Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  “It was dark. She had that shawl over her head—I thought she was a ghost.”

  “And you just happened to find her in the cellar?” she replied.

  “I wasn’t looking for her,” I said, thinking fast. “I was looking for Dulcie.”

  I squeezed Dulcie’s fingers, willing her to remain silent. The Baroness eyed Dulcie sharply.

  “Dulcie wasn’t hiding,” I added quickly. “I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “Well, in any event, Darling, you’ve done me a great service,” Princess Mariposa said.

  “Service!” Cherice shrieked. “You should bow down to me! I’m the one. Serve me!”

  “Who are you, Cherice?” the Princess asked.

  “I’m the one,” Cherice said. “It’s mine. Mine!”

  “What is yours?” Princess Mariposa asked.

  “The key,” Cherice said, calming down. “It opens doors.”

  I thought guiltily of the key in my pocket. I didn’t mention it; I waited to hear what she might say about it.

  “What doors?” the Princess asked, exasperated. “Where?”

  “I won’t tell you,” Cherice purred. “It’s mine.”

  “She’s been carrying on like that since we caught her,” Captain Bryce said. “She’s deranged.”

  “Yes, well, have your men lock her up for tonight,” the Princess said with a sigh. “You can send her to the asylum in the morning.”

  “You’re not going to try her for her crimes?” the Baroness inquired.

  “If you can get a straight answer out of her, be my guest,” the Princess said.

  For the first time since I’d known her, Lady Kaye had no reply. The Princess waved the Guards away. They left, dragging a thrashing, bawling Cherice every step of the way.

  “What a relief, my dear,” Lady Kaye said to Princess Mariposa. “We can all rest easier knowing that none of your servants was involved in this sordid business.”

  The Princess nodded.

  “Maybe you can put the past behind you now,” Marie said kindly.

  “Maybe,” the Princess agreed.

  I sagged. It was late. The struggle with Cherice had drained me. My arm holding the handkerchief ached. I flexed it, letting my hand fall away from my neck. The cloth was soaked crimson with blood.

  “Oh my!” Princess Mariposa exclaimed. “Darling! You’re hurt! You’re—”

  “I’m all right,” I said. I clamped the handkerchief back over my neck. But the color had drained from her face. She swayed on her feet.

  Prince Sterling reached out and caught her. Then he pulled her close.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve caught you,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”

  She gazed up at him a moment, blushing.

  And then something wonderful happened. Princess Mariposa looked into the Prince’s warm brown eyes and saw what had been as plain as day to the rest of us.

  “Yes,” she murmured, “I think you have caught me.”

  And then, to the shock and surprise of everyone, she kissed him.

  The Head Steward looked away. The Baroness became very interested in the silver knob of her cane. Mrs. Pepperwhistle eyed the ceiling. Marie groped for her handkerchief, eyes glistening with tears. Captain Bryce stared at his boots.

  Me? I looked. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  —

  The next morning the Herald announced the engagement of Princess Mariposa Celesta Regina Valentina of Eliora to His Highness, Prince Humphrey Frederic Albert Sterling of Tamzin.

  I sat on a kitchen bench, throat swathed in bandages, bruised from head to foot, and grinned. Servants surrounded me, celebrating the Princess’s upcoming marriage.

  “I knew it all the time,” Lindy crowed.

  “No doubt you did,” Marci commented, dropping a spoonful of sugar into her tea.

  “Does a body good,” the Head Cook said, offering me a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

  “Very romantic,” the Pastry Chef said, sliding a plate of apple turnovers under my nose.

  “Yup,” I croaked, barely able to speak. I helped myself to a turnover.

  “It’s been a long time coming,” Jane said, knitting needles clicking.

  She’d no sooner finished the mittens and hood for the Head Cook than the Pastry Chef had demanded a set for his wife. Jane knitted away with a gleam in her blurry blue eyes.

  “And that Cherice!” Lindy said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I always knew she was too good to be true.”

  “Yeah,” the Pastry Chef said. “Tell that part again, Darling.”

  “And the part about the Princess falling for Prince Sterling,” an Under-chopper said.

  “And the ghost, don’t forget that!” Marci chimed in.

  “Tell us the whole thing once more,” the Head Cook urged.

  Chasing the bite of turnover down with a sip of hot chocolate, I broke my own rule not to talk about Her Highness: I told them about finding Cherice and about the Princess, kiss and all.

  Well, almost everything. I left out the dresses and the passages. And the key.

  A Kitchen Maid nearly swooned. The Footmen nudged one another.

  “I wish I could go to the wedding,” Gillian said with a sigh.

  Every servant in the room sighed with her.

  —

  That evening, I snuck back into the closet. Lyric whistled from his cage. The dresses trembled with excitement. I stood for a moment, savoring it all. The flash of jewels, the shine of silk, the gloss of ribbons—a melody of fabric and lace and magic.

  The Wrays’ magic. And, in a sense, my magic. Not only did it fill the dresses and hum in the castle but it had saved me. Me, Darling Wray Fortune.

  “The Wrays’ Darling,” I murmured, remembering the reassuring echo in the magic.

  The glass canary twinkled at me in the moonlight. There was more to this magic than met the eye. And I had yet to discover what that was. But I would.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said, and the dresses rejoiced as only they could, banging their hangers and waving their flounces.

  Five, a ruby velvet with satin ribbons, shivered with anticipation. I picked it up and slipped it on. The familiar nip-and-fit whirled around me. In the mirror, a lady with delicate features, a tiny pointed nose, and big blue eyes gazed at me. She wore an iris-blue gown with a rope of pearls around her neck. Her fingers glittered with rings. She seemed almost ready to speak. But that was just my imagination.

  I headed off into the castle. Marci had sent my locket to the city for repair, but I hadn’t shown the key to anyone. Cherice had claimed that she was the last Wray, but I was. I didn’t know who she was for sure, but I knew there were answers somewhere.

  I paused a moment at the great library doors, gathering my courage before turning the lion’s-head knob. Then I opened the door, and the rush of magic from the books assaulted me. They whispered like conspirators, Read me. I didn’t dare without Her Highness’s permission. I hurried past them straight to the locked cabinet that contained the King’s collection. Holding my breath, I looked.

  The slot where Magnificent Reflections had sat was empty.

  Of course it was. I’d known it before I looked. Not that Master Varick would make the mistake of letting someone borrow it again. But still, I had to see for myself.

  “Her Majesty has that book,” Master Varick said softly. “I believe she intends to keep it.”

  I jumped; I hadn’t heard him coming. I turned, plastering a fake smile on my face.

  “What book?” I said, pretending not to know.

  “Never mind. May I help you find something, Lady Ellen?” Master Varick inquired.

  “Just browsing,” I said. I knew better than to fall into that trap again.

  “If you have any questions…,” he said expectantly.

  “I was wondering about old families…like the Wrays, for example,” I said in a casual tone. My heart pounded in my chest.

  “The genealogies a
re in Her Highness’s office, I’m afraid,” he said. “But you could ask her about them.”

  “Oh,” I said, smile faltering. “Thank you.”

  I walked back to the doors, past the shelves, reading titles. Hearing the magic hum. With a sigh, I nodded good night to the Head Librarian and left.

  I walked back up to the wardrobe hall. Marci sat at her desk, writing.

  “Good evening, Lady Ellen. Or should I say Darling?” she said, looking up.

  “I wasn’t doing anything,” I told her. “Just trying one on.”

  “It’s a nice night for a stroll,” she commented. “Find anything interesting?”

  “No,” I said. Then one of the questions that had been nagging me burst out. “Marci, can anyone wear a dress?”

  She pressed her hands into a steeple, considering. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You did. I can. Roger can’t.”

  She looked at me a long time before speaking. Then she said, “It’s something to do with the magic—it chooses people for its own purposes.”

  That made sense. I knew why it had chosen me.

  “Why did it choose you?” I asked.

  “That, my dear, was a mystery to me.”

  “Oh.” There were far too many mysteries around for my taste.

  “Put that away and run along to bed. You’ve a big day tomorrow,” she said, picking up her pen.

  I ran into Francesca in the kitchens at noon the next day. She walked up to me, wearing her Princess’s Girl’s uniform and towing Kate in her wake.

  “So you’re still one of us?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am,” I told her, relishing the moment.

  The Princess had reinstated me once she’d stopped kissing Prince Sterling. She’d written a royal decree naming me, Darling Wray Fortune, once again a Princess’s Girl. She’d even stamped it with the royal seal. I had my things packed and ready to move back to the dormitory.

  “So what’s your job now, exactly?” Francesca demanded.

  “I’m the new Under-assistant to the Wardrobe Mistress,” I told her, beaming.

  “Oh, you’re just sewing,” she said.

  I shrugged; I’d spent my morning learning the fine art of embroidery. Not that I needed to, but Marci thought I might enjoy it. She was right. Turning silk thread into knots and flowers gave me a certain pleasure.

  “And you?” I asked. “Are you back?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good,” I replied.

  She started in surprise. I wanted to say, I never thought you did it, but Kate interrupted.

  “Ann’s in hot water,” she said. “Her mother got one look at those letters from her trunk and—”

  “We don’t squeal on other Girls, Kate,” Francesca said. “Do we, Darling?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  She nodded to me and pulled Kate off to lunch. I spied Roger at a table and hurried over.

  “What happened?” I hadn’t seen him since we’d split up in the passage.

  “Stuff,” he said.

  “Did you get caught?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where’d you come out at?”

  “The main Guard room,” he said.

  “And you didn’t get caught?”

  He grinned like an idiot.

  “Talk,” I said, poking him.

  “Dulcie came flying in like her hair was on fire,” he said. “They never noticed me.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  At that moment, Gillian came into the kitchens. Her dark curls bounced under their bright blue ribbon. She looked around, patting the embroidery on her Princess’s Girl’s apron pocket. She was still the Under-presser. She spotted us and waved.

  I waved back.

  She collected her lunch and sat with us.

  “It’s so exciting!” she said. “Well, all except for the part that there isn’t a ghost!”

  “Might be,” Roger said.

  “Really?” she breathed.

  Roger stared at me. I stared back. He shrugged. Gillian deflated a little.

  I reached into my pocket and dug out the key.

  “Cherice dropped this,” I told them, holding it out.

  I’d shined it up so that it sparkled, all silvery and new-looking. Magnificent Wray’s starburst shone on the key’s bow. The tiniest hum of magic vibrated there. A mere morsel, but enough to whet my appetite for more. Whatever this key opened, it had to be important.

  Gillian reached out, and I let it fall into her palm. She studied it.

  “What does it open?” she said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Too small for a door key,” Roger said.

  “Have you tried it in one?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I thought you two could help me search,” I said.

  “What was Cherice doin’ with it?” Roger asked.

  “I think it’s the reason she hid in the castle; she was looking for the lock it fits.”

  “But she had months to search. Wouldn’t she have found it?” Gillian said.

  “Maybe, but I don’t think she did. She was ranting about her inheritance and the key when she was caught,” I said.

  “Hmm.” Gillian turned the key over, examining it. “It might open something small, something hidden in something else…a jewel case, for instance.”

  “Jewels could be what she meant by inheritance,” Roger said.

  Cherice had ransacked the Princess’s room and scattered her jewelry everywhere.

  “Cherice said something about six and seven,” I reminded Roger. “That might be a clue.”

  “Six and seven,” Gillian muttered to herself, twisting a curl in thought.

  “There’s a million keyholes in the castle,” Roger said. “It’ll take time to try them all.”

  “We can take turns,” I said.

  “Can we?” Gillian’s dimples deepened.

  I nodded. She handed the key back to me. I stashed it in my pocket.

  “Looks like there’s plenty to search for this winter,” Roger said. I knew he meant keyholes and secret doors.

  “We’ll get started tonight,” Gillian said, reaching into her pocket. “But first, I got this for you.”

  She held out a slim gray volume.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a notebook, from the Baroness’s library.”

  “How did you get this?” I asked, taking it.

  The cover fell open. My Father, Magnificent Wray, the first page read, by Lady Amber DeVere.

  “From Lady Kaye,” Gillian said. “I knew you wanted to read the other book, and this isn’t the same—”

  “Thank you!” I exclaimed.

  “You swipe that?” Roger asked.

  “No, goose,” Gillian said, tossing her curls. “I asked straight out. Darling, I said, wanted to know more about her family, and wasn’t it sad that there weren’t any books about it?”

  “And she just gave it to you,” Roger marveled.

  “It’s not like a jewel or anything,” Gillian replied.

  But it was. I hugged it close. It didn’t have a whisper of magic in it, but it had answers. I couldn’t wait to read it. Tears welled in my eyes. I’d never realized how good a friend Gillian was.

  “About that ghost,” I said. “We found the old woman’s bones.”

  “What?” Gillian said, eyes ablaze.

  “Have I got a story to tell you,” I said. “But this one isn’t made up. It’s true. See, I found this closet….”

  And I told her the whole tale.

  This is my favorite page of the entire book! Here I have the privilege of thanking you, my reader! If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t write!

  I want to honor the memory of my mother, Marjorie Maupin. Mom read to me, took me to the library each week, and insisted I be given my own library card. That card was gold to me!

  Thank you to all the librarians in my life. You found me books, introduced me to the interlibrary loan program (important
when you grow up in a small town), and shared your wealth of knowledge with me. I especially want to thank all of you who have championed and encouraged me as an author.

  I have a marvelous group of people behind my books: my agent, Sara Crowe; my editor, Diane Landolf; Random House’s Michelle Nagler and Mallory Loehr; book designer Liz Tardiff; publicists Cassie McGinty and Margret Wiggins; and the amazing sales and marketing teams. On top of all that, I have two fabulous illustrators, Lissy Marlin and Melissa Manwill.

  Thanks to my family: Jon, Sara, and Rebecca. My good friend (and long-suffering listener) Faye Wade. My critique partners, Kaye Bair and Rachel Martin. My Ames posse: Sarvinder Naberhaus, Jane Metcalf, Kate Sharp, and Ann Green. Jill Friestad-Tate, the greatest encourager on the planet (if she can’t make you smile, nobody can). Mary Guidicessi, Darling’s own personal cheerleader.

  And thanks be to God, who taught me not to be afraid of the dark.

  I wasn’t born in a tower or in a golden chamber. I wasn’t born a princess or even a lady. But I was born in a castle built by dragons. Not that you would think so to look at it. Perched on the side of a mountain, the castle blazed like a diamond in the sun—majestic, but ordinary as castles go. You wouldn’t suspect that it had anything to do with dragons. Or magic. But it did.

  My mother was an Under-chopper, working beside the Under-slicer in the castle kitchens, when she had me. My father was a sailor who’d been lost at sea. My grief-stricken mother spent her days chopping vegetables and sobbing. The day I was born, she kissed me good-bye, curled up her toes, and died. The Under-slicer, Jane, plucked me from my departed mother’s side. She squinted nearsightedly at my wrinkled red face.

  “What a Darling Dimple!” she exclaimed.

  I’m told I screamed at this pronouncement, but it did me no good. The name stuck. Everyone from the Head Steward down to the Stable Boys called me Darling Dimple. Never mind that I didn’t have a dimple. Nor was I particularly darling. My hair flew around like the white fluff of a dandelion. My skin was pasty, my nose stubby. My eyes were the color of water, which is to say they had no color whatsoever. Some folks said they were gray, some blue, some green. Roger, the Second Stable Boy, said they were yellow. But he didn’t know anything.

  For all her nearsightedness, Jane taught me to read, write, count, and wield a whetstone. She had a soft spot for me the size of a plum pie. When I was small, I followed her around the kitchens. I’d hold a corner of her apron in one fist and a wooden spoon in the other. Just in case one of the cooks had a sudden need for a taster. As I grew older, I helped her: fetching vegetables from the bins, keeping count (if the Soup Chef said twelve onions, he meant twelve), and sanding the chopping block. At the end of the day, when every knife was sharpened, Jane took me upstairs to sit at the paws of one of the great bronze lions guarding the lower gardens. We gazed at the stars with the other Under-servants, dreaming of far away until it was time for bed. We slept in a room tucked under the kitchens where the air carried a hint of cinnamon and spice. But all that changed.