The Starlight Slippers

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  Every dress in the closet shrank in horror. One Hundred’s train contracted as though it already felt the bite of scissors slicing into it.

  “No,” I blurted out. “You can’t cut up Queen Candace’s dress!”

  The shocked expression on the Princess’s face told me I’d gone too far.

  “I mean, um, I think, it’s just that…,” I mumbled, red-faced.

  “What Darling means is—” Marci paused and gave me a warning glance to be quiet. “Madame Zerlina Trinket will be crushed if you don’t choose one of her latest designs for the royal wedding. Crushed!” she repeated.

  “Oh.” The Princess thought a moment. “That’s true.”

  She took the dress off and handed it to Marci, who put it back where it belonged. The dresses sagged in relief. Rose helped a disappointed Princess back into her violet gown.

  “I did so want those slippers,” she said with a sigh.

  “There are six more closets, Your Highness,” Gillian pointed out.

  “There are!” Princess Mariposa exclaimed.

  “It can’t hurt to look,” Rose said. “You’ve plenty of time to order a pair if you don’t find them.”

  Marci jangled the keys on her chatelaine. She glanced back and forth between the Princess and Rose. Her stance reminded me of a Kitchen Maid with two impossible tasks to complete at the same time.

  “Darling and I will search them all,” Marci said finally, but she looked less than thrilled at the prospect.

  “Yes! Do!” Princess Mariposa cried.

  “We’ll find the slippers!” I piped up.

  “We’ll start immediately,” Marci agreed with an insincere smile.

  I frowned at Marci; every servant in the castle was determined that this wedding would be perfect. So perfect that it would erase every memory of the other—failed—wedding to Dudley, the fake Prince Baltazar. I shuddered to think what would have happened if I hadn’t put a stop to it by exposing that imposter! And up till now, Marci had been just as determined that this wedding would be everything that the first one hadn’t been. What was wrong with her?

  She was probably just tired, I decided. Between dressing the Princess and maintaining the closets, Marci had a lot of demands on her time. She hardly ever sat down.

  That had to be it. Because what harm could there be in a pair of slippers?

  I remember sitting on Father’s knee while he sketched.

  “It’s in the line,” he explained as his charcoal flew over the paper. “It begins nowhere and ends nowhere. It thickens”—he paused to demonstrate—“and thins, creating the illusion of space. Weight. Motion.”

  I nodded, although I didn’t really understand at that age.

  Illusions, he told me, were the building blocks of perception. He went on to draw one marvelous structure after another. I thought the line was the page’s prisoner, that it escaped from the charcoal only to be captured by the paper. Because it fled to my fingers when I yielded to temptation and touched it.

  It was only when he took me to watch the men building that it began to make sense. His drawings weren’t merely pictures. They were houses and palaces and the great cathedral rising in the city. On paper they were silent. Out in the town they were sound—hammering, banging, clanging—and height, taller and taller monuments of wood and stone sailing to the clouds.

  “You have to see it in your mind,” Father said, offering me a charcoal of my own, “before you’ll see it in the landscape.”

  I thought about how the line had stretched and become the building—and it came out of the shiny black stick in my fist. It looked like licorice, so I tasted the charcoal. It tasted like dead wood and fire. The tang puckered my mouth.

  My lips felt sooty. I rubbed at them. Black dissolved on my hand. I tried cleaning it off on my pinafore.

  “What are you doing?” I felt Father’s hand on the back of my head.

  “The line got all over me,” I said.

  “Amber,” Father said, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe off my mouth, “lines can’t be tasted.”

  “You could use a bath,” Roger told me at supper.

  Gillian sat next to me, her dinner already eaten. She wrinkled her nose, but she didn’t comment.

  I’d spent the day crawling through all six of the Princess’s closets, going shelf by shelf, hatbox by hatbox, and drawer by drawer. Marci and I had discovered any number of interesting and forgotten items, but not the starlight slippers. Normally, the Head Cook expected us to tidy ourselves before appearing in her kitchens. But disheveled as I was, it had been so late when I finished that I hadn’t wanted to risk missing dinner. So I had snuck in, hoping no one would notice.

  Beneath the brim of his First Stable Boy’s leather cap, Roger’s brow furrowed in concern. He’d been promoted from Second Boy to First over the winter and put in charge of Lady Marguerite’s horses. Thanks to me.

  “You got a smudge here,” he said, wiping his freckled chin to show me where.

  “Some of us work late.”

  “And your ribbon is slipping,” he replied.

  I reached up, snatched the aquamarine ribbon from its precarious perch on my dandelion-fluff hair, and stuffed it in my pocket. Steam rose off the plate before me. My stomach growled. I decided to ignore Roger and eat.

  “We didn’t find anything,” Gillian said with a sigh. We tried to be as cryptic as possible in the crowded kitchens.

  “I did.” Roger pushed his plate aside.

  “What?” Gillian asked.

  Roger glanced at the closest table, where a couple of Dusters were just finishing up.

  “A passage from the ballroom to a certain interesting location,” he whispered. “I’ll show you after supper.”

  “How interesting?” I asked.

  Just then, Dulcie landed on the bench next to me with a bounce. She folded her hands on the table and blinked at me expectantly.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Eating,” I replied.

  Her left eyebrow quirked. “No, you’re doing something,” she said. “Every night you three vanish. Poof.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

  Roger and Gillian eyed each other.

  Dulcie waited, a hopeful look in her wide blue eyes.

  “Run along and play,” I said.

  Her lower lip quivered.

  “Don’t cry,” Roger said, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Dulcie, we just talk,” Gillian said, “about stuff that would bore you. Really.”

  “Oh-kay,” she hiccupped. “I’ll go ask Francesca what you’re up to.”

  At Francesca, Gillian and I froze. Francesca had been so busy bustling about as if the royal wedding depended on her that she hadn’t paid much attention to us. But then she’d caught us outside the King’s suite that morning. It would be impossible for us to hunt for the keyhole if she became too concerned with our activities.

  “Francesca doesn’t have any say-so over our free time,” Gillian said.

  “Nope, she doesn’t,” Dulcie agreed. “But she might have a say-so about your poofing.”

  “Poofing ain’t a word,” Roger said.

  “Maybe not,” Dulcie said with a grin, “but I’ll ask Francesca, just to be sure.”

  “You’re bluffing,” I said.

  Dulcie’s grin widened.

  No one spoke. Roger scratched his ear. Gillian crumpled her napkin. I was about to remind Dulcie that I’d rescued her from being sent to the orphanage, when she curled her hand companionably around my forearm and gazed admiringly up at me.

  Like I was her hero. I, Darling, Champion of Orphans.

  Do something, Roger’s expression demanded.

  “We’ll show you if you swear not to tell another living soul,” I told her.

 
Dulcie’s eyes grew round.

  “I swear!” she said.

  * * *

  —

  “Darling, are you crazy?” Roger said as we walked through the main hall.

  We’d told Dulcie that we all had to take a different route to avoid raising suspicion. So we’d sent her around the long way to the ballroom while we took a shortcut.

  “We’ll just show her this,” I said. “We won’t tell her about anything else.”

  “She’s bound to keep following us if we don’t,” Gillian said.

  “Girls!” Roger said, rolling his eyes.

  Gillian punched him in the arm. “Don’t think Francesca can’t make your life hard too,” she told him. “All she has to do is talk to Daddy.”

  “Daddy?” I asked, surprised. I’d have expected Gillian to mention Francesca’s mother, Mrs. Pepperwhistle, the Head Housekeeper.

  “The Stable Master, silly,” Gillian said.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you ever pay attention?” Roger said. “Or have all those stories you’re always dreaming up damaged your brain?”

  I bristled at that. I told great stories.

  “I have an excellent brain, thank you,” I retorted.

  “Mrs. Pepperwhistle is married to the Stable Master,” Gillian said, as if everybody knew this.

  But nobody called the Stable Master Mr. Pepperwhistle. They called him Sir or Master Derek. And Under-servants like me knew better than to address him at all. He was right up there in importance with Marsdon, the Head Steward, or Esteban, the Head Footman, or Mrs. Pepperwhistle herself.

  “How come Francesca never mentions him?” I said.

  “Does she ever tell you anything?” Gillian asked.

  She had a point there.

  “The Pepperwhistles don’t see eye to eye,” Roger said. “Some feud about those girls. She wants them to run the castle, and he wants them to marry well.”

  “Can’t they do both?” I said.

  “Not according to Mrs. Pepperwhistle,” Gillian explained.

  “Oh-kay,” I said. Maybe being an orphan had its sunny side: I could chart my own destiny.

  The entrance to the ballroom rose before us in gilded grandeur, a hint at the splendor beyond. Dulcie stood in front of it, hopping anxiously from foot to foot. I warned her with a finger to my lips while Roger pushed open the door. The four of us crept in on tiptoe.

  Moonlight danced across the unlit ballroom. Patterned marble tiles gavotted across the floor. Velvet curtains sashayed at the tall windows. Gilded carvings traipsed across the walls. Crystal prisms on the candelabras and chandeliers sparkled in the evening light, waiting for their tall ivory candles to be lit. The high ceiling vault glowed like the inside of a pearl.

  Dulcie gaped, turning around and around to see it all.

  “Imagine: dancing, candlelight, beautiful gowns,” Gillian breathed. “So romantic.”

  “Dancing is for sissies,” Roger told her.

  “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body,” Gillian snapped.

  “Got lucky there,” Roger said.

  “Well, where is it?” I asked, eager to skip past the romance and get straight to the adventure.

  “Over here,” Roger said, leading the way.

  We followed him to the far corner, where a series of gilded screens stood. There were doors behind most of them, servants’ entrances that allowed the Footmen to whisk in and out without being intrusive. But the last door concealed a narrow circular staircase.

  I stared up the twisting steps into the darkness above.

  “Musicians’ gallery,” Roger explained. “Nothing up there but chairs and music stands.”

  “Well, where is it?” I asked, eager to see where Roger had found his newest secret entrance.

  With a grin, Roger slid behind the staircase and wiggled the toe of his boot into the baseboard. The wall moved aside, revealing a black hole. A lantern waited behind the wall.

  “I left it here for tonight,” Roger said, digging a matchstick out of his pocket.

  “Gosh,” Dulcie breathed. “How did you know that was there?”

  Roger just smirked.

  “Where does it go?” Gillian asked, poking her head inside.

  The match flared as Roger lit the lantern. “You’ll have to climb up and see,” he said.

  “Up?” I said.

  Dulcie nudged me, pointing.

  Just then, I saw the hint of a spiral stair as lantern light illuminated the opening.

  “Last one up is a rotten egg,” Roger said, and raced up the steps.

  “No you don’t,” Gillian exclaimed, bounding after him.

  “It’s dark in there,” Dulcie began.

  I didn’t stop to argue. I grabbed her hand and plunged in after them. Round and round, up and up, we climbed until we reached a landing. There we stopped to catch our breath. Halfway down the dim hall, Gillian and Roger walked in a pool of light.

  “R-Rog, we didn’t close the door,” I called, panting.

  They stopped and turned around. A flush colored Gillian’s face; a sparkle lit her eye. “Catch up,” she said.

  “We’re going right back down in a minute,” Roger said.

  “Keep going,” she told him, prodding him in the back.

  Flashing a grin, Roger motioned to us. Dulcie and I hurried to catch up, galloping past wooden beams and plastered walls. Our footsteps rang on the floorboards.

  Roger and Gillian stood at a fork in the passage. White chalk numbers and letters marked both entrances. I knew they corresponded to the map Roger was making, but I had no idea what they meant.

  “Okay,” Roger said, pointing left, “that way leads to the western tower.”

  “Is that interesting?” I asked.

  “This one,” he said with a wink, “goes someplace nobody goes.”

  “Do you think there are spiders?” Dulcie asked, peering into the darkness above.

  “No, just cobwebs,” I said, squeezing her fingers.

  Her brow puckered as she thought that over. “But—” she began as a sharp scent wafted through the air. She sniffed. “Resin.”

  “More like varnish,” Gillian said.

  “Tree sap,” Roger explained. “Most of the beams in these passages are oak, but these here—” He thumped the nearest. “Pine.”

  “Resin is tree sap,” Dulcie said.

  “So is varnish,” he retorted.

  “None of which is interesting,” I said.

  “And cedar,” Roger continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “The closer we get to the interesting part, the stronger the smell.”

  “Show us already,” Gillian said.

  “This way,” Roger said, ducking through the right-hand doorway.

  This passage was unlike any of the others I’d been in. Empty candle sconces hung from the walls every few feet. Floor polish gleamed through the dust glazing the boards. And as the passage rose up at a steep angle, the scent of cedar tickled my nose.

  “Cedar is very expensive,” Gillian said. “And those candleholders are gold. Who hides stuff like this in a secret passage?”

  “A King?” Dulcie guessed.

  As if to agree with her, a royal crest marked a set of stairs at the passage’s end. Slowly, awed by our surroundings, we tiptoed up the stairs to a small wedge-shaped landing. A dead end. Guarding the back wall was a large chair, upholstered in dust-covered tapestry, with gilding on the arms and back. A King’s chair. We crowded the small space.

  On either wall of the landing were carved doorframes. Roger thumped the one on the left.

  “The Princess’s dressing room,” he said.

  “No!” I exclaimed.

  “Yep, and that one is the Princess’s bedroom.”

  I squeezed p
ast him to the other door. A royal crest hung on it. I squinted at the squiggles painted there. Roger held up the lantern so that I could see the gilded letters: CVAC.

  “CVAC?” Gillian cast a longing glance at the dressing room door.

  “They’re initials,” Dulcie said, pleased with herself.

  “I know that, but they aren’t Princess Mariposa’s,” Gillian said.

  “They’re Queen Candace’s; this wasn’t put here for a King. It was put here for her,” I said.

  “This explains how Cherice stole that pin and ransacked the Princess’s bedroom,” Gillian said.

  “Nope, you can’t go in the bedroom,” Roger said.

  “He’s right,” I told Gillian. I pulled open the door, and a dark, solid mass stood just inside.

  “What’s that?” Gillian said in a hushed tone.

  She’d never been in the Princess’s bedroom, but I had. “It’s the headboard of her bed,” I said, studying it. “Cherice would have gone through the dressing room and into the bedroom.”

  “Who would block a door with a great hulking bed?” Gillian asked.

  “Someone who didn’t know the hidden door was there when the Princess moved into the suite,” I murmured.

  “Or somebody who didn’t want anybody to find it,” Dulcie piped up.

  She had a point. A series of tiny holes dotted the carving. A shiver crawled down my spine. This was how Cherice had spied on Francesca and me last winter. Thinking about it gave me the willies, and I was glad she was safely locked away in the asylum.

  I pressed my eye to one of the holes and squinted.

  “Do you see anything?” Dulcie breathed in my ear.

  I did. Glimmering in the light of an upheld candlestick, a slight woman with dark braided hair cocked her head as if listening. I’d know that silhouette anywhere. As she turned, I caught sight of the gleam in her gray eyes. Stifling a gasp, I stumbled backward.

  “What?” Roger said.

  “Quiet,” I whispered, and motioned to Gillian to shut the door.

  “Was it the Princess?” Gillian mouthed.

  I shook my head.

  “Mrs. Pepperwhistle,” I said. “She’s in there listening.”