Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  “Walk,” a hoarse voice barked in my ear.

  The ghost’s breath stunned my senses with its rotten-egg odor. It loosed me only to knuckle me in the middle of my back, propelling me forward into the darkness. I walked with my hands out before me, feeling my way. I heard the tap of my boots on stone. As my eyesight adjusted, I noticed shapes—racks of bottles. I was on the dark side of the cellar, where the cold kept the vegetables chilled and no one went unless they had to.

  The fist at my back turned me so that I walked behind the racks and onto hard-packed dirt. Ahead, I saw the faint glimmer of a light. A hoard of broken bits of furniture blocked my path. I tripped over a table leg. The ghost yanked me upright and prodded me on. I headed for the light like a moth to a flame. Behind an old carved wardrobe, I saw a grimy blanket hung like a tent over a lit lantern. The ghost’s camp.

  Only by this time, I’d figured out that my ghost wasn’t a phantom in the normal sense of the word. I strained over my shoulder to get a better look at it, only to be shoved headlong into the blanket tent.

  “What are you doing in my parlor?” the voice asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, dusting myself off and looking at my captor.

  A tall figure with a white fringed shawl pulled up over her head confronted me. She pulled off the shawl and draped it over a backless chair. A deathly pale woman with a dirty face, bedraggled hair, and a soiled, patched dress stared at me with intense blue eyes.

  “Cherice!” I gasped.

  I gawped at the former Wardrobe Mistress. She’d vanished once her plot with the imposter Dudley had been exposed. The castle and its grounds had been thoroughly searched, but she’d eluded capture. “What are you doing down here?”

  When she answered, her voice changed, the way I’d heard it do once before. It became cultivated and smooth, a lady’s voice, not the coarse tones of a moment before.

  “Hello, Darling,” she said. “Welcome to my little cottage in the woods.”

  She gestured with a surprisingly well-manicured hand, which was at odds with the rest of her appearance. I sat on the stool she’d indicated, puzzling out her sudden appearance. Her “cottage” contained backless chairs, rickety stools, a bed made of straw, and an assortment of tins and wooden crates.

  And a collection of items I recognized: Marci’s scissors and pincushion, a nail file that someone—I couldn’t remember who—had complained about missing, and a host of other objects, including the shawl Cherice had been wearing. The Head Laundress, Selma, had complained that her best shawl had gone missing. From the look of it in the light, it hadn’t fared well with its new owner.

  Cherice was a thief, and a distinctly bad-smelling one at that. Then I realized that she was more than a magpie collecting trinkets.

  “You took the Princess’s pin and put it in Francesca’s boot!” I said.

  Cherice laughed, settling herself on a crate and arranging her skirt in what would have been attractive folds if it hadn’t been so filthy. The last time I’d seen that dress—on the day of Princess Mariposa’s canceled wedding—it had been bright pink. Now it was more of a cinnamon color.

  “Francesca deserved every bit of it, my dear,” Cherice cooed. “I thought that was one of my better tricks.” She fingered the magnifying glass she’d always worn swinging from its chain around her neck.

  “It sure got me in trouble,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Everybody thought I did it to get back at her. You cost me my post as a Princess’s Girl with that trick.”

  She blinked furiously, as if confused. “No,” she said, “I righted that wrong. Just like I’ll right all the others.”

  She dug in her sleeve and produced a small silver object she polished between her fingers. Her once-dainty smile twisted into a grimace.

  “What wrongs?” I asked, fidgeting on the stool.

  A gleam lit her eyes. “The long-ago wrongs done by the wicked ones.”

  Her tone had shifted again, losing its cultivated air. Her polishing motion quickened.

  “You wrecked the Princess’s bedroom,” I said, realizing that she was behind the trouble in the laundry, too.

  “Y-yes,” she snickered. “Let her know what it’s like to have what belongs to you trampled underfoot.”

  I struggled to make sense of what she said.

  “Do you mean Dudley?” I guessed.

  “No,” she said with a snort. “I’m rid of him. I’ll have someone much finer once I’ve gotten back what’s mine.”

  “Wh-what did you want to get back?” I asked with a growing unease.

  She’d tried to steal the King’s talisman and loose the dragons. Was that what she had hung around for these past months, hiding, using the passages to spy and steal?

  “My inheritance,” Cherice said, leaning forward.

  “Oh,” I said as if her response were perfectly clear. “Good luck with that.”

  She studied me, winding a lock of soiled blond hair around her free hand. The one holding the object slid into the folds of her skirt. A secretive, sly look crossed her face. “You’re not one of them, are you, Darling?”

  She was as crazy as a Cook stirring an empty pot. And dangerous. She’d always been kind to me in the past, but the image of the ransacked bedroom hung in my mind’s eye. As Jane had said, that act had been vicious. And Cherice had been ready to dispatch me once before, when she thought I was a spy. But I’d been wearing a dress, so she hadn’t actually known it was me who’d overheard her plotting.

  Now did not seem like a good time to bring that up. I glanced around, looking for a quick way out. I heard a faint scuttling. Probably the rats Francesca insisted were not allowed in the castle. Too bad they weren’t acquaintances of Iago’s. I could’ve used a mouse hero right then.

  Absolutely no one knew where I was. It had to be late in the evening. Everyone would be going to bed. Roger was either stuck in the passages, back in the stable, or answering questions from the Guards. I suddenly wished it were dinnertime and some Footman would come looking for a bottle of wine to serve.

  That wasn’t likely to happen.

  If I was quick, I might jump up and bash Cherice over the head with the stool I was sitting on. Stun her, maybe. Then race through the maze of stored goods to the stairs.

  I squirmed; I wasn’t at all sure I could find my way in the dark without getting lost. There was plenty of distance to cover, which would allow her time to pick herself up and come after me.

  “She didn’t answer,” Cherice whispered to herself. “Maybe she’s lying. Maybe she’s not my friend.”

  “Sure, I’m your friend,” I said. “You were good to me.”

  “How did you know about the secret doors?” she demanded, the clouds in her eyes clearing.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “I was just playing around and found one.”

  Her eyes narrowed to a slit. Quick as a striking hawk, she grabbed my apron and hauled me off my stool.

  “You had a light,” she snarled. “You weren’t playing around. You were looking for something. What was it?”

  “A g-ghost?” I said, knees knocking. “I thought the castle was haunted.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. She shook me so hard my brain rattled in my skull. My apron tore and my locket spilled out. The starburst engraving blazed in the dim light. At the sight of it, she hissed like a snake. She released me to grasp the locket, yanking me forward by its chain. “Where did you get this?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “It was m-my mother’s,” I gasped as the chain bit into my neck.

  “Liar!” she shrieked. “This was the Wrays’!”

  “My mother was a Wray,” I said in a strangled voice.

  Momentarily, she loosened her hold, staring straight into my face. “It could be,” she whispered. “You’re fair; you have the aquamarine eyes. You could be one of us.”

  I studied the dirty face; Cherice was fair, too, and pretty—just how Warden Graves had described my mother. Co
uld she be a Wray? All the things she’d done—trying to release the dragons, hiding, spying, ruining the Princess’s things—fit into a pattern. But the castle didn’t seem to know her like it knew me. She hadn’t known about the magic.

  More important, she didn’t know that I knew.

  “You said you’re looking for your inheritance,” I said cautiously, seizing on my chance to get away. “Maybe I can help; my mother was the last Wray. Maybe—”

  “I AM THE LAST WRAY!” Cherice shouted. “THE INHERITANCE IS MINE!”

  I was too stunned to speak. She hurled me against a nearby broken chair. It collapsed under my weight, splintering to pieces. The fall knocked the air out of me. I lay breathless for a moment until I saw Cherice looming over me with a wild look in her eyes. I groped for one of the broken chair parts. As I did, I twisted slightly and saw two familiar eyes stare at me through a crack in an old cupboard.

  Dulcie crouched behind the broken boards, peeking in. A telltale streak glistened on her cheek.

  “Get—” I hesitated. The Guard room was a long way away. “Get the Laundresses! Run!”

  At that, Dulcie popped up out of her hiding place and shot into the darkness.

  Cherice roared in rage, snatching me off the ground like a bag of onions. She grabbed hold of my locket again and began dragging me by it, throwing furniture out of her way as if it were made of kindling.

  “I have a place for you,” she snarled.

  With a sick sensation, I knew exactly which place she had in mind. The passages. She’d had months—maybe years, counting the time she’d spent as Wardrobe Mistress—to unravel their mysteries. Once she got me in there, it’d be a long, long time before anyone found me. Even if Roger became worried and went looking, it might be days or weeks before he stumbled on the right place.

  I’d never last that long!

  The glimmer of lantern light had become lost in the jumble of wine racks. I heard the crunch of stone under my boot and knew the door wasn’t far away. I fought like a wild thing, biting and clawing. Cherice tightened her grip on my locket and slugged me in the stomach. I doubled over, choking as the taut chain jerked my head up. I felt it tear my skin as it gave way and I fell.

  The stone rushed up to meet me, slapping my head so hard my ears rang. I heard Cherice standing over me, panting. Something warm oozed down my neck.

  “You made me break it,” she said in disbelief.

  I heard the tinkling of metal objects hitting the floor. Then she lunged for me and wrapped her hands around my throat. I bucked, but I couldn’t throw her off. She squeezed. My eyes bulged. Frantic, I flailed around for something, anything, I could use against her. There was nothing—nothing but air and stone.

  “You broke it! You broke it!” she howled.

  My lungs screamed for air. My head felt like it would burst. I dug my fingers into the cellar’s paving stones. And there, bubbling like an unseen brook, the castle’s magic tickled my fingertips.

  Magic! Warm and sweet, it rippled up under my hand. And it spoke to me. Let us in, it said, tapping at my palm.

  I pawed into it, pulling it out of the floor and letting it course through me. It sang in my veins, hummed in my bones, welling up until it reached my skin. And then it flared like a flame, lashing out at Cherice. Magic bolted into her like a white-hot poker. She let go, crying out and falling backward.

  I heard her hit the floor. I heard her whimpering. I sucked in great breaths of air. The tickle of magic lingered inside me. It had saved me.

  Darling, move, the magic whispered as it faded away. Until only a reassuring echo remained.

  I scrabbled around on the stone, trying to push myself up. My fingers found metallic objects—my locket and chain and something else. A key. I scraped them both up, crammed them in my pocket, and staggered to my feet. I strained in the dark, deciding which way to run, when I heard Cherice sobbing.

  If I left right then, I might be able to reach the stairs before her wits revived and she chased me. But. She might not do that. She might run for the hidden door. If she made it back into the passages, I’d be right where I started from: without the ghost, without proof, without the possibility of clearing my name.

  I saw the dim outline of her lying on the ground. I, Darling the-last-Wray Fortune, walked over and sat on Cherice like a queen on her throne. She groaned with my weight on her stomach. I elbowed her for quiet.

  “You’re not getting away this time,” I told her in a voice raspy from choking.

  In the distance, I saw a flash of light and heard the pounding of boots.

  “Over here,” I croaked as loudly as I could. “I’ve got her!”

  A phalanx of Laundresses, wielding heavy paddles, burst upon us. Selma led the charge, waving a lantern over her head like a banner.

  “Circle ’em, gals!” she cried.

  In a twinkling, a wall of heavy-muscled, red-knuckled, grim-faced Laundresses glared down at us over their paddles. Dulcie squirmed between them, panting. She glowed with excitement.

  “I got them,” Dulcie said.

  “You’re the fastest ever,” I told her. Then I turned to Selma. “I found out who was causing trouble in the laundry. Cherice!” I hopped up off her and gestured to my prize. “See?”

  An incredulous look flooded Selma’s features. “I don’t believe it!” she said, surveying Cherice’s dirty and disheveled appearance.

  Cherice snarled at the Head Laundress, baring her teeth in a ferocious grimace.

  “And the cat’s got claws, I see.” Selma dug in her pocket and pulled out her hankie. “You’re bleeding,” she said, offering it to me.

  I took it, suddenly remembering the warm trickle down my neck, and pressed the cloth to my wound.

  “You”—Selma pointed at Dulcie—“run and get the Guards. Tell them the kitty is in the bag.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Dulcie crowed, and raced off.

  Cherice staggered to her feet, smoothing her ratted and filthy hair.

  “You’re no master to me. Let me by, you louts,” she said, waving her manicured fingers at them.

  “Not so fast, my lady. You’re the one’s been doing mischief to my gals,” Selma said.

  “And stealing.” I pointed toward Cherice’s “cabin in the woods.” “Back there is a whole lair full of stuff.”

  “Go see, Urs,” Selma said, favoring Cherice with a baleful glare.

  Ursula turned in the direction I’d indicated, and, seeing the faint glimmer of the candle, stalked off.

  Cherice colored slightly but held her head high.

  “Step aside, I say. I am the last Wray. You’re nothing to me,” she said.

  “I don’t care if you’re the long-lost sister of the Baroness Azure!” Selma told Cherice. “You’ve some answering to do.”

  “Yeah!” the Laundresses roared, menacing her with their paddles.

  “Stop this vulgar display at once,” Cherice commanded. She shook out her skirts, dislodging a cloud of dust.

  Several of the Laundresses coughed, but Cherice took no notice. She patted the ribbons on her bodice as if reassuring herself. She tossed her soiled locks. “I don’t expect women such as yourselves to understand,” she purred, “but I am royalty.”

  The Laundresses howled with laughter. Cherice’s eyes darkened.

  “You let me go or I’ll send you all to the dungeons,” she cried.

  “Oh, no!” Nina gasped. “She’ll send us to the drying room!”

  The Laundresses chortled with glee.

  “Little Missy Upstairs is a-scaring me!” Rayna snorted with derision.

  “Tell them, Darling,” Cherice demanded. “Tell them who I am!”

  They stared at me, surprised.

  Uncertainty nibbled at my conscience. Cherice might be related to the Wrays, but she might not. She might just think she was. After all, the magic came to my aid. Not hers.

  “She’s crazy,” I said. “Ask Princess Mariposa. My mother was the last Wray, and now I am. She’s an i
mposter.”

  Cherice choked with anger.

  “Like that fink Dudley,” Selma agreed. “Shut your mouth, Cherice, or we’ll do it for you.”

  “Selma, this here’s your shawl!” Ursula announced, returning with it draped over her paddle.

  Selma took one look and cried, “It’s filthy! You, you—I’ll get you for this, Cherice.” Tears wet her cheeks. “My very best, pure-white shawl.”

  “I wouldn’t sully myself with that rag,” Cherice sniffed.

  Selma squealed with rage and grabbed the paddle from the Laundress next to her. Cherice threw her hands over her head with a shriek.

  Just then a voice rang out through the darkness of the cellar.

  “Halt in the name of Her Highness!”

  Captain Bryce and his Guards had arrived.

  —

  Princess Mariposa paced in her office, a black evening gown trailing behind her. The diamonds on her black shoes sparkled with each step. She worried a silk handkerchief between her fingers. Prince Sterling, Lady Kaye, Marie, the Head Steward, and Mrs. Pepperwhistle all watched her anxiously.

  Cherice struggled between two Guards, spitting and snarling like a cat.

  “Let me get this straight, Captain,” the Princess said. “This person has been camping in my cellar, stealing from my servants, and plotting against me all this time?”

  Captain Bryce motioned to one of his men. That Guard held the bundled-up and bulging shawl, which he spilled on the carpet. Stolen possessions tumbled out.

  “These are the things that have been reported missing,” he replied. “All here and accounted for.”

  “But how? Why didn’t anyone see her?”

  “Your Highness, she’s a sly one,” the Captain said with a grimace. “She eluded us.”

  “I saw her,” I said, my voice scratchy.

  I pressed the handkerchief to my throbbing neck. Now that the excitement had died down, every inch of me hurt, my neck worst of all. Dulcie clung to my free hand, her flame-colored hair wilder than ever after her race through the castle.

  “You said you saw a ghost,” the Princess reminded me.