“Yeah. You hear it?”
“No,” Gillian said. “But I thought I heard a mouse.”
“You hear anything, Darling?” he asked.
I shook my head. I was not about to admit that I’d yelped over some mold.
“It doesn’t matter,” Gillian said. “We’re not looking for bats anyway.”
“No,” Roger said, turning and spilling lantern light all over the stairway. “But I thought I heard one.”
“Come on,” I said, and hurried down the last of the steps to the main landing.
Once we got there, Roger began prowling around and wandered into the room beyond. Gillian and I trailed after him.
“We’ve looked here,” I said.
“Just making sure,” he said, stopping by the far wall.
“Well, maybe we should call it quits for tonight,” Gillian said, stifling a yawn. “Your ghost isn’t very friendly, Darling. You’d think it would come out to say hi, seeing as how we’ve given up our evening to look for it.”
“Her ghost?” Roger said. “I saw it before she did.”
“You said you saw it at the same time,” Gillian said.
I rolled my eyes.
“Let’s—” I froze.
There, smeared on the dusty floor, lit by Roger’s lantern, were several footprints. Just lying there on the ground. They hadn’t been there earlier.
I traced their path with my eye. One, two, three: they led straight into a blank wall—and stopped. The heel of the fourth footprint poked out of the wall, as if the wall had bitten it off.
Or as if the half footprint belonged to a ghost that had walked through the wall. A tremor shook my left leg. Was the ghost still there on the other side of the wall, waiting? Right this very minute?
Roger and Gillian argued on, oblivious to what lay on the floor. Any minute now, the ghost could walk back out of the wall. A fit of shivers shook me like a Sweeper beating a rug. Any minute now the ghost could reach out and—
“We have to go back,” I said, grabbing Roger by the arm. “Right now.”
They looked at me and then at each other.
“She’s kinda turned blue,” Roger said to Gillian. “Do you think she’s cold?”
“Either that or she’s seen the ghost,” Gillian said.
“Did you?” Roger asked.
I shook my head fiercely. And then, without waiting for them, I took off, putting as much distance between me and that wall as possible.
I perched on my stool, hemming a handkerchief with nearly invisible stitches, just the way Marci had shown me. Before becoming Darling the Mending Slave, I’d never held a needle. But I was getting good at sewing. Marci had even started teaching me tricks she used to make the Princess’s damaged clothes look like new.
She had given me a little satin box filled with a pincushion, a packet of needles, a pair of scissors, and a ball of beeswax—all for my own. I was now, I reckoned, Darling, Junior Seamstress to Her Majesty. Not that I had an actual job. I was still Marci’s charge, pinned to my stool by her occasional sharp glance.
Selma strode in, scrubbing her hands nervously against her sides.
“Good afternoon, Selma,” Marci said, scribbling a note in one of the white leather-covered logbooks. “May I help you?”
Selma pursed her lips and dug in her pocket, producing a silver thimble on the tip of her forefinger. She held it up expectantly.
“You found my thimble!” Marci exclaimed, holding out her hand. “Thank you.”
“I did.” Selma rapped the desk with her thimble-coated finger. “And where do you suppose I found it?”
“I can’t imagine,” Marci replied, dropping her hand.
“In the laundry room,” Selma announced.
“How did it get down there?” Marci asked.
“I thought you might tell me. One of my girls found it in the sawdust.”
I felt a funny stirring in the pit of my stomach. The distinct memory of something solid bouncing off the toe of my boot surfaced. I’d felt it the day I found the saltshaker, but I hadn’t stopped to investigate.
“Somebody’s been playing around in my laundry—moving things, making messes, soiling clean clothes, stealing. A saltshaker turned up; I thought a Kitchen Maid was behind the mischief. I had a talking-to with the Head Cook. No, ma’am, none of her girls could be so naughty.” Selma blinked back tears. “Then I found this.”
Marci stared at her in dismay.
“You can’t think I’d be behind such things! Not after all the years you’ve known me!”
“Goodness me, no, Marci! Not you, her!” Selma pointed at the pressing room door.
“Lindy?” Marci gasped.
I nearly fell off my stool. Selma was wrong!
“It’s not like she and me are friends,” Selma said. “Got a temper, that one. Flounces around in that cloak, mooning after the Captain of the Guards. Thinks she’s one better than us Under-servants.”
“None of that proves guilt,” Marci said. “In fact, I can’t imagine that Lindy has time to cause trouble. She’s either working or with the good Captain.”
“It can’t be Lindy,” I exclaimed. “She’d never spoil someone’s hard work. Never.”
Selma eyed me. “Then maybe it was you. You turned up that saltshaker.”
“It was lying there in the sawdust. I stepped on it.” I jumped off my stool and faced Selma. “Anybody could have picked up that thimble, put it in a pocket, and lost it. Anybody.”
Including you, I wanted to add. But the gleam in Selma’s eye stopped me.
She and Lindy had never gotten along. I’d heard Lindy belittle Selma’s work time and again. Would she stoop to such deeds? Moving things around…maybe. She could have been looking for something. The messes could have been accidents nobody wanted to own up to. Soiled clothes? Maybe they hadn’t been clean to start with. But stealing?
I shook the thought loose. Lindy wasn’t a thief.
Then I remembered Lady Marguerite’s riding skirt. Had it been found? I opened my mouth to ask. But the words died on my tongue. If I admitted that I knew about the skirt, Selma would think I had something to do with it. Drat. I’d been Nina at the time. There was no way that I, Darling, Innocent Mender of Hankies, could know anything about that skirt.
I shut my mouth.
“Hmmm,” Selma said. “Well, from now on, the Laundresses will be on watch round the clock. Paddles in hand.” She slapped the thimble down on the edge of the desk. “We’ll see who’s behind this. And when I catch ’em—they’ll be sorry!”
—
I wiggled uncomfortably on the cot in Marci’s room, where I’d been banished from the Girls’ dormitory. Gillian slept in my old bed. That didn’t bother me so much when I considered that Francesca was stuck in her mother’s room. Marci had given me a corner and hung a patterned scarf up like a curtain to give me the illusion of having my own spot.
Marci had a cozy room, one she’d taken a lot of care to decorate with pictures and knickknacks. She gave me a couple of hooks for my clothes and let me keep my wooden crate under my cot. It didn’t contain anything but my unrolled lavender socks. I’d laid them out in the hope that Iago and his family would come and make them their new home. If I ever saw the mice again.
The hooks held my Princess’s Girl’s uniform and my coat. Mrs. Pepperwhistle had let me keep them—once Marci pointed out that I had no other clothes. Now I knew how the lady in the ghost story felt; she’d had nice clothes, a home, and everything—until she’d lost it all.
I squirmed deeper into my covers. I hadn’t said anything about the footprints. I wasn’t going back to the south tower ever if I could help it. Not that we’d had another chance to go ghosting, but still, the thought of them made me queasy. I felt safe in Marci’s room, high in the east wing. And if anything or anyone could scare a ghost, Marci could.
But I couldn’t dismiss the nagging thought that I, Darling the Last Wray, ought to do something. I’d seen the ghost around the Pri
ncess’s room; it could have been in the wardrobe hall. It could have taken the thimble. Someone had. I just didn’t believe it was Lindy.
Marci had forbidden me to warn her. She’d said that would stir up trouble. And we already had plenty of that. Marci thought a Duster or a Messenger Boy was the likely culprit. If we waited—Selma would catch them and the whole matter would be laid to rest.
I hoped so. I hadn’t liked the look she’d given me.
Through the hanging scarf, I heard Marci mumble in her sleep. She wasn’t the quietest sleeper in the castle. But even so, I heard a faint shuffling sound coming from the foot of my cot. I clenched my covers, ready to scream. The shuffle became a patter and then a whump as something bounded up on my stomach.
Iago, whiskers quivering, stared at me in amazement. Then he dived for my chin and planted a big mousy kiss on it.
“Hey,” I said. “Were you worried?”
He leaped back and spread his paws wide as if to say, How could I not be?
“But you found me!”
He wrapped his tail around himself and put on his thinking face.
“What is it?”
He crept across my covers. Then he caught a fold of the blanket and pulled it back. At that, he jumped back as if startled, throwing his paw over his heart.
I thought for a moment.
“You found someone else in my bed?”
His whiskers twitched.
“That’s Gillian,” I whispered. “That’s her bed now.”
Iago shook his head so hard that his whole body trembled. He balled his little paws and bounced around, punching the air.
“No, don’t fight her. It’s not her fault.” I propped my head on my palm. “Iago, can I ask you for a favor?”
He stood at attention, tail straight up.
“Could you keep an eye on the laundry? And let me know if you see anything suspicious?”
He nodded.
“Thanks,” I said. “But be careful. Those Laundresses mean business.”
Marci snorted in her sleep; Iago froze. Then, with a flick of his tail, he vanished under the cot.
—
The kitchen buzzed with the news that the Laundresses guarded the under-cellar, paddles in hand. Selma even stationed one at the bottom of the stairs to demand an accounting from passersby. Not that there were many visitors down there. But still, you’d better have a reason for being there or you weren’t welcome.
I took the hint and stayed away.
I had a ghost to catch. But first, I wanted to know what it was doing outside the Princess’s door that night. It had taken the pin from the Princess’s bedside table and then put it in Francesca’s boot. So why did it go back? Was there something about the Princess’s room that interested the ghost?
There was only one way to find out.
I bided my time, stitching away. I, Darling, Model Servant, said, Yes, ma’am and No, ma’am and Whatever you say, ma’am. Marci rolled her eyes. I knew she wasn’t fooled, but she didn’t complain either. I kept working until the waiting baskets disappeared, replaced by piles of neatly mended clothes.
“We’ll see what else there is for you to do,” Marci said, and gave me a box of buttons. “Meanwhile, sort these.”
I stirred the buttons with a finger; a jumble of sizes and colors tumbled over my hand.
“I have important business with the Head Seamstress,” Marci said. “Don’t forget to check on the canary while I’m gone.”
“Oh-kay,” I said, unsure how to respond.
She smoothed her hair and straightened her scarf. “I hope someone figures out who played that nasty trick on Francesca, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. “I hope so.”
Then Marci winked at me and left. I sat, toying with buttons, and wondered if I’d dreamed what I thought I saw. But only for a moment. I dashed to the closet. If Marci wanted me to go, then a-looking I would go.
“I’m back!” I told the dresses.
Lyric chirped, and the whole closet fell into disorder. Hangers clanged. Dresses bounced. Ribbons flew. I laughed out loud. I felt a new, deeper connection to the dresses, which danced with the magic of the Wrays.
“Who wants to go with me?”
Eighty-Two fluttered its multiple layers of scarlet and orange scarves at me. The dress resembled a twist of flames. I slipped into it. Like a lit match, it flared around me, smoldering down to my size.
“You’re so beautiful, Eighty-Two,” I told it.
But when I turned to the mirror, Selma’s reflection confronted me, looking severe.
“Um,” I said, struggling to be tactful, “I probably need to be someone else.”
Eighty-Two slithered off me into a dejected pool of bright fabric on the floor. I scooped it up and put it back. “I’m sorry.”
I picked up Forty-Eight, a deep forest-green velvet embroidered with holly and crimson berries. It had a laced bodice and long pointed sleeves. I stepped into the dress and pulled it up. The laces crimped my waist, and the dress shrank to my size.
But the reflection in the mirror was another Laundress.
“I like all the Laundresses,” I said hastily as the dresses rustled on their hangers, “but they don’t want anyone lurking around their laundry right now.”
Lyric banged the side of his cage. I glanced at him. He cocked his head and whistled sharply.
I put the dress back and chose another. Fifty was a marvel of silver lace. I pounced on it before Lyric could object. But once again, the mirror revealed a Laundress.
“No,” I said. “I need someone up here.”
The dresses stiffened sullenly. Lyric ruffled his feathers and eyed me crossly.
“Please,” I added. “I have to go to the Princess’s rooms. It’s important.”
The diamonds on Thirty-Six’s shoulder twinkled at me. I picked up the royal-blue silk dress with its dark blue velvet bodice and pinched waist. An elaborate gown, just the sort I imagined the Princess wearing to a ball.
“Perfect,” I said, hugging it to me. It hugged me back, scooping me into its soft folds. I whirled around, letting the skirt flare. And then out of the corner of my eye, I caught my reflection.
Mrs. Pepperwhistle stood in the mirror, twirling her skirt.
I stumbled midtwirl and landed in a heap on the floor. Mrs. Pepperwhistle eyed me from the floor of the mirror. I untangled my feet from Thirty-Six’s skirt. She untangled hers. It was unnerving. I stood up and dusted Thirty-Six off.
Lyric chirped at me. One Hundred folded its lace sleeves across its bodice. The other dresses twisted on their hangers. If they’d had feet, they’d have tapped their toes.
Well, I’d asked for someone who could be in the upper-regions. And Mrs. Pepperwhistle could go anywhere.
“It’s, um, perfect,” I said.
Thirty-Six squeezed me in appreciation. Lyric shook out his tail feathers. I had the distinct impression that he wasn’t fooled. But I waved to the closet.
“Thanks so much!” I said as I ducked out the door.
I scooted through the wardrobe hall. Marci and Lindy were gone, and Gillian didn’t dare stick her nose out of the pressing room for fear of being sent back downstairs. She loved working upstairs—as much as she loved stories, and that was saying something. I strolled straight to the corridor by the Princess’s rooms. I wanted another look at that wall.
The corridor was deserted this time of day. The Laundresses had come and gone earlier. The Princess herself was off doing whatever princesses do. And the Princess’s Girls would already have tidied up by now. I strolled past the closed-up King’s Suite to the end of the corridor, running my hands over the wall’s spotless surface. No spooky chill. Nothing. No hint that any ghost had passed this way. I crouched down and studied the floor. No sign of footprints. The Maids had obliterated any trace the ghost might have left.
Frustrated, I pushed my palm against the wall, closing my eyes and holding my breath. Magic trickled under my hand like a slow-moving stream.
I didn’t want to dabble too deeply in it; I didn’t want to rouse the dragons. But I needed a touch, a spoonful of magic. Just enough to lift my spirit.
Magic bubbled against my palm, soothing away worry and fear. The magic wasn’t afraid of the dragons, and it certainly wasn’t afraid of any moldy old ghost.
“You’re only a troublemaker,” I said loudly enough for the ghost to hear. “You’re no match for me and the castle. You’ll see.”
And then I released the wall and stalked out of the dormitory and straight down to the Princess’s rooms. I held my head high and my skirt close. I, Darling Pepperwhistle, was mistress of all things domestic. I swept down the corridor to the large double doors leading into the Princess’s suite.
I stopped a moment to admire them. Tall, broad, measured into six panels each, trimmed with gold, and meeting in the middle in a large gold crest. The doors leading into the wardrobe hall had gold trim and a crest, but these doors were decorated with painted landscapes. I gawped at them. The gold trim floated over a scene from fairyland—flowers, trees, ponds, and fountains—glistening with gold dust. It was like looking through a window into another, forbidden world.
I twisted my hands together. I’d almost pounded on this door! I snuck a glance over my shoulder. No one stood behind me. No one was watching. Steeling myself, I reached out and turned the gold knob. The door floated open.
I stepped through into the Princess’s anteroom, an entryway painted to resemble a flowering meadow with a flock of butterflies flitting about and fleecy clouds overhead. Three doors broke the walls. I guessed that the center door led straight to Her Highness’s bedroom, so I opened it.
A darkened room greeted me. The curtains were closed, which was unusual. I squinted at the canopied bed, making sure no one was in it. I stepped inside and let my eyes adjust to the dimness. In the gloom, it appeared that snow lay scattered over the carpet. A snow that glinted here and there almost metallically.
Snow?
I stepped forward, expecting my boot to squish the snow and sink into nothingness. I bent down and touched the fluffy whiteness. Feathers. The floor was covered with feathers.
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