don’t own a shawl.”

  “Darling has a coat; you could have worn that.”

  “How would that look?” Gillian said. “Running around inside the castle, wearing a coat?”

  “Well, you’re the one griping about being cold. I’m helping Darling catch this ghost!” Roger shot back.

  Not waiting to hear the outcome of this discussion, I stomped back down the stair. It wound around and around. I felt my way in the dark. My hand brushed a damp, spongy patch on the wall.

  “Oh!” I squeaked.

  “Hear that?” Roger said, coming down behind me.

  The lantern lit the wall, exposing the dampness as mold. Cringing in disgust, I wiped my damp hand on my apron.

  “Sounded like a bat,” he added.

  My scalp threatened to crawl right off my head. I clamped my hands over my hair. It might be fluffy and pale, but it didn’t need any bats nesting in it.

  “Do you think there’s any up here?” Gillian asked, joining us.