If the Magic Fits

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  I gulped.

  “Well?” Francesca rolled her eyes. “Darcy? Darlene? What is it?”

  “Darling,” I said in a small voice, dropping the Dimple like a dead rat. Sorry, Jane.

  “Darling?” Francesca’s eyes widened. Her cheek twitched. I could tell I was never going to hear the end of it.

  I stood, stretching as tall as my legs would stretch. “Darling,” I said with a sharp nod. As if it were normal to be named Darling.

  “All righty, Darling,” she said, smothering a smile. “Let’s find you clothes.” She waltzed over to a tall cupboard and flung open the doors. In a moment she turned around with a folded pile of gray and white cotton. “Here you go. Change and leave your…” Her lip curled. “Leave those old clothes on the floor. I’ll have someone send them back downstairs.”

  I held the fresh clothes and waited for her to leave. Minutes ticked by. Francesca folded her arms. Clearly, she was not about to give me any privacy. So I turned around, pulled off my apron and dress, and stepped into the new dress. The fabric slipped on like butter over toast and smelled like lilacs. The pinafore had wide sashes that tied behind my back. I fumbled with them for a moment until Francesca whisked them out of my hands and whipped them into a bow.

  “You’ll get the hang of it,” she told me over my shoulder, and went back to the cupboard. After a little digging, she produced a pair of gray boots. “Try these.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and yanked off my old boots. My big toe poked through the front of my brown stocking. I shoved my foot into my new boot, not looking up to see the expression I was sure was on Francesca’s face. But she had already moved away and was rummaging through a dresser.

  “Ah,” she said, producing a fat gray ribbon. “Tie your hair down with this.”

  I shook my head. “It won’t stay.”

  She smiled ever so slightly. “Tie it anyway.”

  I took the ribbon and slicked back my dandelion-fluff hair. As soon as I attempted to knot the ribbon around it, it began slithering away. A wisp dangled before one of my eyes. I snatched at it.

  “No,” Francesca said, taking the ribbon from me. “Like so.” She pulled my hair back and slid the ribbon around the top of my head and tied it underneath my hair. When she released the hair, it danced around, but stayed out of my face. “There, now you won’t scare the Princess.”

  “Scare—” I gulped.

  “Well, you’re not like the other girls who serve Her Majesty,” Francesca said.

  I felt a hard nugget lodge in my throat. My daydream shriveled. The other girls looked like Francesca—pretty, polished, and self-assured. The Princess would take one look at me and my dandelion hair, stubby nose, pasty skin and—

  “Don’t worry.” Francesca patted my shoulder. “Lindy keeps her helpers busy. The Princess will probably never even see you.” She gave me a little shove. “Run along. Lindy’s waiting.”

  I took a step and stopped. I had no idea where to go. I wrung my hands, feeling dumb and silly in my new silver-gray dress.

  Francesca sighed as if the weight of the upper-attic rested on her shoulders. “Go down the corridor. Take the first stair on the left and then the second door on the right.”

  I walked across the room, repeating to myself first stair left, second door right. I pulled the door open by its shiny brass knob and stepped into the corridor. Over my shoulder, I heard Francesca call, “Good luck, Darrrling,” followed by kissing sounds and a muffled giggle.

  My ears burned like red-hot rinse water. I tore off down the corridor, away from that muffled giggling, as fast as I could go. I saw the first stair on the left and raced down it. I whipped around a corner, pulled open the second door on the right, and leaped through. Smack-dab into a corridor lined with identical white doors. I took a couple of steps…first stair left, second door on the right…

  Had I gone down the right stairs? Picked the right door? In my haste, I had no idea if I had. This certainly wasn’t the pressing room. I’d have to backtrack and try again. I turned around and realized with a jolt that whatever door I’d come in through had swung closed. Door after door marched down the walls on either side of me like suspicious sentinels. I had no idea which door was the right one.

  I’d just have to open them all.

  A long time later, I sat curled up on a step. My hair had pulled loose from its ribbon and tendrils drifted down my forehead. I was lost. Not confused or a little turned around; lost. Francesca’s directions had taken me nowhere. I had found myself in a deserted tower. A tower where no one ever came. A tower that probably had a witch hiding at the top. I had no idea how to get where I was going and no particular urge to climb up to find the witch.

  I imagined myself sitting there until I turned into a sad little skeleton. Some maid would eventually sweep me into her dustbin. Poor Jane would never know what became of me. I sniffled, picturing Jane’s anguished, nearsighted searching of dark halls and dungeons. She’d call, “Darling, oh, Darling, where are you?” as she lifted a candle to pierce the murky cobweb-shrouded halls—

  “There you are!” Cherice said, tapping her palm with her magnifying glass.

  “I—I’m l-l-lo—” I sputtered.

  “Lost,” Cherice finished for me. “Yes, I see.” She pulled a hankie out of her pocket and handed it to me. “Let me guess. Francesca gave you directions.”

  I nodded and blew my nose. “She said to take the first stair on the left and then the second door on the right.”

  “Yes. Well. Let that teach you. Never, never listen to Francesca. Come along. Lindy will be”—she paused—“annoyed. Yes, Lindy will be very annoyed.”

  She made annoyed sound a whole lot more like murderously furious than just a little irritated. I shuffled after her. She rounded a corner and plunged down a stair.

  “We have a map on the pressing room wall. Use that to get where you’re going,” she said.

  “I—I’ll explain to Lindy that Francesca said—”

  “No.” Cherice shook her head. “Don’t tell anyone. Trust me, my dear. If Francesca finds out you were lost, it will only encourage her.” She walked through an arch and up another stair.

  Cherice walked across a landing and opened one of a set of big double doors, all white and trimmed in gold and painted with the royal crest. Inside was a wide room with soft gray carpet and tall, twisty candlestands. A large mahogany desk, bulging with papers and thick white leather-covered books, guarded the entrance. On each side of the room were doors with gold numbers on them. One, two, three, and four were to the right. Five, six, and seven were to the left. At the end, I spied a gray room lined with ironing boards. The pressing room.

  “Lindy, my dear, here is your new Presser,” Cherice called, and pulled a set of keys out of her pocket.

  I twisted my fingers together behind my back and waited to see how annoyed Lindy would be. Not a sound came from the pressing room. A bead of sweat ran down between my shoulder blades. My shoulders ached from standing stock-still. Cherice clanked her keys impatiently.

  “Well, she must have stepped out for a moment,” Cherice said, and unlocked door number two.

  I gasped. Inside door number two was a long narrow room with a stained-glass window at the end that threw pink and green shadows on the white walls. Rack after rack of shoes lined the room. I drifted after Cherice as she went inside. The racks were arranged by color, like a rainbow. I turned around and around. Teal. Apricot. Violet. Black. Crimson. Jewels. Buckles. High heels. Low heels. Silk, satin, leather, patent, gold brocade…the shoes dazzled me with their beauty. And their numbers! So many shoes for one princess!

  “Ah,” Cherice murmured, selecting a pair of dove-gray velvet slippers with pink satin bows. “There you are. I’ve looked everywhere for you.” She grimaced. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, puts anything away in these closets but me. Nobody.”

  “Nobody,” I echoed.

  Cherice smiled and gestured at the shoes. “Amazing?”

  I nodded
, fingers twitching to touch a shoe or two. Or five.

  “Come along,” she said, and hurried out of the closet. “Number one,” she said with a gesture, “underthings. Number two: shoes. Number three: gloves, parasols, and scarves. Number four contains everyday dresses. Number five: formal dresses. And number six: ball gowns.”

  “Wow.” Princess Mariposa had six closets. I wrinkled my forehead. “What’s in number seven?”

  “Oh,” Cherice said, waving seven away. “We don’t even bother to lock number seven. It’s full of old dresses.”

  I blinked. “Old?”

  “See here,” she said, throwing open the door. “These belonged to the Princess’s grandmother, Queen Candace. All dated, all terribly out of style.”

  “Oh.” I pressed my palms to my cheeks. Before me was a long closet with a thick floral carpet and a peaked-arch window. In the window’s center shimmered a canary composed of thousands of slivers of bright yellow glass. The canary was so lifelike that any moment you expected it to flutter its tail feathers and sing.

  “Yes. Well, look around, my dear. Lindy will be back any minute,” Cherice said, and walked back to her desk.

  “Okay.” I stepped into the closet. On either side, dress after dress hung on silver hangers. Each hanger was crowned with a gold badge that featured a number. I touched the soft folds of the royal-blue silk dress hanging from Number Thirty-Six. Darker blue velvet wrapped the bodice with its pinched waist; diamonds sparkled on the shoulder. This was old-fashioned? I shook my head; if I had a dress like this, I’d wear it.

  But then, Princess Mariposa had three closets filled with dresses. I shrugged and riffled my fingers through the brilliant fabrics. There had never been such beautiful dresses. I spied lace and ribbons, ruffles and embroidery, velvets, satins, and wonderfully figured brocades. Forty-Eight glowed, a deep forest-green velvet, embroidered with holly and crimson berries and sporting a laced bodice and pointed sleeves. Fifty shimmered in a cascade of silver lace. I turned at the canary and crossed to the front of the other side. Seventy-Seven was a lilac satin with silver ribbons and a silvery white underskirt. Eighty-Two was a twist of scarlet and orange scarves sewn together to resemble flames. Flame-colored slippers peeked out from beneath the skirt’s folds. The ninetieth hanger held a sunshine-yellow dress with a garden of ribbon flowers scattered across the skirt.

  Dress One Hundred was white, speckled with crystals and embroidered with doves and roses. Lace fell from its sleeves and pooled on the floor underneath. A wedding gown, I was sure. I imagined Queen Candace wearing this to marry King Richard, bouquet in hand, smile on her face. I buried my face in the soft satin, inhaling the whisper of fragrance still clinging to the fabric. Orange blossoms, roses, and vanilla…

  “Dora—Delcy—Delilah! What’s-your-name, wake up!”

  I whirled around. Lindy stood in the closet’s doorway, a hand propped on her hip, a cloak over her arm. Her face glowed and her eyes sparkled, as if she’d been out in the sun and wind.

  “Darling,” I said. “My name is Darling.” I braced myself to see just how annoyed she was.

  “Well, Darlin’, it’s time to get to work,” she said, and turned on her heel with a flounce.

  For a moment, I held my breath, but I heard her whistling. Not the sharp whistle you’d use to call a dog, but the whistling of someone having a very good day. I exhaled; if she was annoyed, it didn’t show. With a longing glance at the hundred dresses, I trotted after her, too relieved to wonder where she’d been.

  Someone opened the curtains, splashing sunlight all over my face. I squeezed my eyes closed and tugged the covers higher.

  “Rise and shine!” Francesca called.

  I heard the slithering and scrambling of girls getting up to greet the morning. A hand snagged my covers and flicked them off me.

  “Wake up, Darrrling!”

  I heard a chorus of snickers. Holding back a sigh, I opened my eyes. They were all waiting for me, holding their aprons or their hairbrushes, bright-eyed and eager. I sat up and put a bare foot on the floor beside my bed. Gritty sand rasped under my toes.

  “What’s this?” Francesca asked in mock surprise. “More sand? Where does it all come from?” She clicked her tongue. “Clean it up before you go.”

  A red-haired girl handed me a broom as the roomful of girls giggled. “Wash behind your ears,” one called. “Empty your boots outside,” said another. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the under-cellar out of your skin one of these days,” added a third.

  It was their morning routine. For the past five nights, I’d fallen into a bed laced with sand. Every night, I’d been too tired to do anything more than sweep it off the sheets and onto the floor, only to be handed a broom the next morning. So far, I’d swept up the sand without saying anything. Not accusing anyone of planting the sand. Not screaming or yelling or throwing the broom at them. I remembered what Cherice had said about encouraging Francesca. I was pretty sure throwing a fit would please her more than anything.

  “I do hope this stops soon or I will have to speak to the Head Steward about it,” Francesca said, tying a ribbon on the end of a braid.

  “Ooooh,” the girls moaned in mock sympathy.

  A chill ran down my spine. Francesca might make me miserable, but the Head Steward could take away my job and send me packing. I had no parents, no home other than the palace, and nowhere to go. My lower lip trembled. A tear formed in the corner of my eye. Jane would die of heartbreak, worrying about poor little me lost out in the big cold world.

  “Be sure to sweep under the bed, just in case it”—Francesca paused to shudder—“travels.”

  “Oh, sweep under my bed!”

  “Mine too.”

  “Mine!”

  My fingers curled around the broom handle. I would not cry. I would not be fired and break Jane’s heart. My spine snapped into a straight line. My mouth hardened. I swept up the sand as the rest of them got dressed and ate breakfast. The sand had indeed traveled to every corner of the room. Francesca must have gotten up early and scattered more. By the time I was done sweeping, the girls had gone. I jumped into my clothes and snatched the last roll off the breakfast tray. I crammed it into my mouth as I raced down the halls. I skidded into the pressing room just before Lindy could notice I was late. Again.

  Luckily, Lindy was nowhere to be seen. The empty pressing room echoed with the sound of my footsteps. A basket piled high with old towels and sheets stood waiting for me. I took a deep breath and smoothed my apron, touching the pocket and making sure my paper was still there. Cherice had given it to me to copy the map on the pressing room wall. With my own little map in my pocket, I hadn’t gotten lost a second time. At least there was one nice person in the upper-attic.

  Lindy was determined that I practice my way to perfection before she’d let me take an iron to anything that might touch Princess Mariposa’s snow-white skin. I’d been practicing for five days, ironing the same stack of tattered and stained discards. I fed coals into the little stove under the three heavy wooden-handled irons she’d assigned me. They had to be hot, but not too hot. And you had to work fast because they began cooling off the minute you took them off the stove. That was why there were three of them; you could always switch your cooling iron for a hot one.

  I tossed a towel with a large silver-gray monogrammed M onto my ironing board, picked up the shaker bottle, and sprinkled water on the towel. I rolled it into a log and set it aside, reaching for another. Cloth had to be moist when you put the hot iron on it or it would scorch. I sprinkled and rolled only the number of pieces at a time that I could iron before they dried. Lindy had taught me that rolling them helped them stay moist longer.

  When I was ready, I unrolled a damp towel and picked up an iron. The fabric sizzled and a cloud of steam billowed up as the metal touched the cloth. Tell the Head Steward. Huh. I could tell the Head Steward a few things, like the girl who slept in the bed next to me had candy hidden in her pillowcase. And Lindy disappeared with he
r cloak two or three times a day. She never said that she was leaving or where she was going or when she’d be back. Just, poof, she was gone, leaving me alone to iron this same stinking basket of old stuff over and over.

  A part of me missed the under-cellar. Not the pot-scrubbing but the familiar rooms and faces. I missed Gillian and Jane and all the kitchen servants I’d known my whole life. I missed fitting in.

  Maybe tomorrow a new ship would sail into the Princess’s harbor. Blazing white sails. Deck laden with treasure. A tall man waving from the bow. “Ahoy,” he’d call. “I’m looking for my daughter.”

  “You must mean Darling Dimple!” the people gathered on the wharf would cry.

  And they’d lead him straight up the mountain to the palace.

  The smell of toasting cloth touched my nostrils. I bit off a gasp and yanked the iron away. A triangle of brown smoldered on the old towel, right through the silver-gray M. I glanced around with a guilty gulp, but still no Lindy. I wadded the ruined towel up in my hand. Lindy hated wrinkles. Hated them. But she hated scorch marks even more. Scorch marks made her straight hair curl as she boiled with rage. I’d seen Lindy angry once, when I burned a hole in an old pillowcase, and I did not want to see it again. Too many scorch marks and I’d never get to press anything for Princess Mariposa. I’d be sent to the Head Steward….I gulped again. I doubted the Supreme Scrubstress would be in a hurry to take me back. I could picture the tall palace gates opening and a soldier shoving me outside into a blizzard. Would they let me keep my silver-gray dress and new boots? Or would I have to hobble off, barefoot and shivering in my underthings?

  The iron winked at me in the sunlight. Oh, yes. It was summer outside. I’d have to hobble off barefoot and sweaty. I scrunched up my face; not nearly as romantic a scene, that. Oh, well. No poor little orphan like me should lose her job over one ratty old towel.