Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  “Wow, look at that! It’s set up with a counterweight!” Roger said.

  I didn’t know what a counterweight was, and right then I did not want to find out. I grabbed Roger and shook him as hard as I could. “Get me out of here!” I screamed at him.

  He spun me around and locked a gloved hand over my mouth. “Quiet!” he barked in my ear.

  The dark pressed in on me. The smell of horsey-whatever rising from his glove gagged me. He eased the lantern to the ground and held on to me with his other arm.

  Through the wall I heard the sharp sound of boots. And then the sound of talking grew louder.

  “Up here.”

  “What is that?”

  “A jar full of sand and a burned-down candle.”

  “Guards,” Roger whispered in my ear. “Quiet, we don’t want to get caught.”

  I wanted to smack him, but he was right. The Guards would drag us straight to the Captain. And he would demand answers. I could just imagine how our ghosting story would go over with him, especially since the Princess hadn’t believed me.

  I heard a chuckle.

  “What on earth is that doing here?”

  “Pick it up and let’s get going.”

  Scrape. Clink. Stomp. Stamp.

  “Shouldn’t we look around some more?”

  The voices seemed closer.

  “The tower is a dead end. If anyone is up there, they’ll have to come back down this way. We have too much ground to patrol to waste time looking.”

  I heard a scrape and the sound of boots plodding across the floor. Their staccato steps echoed on the stair and then quickly died away.

  Roger let me go. Light filtered up from the lantern, highlighting his features.

  “What are we going to do?” I rubbed my cold hand against my mittened one. “I lost my mitten on the other side of the wall!”

  “We’ll get it tomorrow,” Roger said, as if that would be the easiest thing in the world. “For now we’re going to follow this passage and see where it leads.”

  “We have to figure out how to open it back up!”

  “Darling, I don’t think we can open it. I couldn’t find a lever.”

  I felt a scream rising up inside me. Roger must have seen it, because he shook me.

  “You don’t build a way into a passage without makin’ a way out. We’ll find the way out.”

  “But dragons built the castle,” I said, “and they’re sneaky, horrible creatures. It’d be just like them to build a way in without a way out.”

  “Dragons might have built the castle, but the finishing work on the inside was done by men. People put this passage here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He sounded sure. “Now, it might be tricky, so stay close.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath. Magnificent Wray had designed this castle. And dragons couldn’t have made the passage. They were too big to fit inside it.

  Roger stooped down and picked up the lantern. Then, holding it out in front, he inched away. I followed so closely I practically walked in his shoes. If I’d thought it was dark before, in the passage I entered a whole new realm. Black pressed around me, hovering over me and squeezing me. Black loomed at my side and slinked around my boots. It sucked all the light and air out of the world. I couldn’t see anything but a slice of Roger illuminated by the lantern.

  I walked on a floor concealed by darkness, surrounded by walls and a ceiling I couldn’t see, heading into yet more darkness. The black was so thick that it took on the appearance of a solid wall around me. We came to a bend in the passage and rounded it.

  My eyes ached from straining. Spots and flashes of light swarmed around my head. I knew they weren’t real; my eyes were playing tricks on me, trying to make sense of all the blackness. I caught myself holding my breath and exhaled.

  The air smelled funny—dusty and moldy at the same time. I wondered if that was even possible. If the passage was dry enough to be dusty, was it also wet enough to be moldy? Pictures of slimy walls and floors covered in dirt and dried-up dead spiders rose in my mind; I pushed them away. Gulping down stale air, I walked with one hand out, as Jane always did.

  Was this what it felt like to be Jane? Lost and frightened in a world of black?

  “Say something,” I told Roger.

  “Something,” he replied.

  “Funny, very funny,” I said, the sound of my voice swallowed by the dark.

  “Wait,” he said, jerking to a stop.

  “What is it?” I asked. Like I wanted to know what exciting new horror lurked in the blackness ahead.

  “Stairs.” Roger felt the dark beside him. “There’s a wall here. You should keep a hand on it so you don’t fall off.”

  “Fall off what?”

  “I don’t see any railing, but the stairs touch the wall, so we’ll stay close to it.”

  He stepped down, and the lantern went down with him. Suddenly, keeping that lantern close meant everything to me. I grabbed the wall and stepped down. My uncovered fingers ached with cold. I tucked that hand in my coat pocket.

  Walking on a flat surface when you can’t see anything is one kind of adventure; walking down stairs when you can’t see where they’re taking you is another. My knees wobbled. The steps were narrow and steep. I took them one at a time, finding the next step with my foot and testing it before stepping down.

  A crunch rang out beneath Roger’s boot. I stood still.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  Roger knelt down on the narrow step, holding the lantern close to something glistening in the dark.

  “Wow,” he said. He held the lantern out into the black. “Wow, I’ve never seen one of these before.”

  “One what?” I said.

  “Come down here and see.”

  Keeping a grip on the wall, I inched down to his step. Roger glanced up, lantern light hitting his chin and casting the rest of his face in shadow. I hunched down next to him and looked. There lay an object that glimmered with the same gleam of the Princess’s pearls. Dark shadows clung to it, like cobwebs or lace. I reached out and poked it. The shadow lace disintegrated at my touch.

  “Down there,” Roger said, pointing with the lantern.

  An oval of light fell over a cluster of pearly objects scattered down the steps. More strings and bits of black clung to them. I stared, trying to make sense of what they could be, when I saw it—sitting at the edge of the light, gleaming and bare. Two black holes stared out at me from its pearly whiteness.

  “It’s—it’s—it’s—” I sputtered.

  “A skull,” he said.

  An empty skull that once upon a time had belonged to a living person.

  “Those are—” I gasped, pointing to the cluster of objects.

  “Bones,” he added. “It’s a whole skeleton.” He let out a low whistle.

  “That’s a dead person! What’s a dead person doing here?”

  “Probably fell down the stairs in the dark,” Roger offered.

  I felt sick to my stomach. “We could have fallen down these stairs,” I said.

  “But we didn’t,” Roger answered. “It clears up one thing, though.”

  “What?” There was nothing clear about being hunched down on a black staircase in the middle of the darkest darkness that ever existed.

  “It explains how the old woman in the story disappeared, never to be seen again.”

  “Oh.” He was right; it had to be her. Poor lady.

  “That’s why she haunts this place,” Roger added. “She can’t get buried like she should be.”

  “What makes you think dead folks want to be buried?”

  “Trust me, the dead want to be tucked into a nice dry coffin and put someplace safe.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  He stood; I leaped up with him. He held out a gloved hand.

  “Here, it’ll be easier to get over it together,” he said.

  I took his hand and walked with him, stepping when h
e stepped, stopping when he stopped. I gingerly avoided each bone and every scrap of what had been a dress. A glimmer of gold hugged the base of the skull. A necklace, I guessed. But I didn’t reach down to pick it up. The old lady probably wouldn’t appreciate my taking it. She seemed to have a thing for jewelry—she’d taken the emerald pin and flung all those other pieces around Princess Mariposa’s floor that day.

  When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I let go of Roger’s hand. After that, there were no more steps; the floor sloped downward and wound around corners. It trailed on and on until it reached a blank wall.

  “Hang on,” Roger said, holding the lantern aloft.

  A rusty iron handle stuck out of the stone. He reached up and pulled on it. The blackness rolled aside, and we tumbled out into a room. A flickering light glowered in a hearth. The smell of baked bread and spices hung in the air.

  We had stumbled into the castle kitchens. The wall to the passage behind us slid shut.

  “Hurry along,” Marci said through the hanging scarf that divided the room.

  I stood in my underthings, dress in hand. The hem bore streaks and smudges from the previous night’s adventure. I’d rubbed at them, but I’d only made them worse. Those passages hadn’t been too clean. I’d spent forever the night before combing cobwebs out of my hair. I didn’t remember seeing any, but then again, I hadn’t seen much of anything. At least my stockings were dark and my apron had been protected by my coat—which was a sorrier sight than my dress.

  Ann would tattle on me to Mrs. Pepperwhistle before I could finish breakfast. My stomach flip-flopped at the thought. This would probably convince Mrs. Pepperwhistle to send me to the orphanage.

  “Darling?” Marci called.

  I chewed my lower lip. Maybe if I tied my apron over my dress, the stains wouldn’t be too noticeable.

  The scarf twitched aside and Marci appeared.

  “What on earth did you do to that dress?” she demanded.

  “Sat on something?” I suggested. Like the floor in the south tower, I thought, keeping the details to myself.

  She frowned. And then she saw my coat. “Where were you children playing? In the smithy?”

  “Nowhere special,” I said.

  Marci rolled her eyes in disbelief. “Never mind where. Put that on for now,” she ordered. “After Her Highness is dressed, we’ll see if we can find a clean one. As for that coat—you’ll have to beg Selma to help you sponge it. In your free time. If you ever have any.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, scrambling into my clothes.

  “I thought you’d gained some sense,” Marci said. “But I was premature in that opinion. Still daydreaming your way into trouble, I see.” She turned away, muttering about playing in refuse piles.

  I bit my tongue. I hadn’t been daydreaming. She was wrong—there was a ghost. And I’d seen the skeleton to prove it. But I couldn’t tell her that without explaining how I knew.

  —

  Later, as I brushed a pair of the Princess’s suede boots, I was wearing a clean dress. While Marci had dressed the Princess, I’d slipped into the Girls’ dormitory and found one. I’d stuffed my soiled dress in the bottom of the laundry basket. Hopefully, it would get washed without raising any questions. The Laundresses were too busy guarding their laundry from intruders to worry about one child’s dirty clothes.

  Or at least I hoped they were.

  Meanwhile, I had more pressing problems.

  My eyes wandered around the walls. Were there other secret passages? If so, where were the doorways into them? Here? In the next room? Were there two or three or—

  “Good afternoon, Lindy,” Marci said, breaking my train of thought. “How are you today?”

  Marci sat at her desk, writing letters, ordering items the Princess had requested. Lindy held her smile as if her face might crack.

  “Great, great,” she muttered.

  “Did you decide what to do with that petticoat?” Marci inquired, signing her name with a flourish.

  “Petticoat?” Lindy groused, becoming animated. “I’m not a seamstress! What can I do with it?”

  “Ask the Head Seamstress for her advice,” Marci said. “She’s a wizard with silk. Maybe it can be transformed into something else.”

  “Such as?”

  “There are several yards of fabric there. Perhaps it could be made into a couple of camisoles and a few handkerchiefs.”

  Lindy huffed at that. “I can’t sew.”

  “I’ll help,” I said.

  Lindy snorted. “Like you can whip up camisoles.”

  “Darling can’t do all of it, but if the Head Seamstress gets her started…,” Marci said. “You might be amazed at what she can do.”

  “Can she make anything fit for the Princess?” Lindy demanded.

  “If not, you could always use a few things for your trousseau,” Marci said. “The Princess said to find something to do with it; she didn’t specify what.”

  Lindy’s eyes widened. Suddenly, she shook herself like I’ve seen horses do.

  “Pack of work,” she announced, and stalked into the pressing room.

  Marci picked up her quill, chuckling to herself.

  “What’s a trousseau?” I asked.

  “Clothes women accumulate for after their marriage.”

  “Is Lindy marrying Captain Bryce?”

  “I think that is the plan.”

  “She’s engaged?” I asked, hurt that nobody had told me.

  Marci eyed me, dipping her quill in her inkpot. “Not exactly,” she said.

  “How can you plan to marry someone you’re not exactly engaged to?” I asked.

  “That’s an excellent question, Darling,” Marci said. “Now finish those boots.”

  I raked the boot with my brush. It was no use arguing. If Marci didn’t want to answer a question, she didn’t. I went back to looking for a likely spot for a secret entrance. I felt I would make more progress if I had more than the four wardrobe room walls to study.

  Ann hobbled into the hall, clutching her side and panting. A strand of hair strayed across her forehead; her braid hung unraveling over her shoulder. One of her stockings had slid down to her boot.

  “Do you have an emergency?” Marci asked.

  “H-Her H-Highness wants her shawl,” Ann gasped. “Her, um, her—oh, I forget which one, but she wants it right now and I ran all the way and twisted my ankle—”

  “I think I can select an appropriate shawl for Her Highness,” Marci replied, rising. “Darling will take it down for me.”

  “But I have to deliver it!” Ann exclaimed. “The Princess wants it double-quick!”

  “Then why didn’t you send Dulcie?” I asked. “She’s the fastest.”

  “Fat lot you know,” Ann snarled, yanking up her stocking.

  “Girls!” Marci said. “I’ll not have that in here. Ann, go to Mrs. Pepperwhistle and show her that ankle. Darling will deliver the shawl.”

  Ann began to protest, but Marci cut her off. “Are you going to limp into the throne room with your hair disheveled?”

  Ann clutched her dissolving braid, tears in her eyes.

  “Run along. I’ll take care of it,” Marci said in a softer tone.

  —

  I raced through the castle, a sapphire-blue shawl folded over my arm. Walls flew by. Ornate, plain, or punctuated by doors and windows, each wall a candidate for a secret opening, a portal into the unseen world of hidden passageways beyond. A world full of ghosts, spiders, bones—maybe even treasure.

  I’d drop the shawl off as quick as quick could be and then I’d take my time walking back. That alcove where my ribbon disappeared that night—I’d bet anything a secret door lurked there. I’d sneak a quick look.

  The main hall sprawled below me as I trotted down the stair. Guards stood at the main doors; groups of people clustered around the edges. I slowed my pace. Court day. I’d forgotten. Lords, ladies, and commoners crowded the hall. There’d be no investigating for me. I trudge
d down to the main floor, the bounce gone from my step.

  Over the buzz of conversation, I heard sobbing and looked around for the source.

  Two women dragged a small red-haired girl toward the main doors.

  “I don’t want to go!” the girl wailed.

  Dulcie!

  I raced to her, throwing an elbow here and there, pushing my way through. Mrs. Pepperwhistle and a woman I didn’t know had Dulcie firmly in their grasp.

  “Come along,” Mrs. Pepperwhistle said. “Don’t make a scene.”

  “You’ll be very happy with us, dear,” the other woman assured her. “There will be lots of other children to play with.”

  The orphanage!

  Mrs. Pepperwhistle’s letter hadn’t been about me. Dulcie hadn’t been crying because she was homesick. Only orphans went to the orphanage. Her family was dead!

  My blood boiled. Dulcie was a Princess’s Girl. She was one of us. We were the only family she had.

  I barreled into Dulcie and wrapped both my arms around her tiny waist, shielding her with the Princess’s shawl. “Let her go!” I yelled. “You child-stealers, let her go!”

  At child-stealers, the hall fell silent. Everyone stared at Mrs. Pepperwhistle and her orphanage friend.

  “Darling, stop this at once!” Mrs. Pepperwhistle hissed.

  Dulcie ripped her hands out of the women’s grip and latched on to my arms. “I don’t want to go, Darling! Don’t let them take me!” she sobbed.

  “They’ll have to drag both of us,” I told her. “Get ready to kick and scream. We’ll bite ’em if we have to.”

  Mrs. Pepperwhistle turned purple. The other woman, who had a face wrinkled like a prune, twisted her hands together.

  “Guards,” the woman called. “I say, Guards, remove this child.”

  The Guards at the doors eyed each other uncertainly; they weren’t supposed to leave their post. Then the crowd parted and Prince Sterling made his way through.

  “Something amiss, ladies?” he asked.

  The prune woman gaped up at the Prince. He wore a royal-blue jacket crossed with a garnet sash; a ceremonial sword hung at his waist.