The Princess and the Page

by Christina Farley

  I give the painting a further inspection, then squint in the moonlight at the other paintings hanging on the walls. None of the other paintings is damaged. “Why would the ghost tear up this painting and not the others?”

  “Maybe it has to do with it replacing King Henry IV’s painting.”

  “You’re right. He was the man both Gabrielle and Marie were in love with.”

  A shrill of icy wind gusts through the ballroom, whipping chilled air across my face and stinging my nose. A gonging shatters the silence, vibrating down the hall and into the ballroom.

  “Have you noticed that every time that clock strikes twelve, something strange happens?” I point out.

  The clock continues to gong and with the sound, the wind gains in momentum, swirling about the room. We cling to each other.

  “What’s happening?” Bella’s voice quivers.

  “I think we’re entering my fairy tale again.”

  “Promise me to never write anything horrible, scary, or unhappy ever again.”

  I can’t answer. I’m too occupied with the elderly lady’s portrait before me. The eyes on the lady move. Then her nose twitches.

  “Did you see that?” I whisper. “That painting moved.”

  The head slowly turns so that the lady’s beady eyes focus on us. Then with a roll of her eyes, the portrait sighs. She tosses her head so that her white ringlets flounce. It’s a well-practiced head toss, and I’m guessing the lady has done her fair share of head tossing and eye rolling in her life.

  “Good gracious!” the portrait says. “Whoever let the Word Weaver in? Scat! You are not allowed here.”

  Those words seem to wake all of the portraits in the room. Their eyes rove to focus on Bella and me, shivering from the near arctic chill permeating the room. The portraits rumble and grumble in dissent over me being here.

  “Go back, Word Weaver,” they chorus. “Go back.”

  “We should do what they say,” Bella says.

  “But how? Besides, we can’t help Gabrielle if we just run away. We need to figure out what to do before we leave in the morning. This might be our last chance.”

  Then, as if merely speaking her name has summoned her, Gabrielle drifts from the wall and starts gliding across the ballroom along a crimson carpet that appears out of thin air. A single white rose is clasped in her hands. She still wears the ball gown I saw her in the other night with Chet, but this time her hair has fallen out of its clasps and tumbles over her shoulders and down her back.

  And there at the other end of the carpet stands a cloaked figure holding something, but I’m too far away to tell what it is.

  Music fills the room, a melancholy tune that reminds me of how I felt after losing my big championship soccer game. Gabrielle floats along the thin carpet as if heading down a wedding aisle. With each step, a petal drifts from the flower to the floor, and as it lands, it bursts into the air as if exploding. The particles freeze midair, creating an icy trail behind her.

  But when the last petal loosens from the flower, it’s as if everything slows down. The music stops. The portraits scream in horror. And the cloaked figure holds something out to Gabrielle.

  I break into a full-out run across the ballroom. I don’t know why, but I have watched and read enough fairy tales to know that when the last petal falls, it can’t be good.

  Being a backup goalie taught me how to dive and protect. This was why I didn’t think twice about flying through the air, or consider how it might feel to land on a tiled floor rather than the turf of the soccer field.

  The petal hits the floor.

  Ice bursts into the air.

  And before I can touch Gabrielle, the princess vanishes.

  Detectives for Dummies Tip of the Day: It is

  essential to record, catalogue, and organize all evidence

  taken from a crime scene.

  Bella and I don’t stick around the ballroom for another second.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Bella asks. “That was some fall you took.”

  “I should’ve know better.” I cradle my arm as we head down the hallway. “I saw the petal fall. I should’ve known I wouldn’t make it there in time. What was I thinking?”

  “It’s not your fault. You were just trying to help her out.” Once we hit the hallway, Bella stops me. “Hey, sorry for not believing you earlier. I should’ve known you’d never lie to me. I guess I was upset that you and Chet were having fun together.”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t be sorry. You’re my best friend. No one will ever replace you. I wish that all of this was a joke. But unfortunately it’s not.”

  We head outside in search for my mom. The butler stands by the front doors, holding one of them wide open as if he doesn’t know which way the guests want to go.

  Outside on the castle steps, Mr. Parker’s—or is it Shan Valrose?—booming voice argues with Mrs. Jones’s wiry one. Mom isn’t anywhere in sight. I have so many questions swirling through my mind. What I need is peace and solitude to organize my five-million questions zinging about in my head.

  After I tell Bella I need some quiet time to sort everything out, and I get to my room, I pick up my journal and pencil. But the blue glow beams from the pocket of my suitcase.

  The pen is calling to me.

  I clench my fists, fighting the need to touch the pen. Maybe if I write a new ending to my fairy tale, everything will be fixed. I know how dangerous the pen is, but what if I just touched it? For a second. To feel it’s magic flowing through me.

  And yet, a voice inside me warns that it’s too dangerous. I hear Bella’s echo begging me to never write anything horrible again. What if I ended up writing something bad? When I hold that pen, it’s as if my deepest, darkest desires surface and come to life.

  Suddenly, the room feels too hot and the walls seem to close in on me. Slowly, inch by inch, I back away, unable to take my eyes off the glow. It takes all my willpower to step out of the room. And then I flee.

  I’m running down the stairs, slipping into the library, hoping no one will follow me. Tonight I need to be alone and figure out how to dispel the madness I’ve created.

  A fire has been lit, spurting off sparks and casting twisted shadows on the floor and walls. The room has a woodsy smell to it, reminding me of campfires, a distant memory from my elementary school years at summer camp.

  Since there aren’t any other lights on, I drag a wingback chair closer to the fire with my good arm. The oak wood in the fire snaps and pops. I take out my notes and frantically start writing down all the thoughts scrambled in my head.

  THURSDAY (JEUDI), 9:10 P.M.

  Things are becoming really crazy here at the castle. Here are some of my latest observations:

  1. Chet’s dad looks just like an actor named Shan Valrose.

  2. Maybe he doesn’t just look like Shan Valrose. Maybe he really is Shan Valrose.

  3. Why did Chet and his dad lie about their name? Should I trust Chet?

  4. Who did Chet’s dad email the other day?

  5. Mr. and Mrs. Jones bought a painting today. It was discovered on the ballroom floor torn to shreds.

  6. The ballroom has been ransacked.

  — Suspects? Mrs. Jones (it was her painting, but she was at dinner the whole time), Mr. Jones (said he had a business call and hurt leg, which delayed him), and the ghost.

  — Witnesses? Maid, said she saw a ghost (note: question maid about what she saw).

  — Synonyms for ransack: loot, scour, raid, rummage through

  *** The princess in my story has vanished!!!!!

  There’s relief in writing down my thoughts. I rest my journal in my lap and lean my head against the back of the chair. Tears edge the corners of my eyes. I’m so confused, and deep down inside, the world feels wrong. Like it’s warped, and yet no one even notices or cares. The worst part: This is all my fault.

  “There’s something terribly wrong here,” I say.

  “Perceptive girl,” a man’
s voice says in a thick French accent.

  I scream and jolt into the air. My nerves are already on high alert as it is. A dark form of a man leans against the desk.

  “Who are you?” I backtrack toward the door. “Where did you come from?”

  “Don’t be scared, Keira. I don’t mean you any harm. In fact, just the opposite. I’ve had my eye on you ever since I sent my men to deliver you some food. We thought we’d made a mistake in thinking your mom was the one. And then you went and wrote that charming little fairy tale.”

  He knows about our break-in. He’s responsible for the break-in. I’m so scared I can hardly move.

  “I don’t blame you for being scared. Ghosts appearing, a ballroom desecrated, the cook making threats. But then I don’t blame Gabrielle, either.”

  Creepy Man is talking about the ghost like he knows her! I swallow my fear and continue retreating until my back presses against the door. I fiddle with the doorknob but can’t turn it with my hands shaking so hard. Why could I be so calm and collected with ghosts, only to fall apart at a human?

  “Who are you?”

  “Please, take a seat,” Creepy Man says. “I have a proposition for you.”

  The doorknob turns. Finally!

  “It has to do with who you are.”

  My stomach drops. “What are you talking about?” Only, I do know.

  “You’ll want to sit down for this. Trust me.”

  Detectives for Dummies Tip of the Day: Don’t

  blow your cover and tell anyone you are a detective.

  Not even your cat.

  Creepy Man has my attention now. I plunk down on the chair.

  “First, let me introduce myself properly,” Creepy Man begins, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. A watch glows on his wrist. It looks just like the one the men who ransacked our house wore.

  The man strolls into the firelight, and I get a closer look at this intruder. He’s wearing all black, which is probably how he blended in so well in the darkness. The mock dress shirt buttons neatly to his chin and black shiny shoes glisten in the flicker of the flames. Even his brown hair is slicked back to perfection and his mustache curls neatly at each end.

  “My name is Monsieur Monteque.” He twirls his mustache and gazes into the fire. “I work with a group of esteemed colleagues from the Historical Correction Organization. We make sure things progress as they should in our history.”

  I can’t think of how people could make sure history played out in a certain way. This guy is bad news.

  “So you’re the castle owner,” I say skeptically. “Madame talks about you a lot.”

  “Does she, now? Yes, I do own this lovely castle. Came into ownership not too long ago, actually. If you look at the history of Chenonceau, you shall see it has been a coveted castle. Even the king of France, King Francis the first, yearned for it. So much so, he stole it from its owners using back taxes as an excuse.”

  I stand, pretending my legs aren’t shaking. “I’ve heard all this already. I should be going.”

  “But then something terrible happened,” he goes on, ignoring me.

  “Terrible?”

  “Or perhaps wonderful?”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” I don’t like his tone. There’s an edge of a threat to it.

  “As of last January, history was altered,” he says.

  “The past can’t be changed. That’s impossible. And if it could, there is no way any of us would know if it had.”

  “Remember when I said I’m a part of a group of colleagues? Trust me when I say we have a device that notifies us when a new story has interwoven with a story from the past to alter the course of the present.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Basically, we believe someone rewrote Chenonceau’s history. Historical records now say that four hundred years ago, a duchess was murdered here by her stepsister.”

  Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. He knows who I am, what I’ve done. But my mom said to say nothing, tell no one. I need to divert the attention off myself.

  “You’re talking about my story, aren’t you? You think I copied the castle’s story and made it my own to win the contest. But you have to believe me that I had no clue about any of this until after I got here.”

  “Oh!” Monsieur picks up Girls’ World magazine. It flaps open to the page where my story is printed as the winner of the Happily Ever After Contest. “You mean this little story?”

  “I don’t understand the problem.”

  “I must not have been clear. There is no problem. This is our solution. You are our solution.”

  Okaaay. This guy is delusional. “I am?”

  “Indeed. I believe there is more to you than you can possibly know. You have a talent, my dear Miss Harding, and this story proves it. When you wrote this fairy tale, your story connected with an event from the past, wove itself through it, and changed history.”

  My pulse hammers against my skull and my stomach churns so hard I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up. He knows about the Word Weavers! One thing I do know: There’s no way I trust him.

  “Okay, I admit it,” I say, ramping up my lie. “I cheated. I went into the history book and took the story from there and rewrote it, tossing in a few fun words. It wasn’t exactly like the original story, but it was pretty close. Does that mean I’m disqualified from the contest?”

  “Come and look at this.”

  Then Monsieur slips on a pair of spectacles, pulls out a manila folder, and starts laying cards, photos, and printed schedules onto the desk next to my story. I inch closer, realizing with dread that he has hard evidence. Creepy Guy knows about everything that has happened at the castle this past week, including every excursion I’ve been on, the ghost sightings, and the disappearances.

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “Like I said. I own this castle. And I make it my job to know everything about the events within it. Everything in your story is exactly as history tells us it went.” He peers over the top of his spectacles and narrows his eyes at me. “And according to your story, a ghost captures someone every Friday when the grandfather clock strikes midnight, which has happened at this castle ever since you wrote the story.”

  “Someone has gone missing every Friday? Why hasn’t anyone done anything?”

  “As soon as our device alerted us that a historical event was interwoven with a new story, we began searching for the source. I rushed to France to buy the castle and close its doors. If it hadn’t been for me, we would have lost a terrible number of poor souls. I made sure no one entered the castle until two weeks ago to prepare for your arrival. The library was customized just for you, in fact. I also made sure you had the best desk France had to offer so our Word Weaver could be royally inspired. It is unfortunate about the poor maid who went missing last Friday, but it just couldn’t be helped.”

  “That’s horrible!” I say, aghast.

  “Tomorrow it will be Friday once again,” Monsieur says. “And this time, I will be here to watch the events unfold. I’ve made sure the ball will proceed as planned to follow the specifications of your fairy tale. The events on Friday will prove that you are what I believe you are. A Word Weaver.”

  “This is all pure coincidence. Nothing more.”

  “And if you are indeed a Word Weaver, then I kindly invite you to join my colleagues and myself in our endeavors to change history for the good of all mankind.”

  I stagger backward, desperate to escape those intense eyes. A new thought races through me. Monsieur is the very person Mom said we had to escape from.

  I need to find my mom. It’s time to get on that first flight out of Paris.

  Fact of the Day: Chances of a comet hitting the

  Earth in the next one hundred years? .001

  (even though there is no actual record of such a

  comet ever hitting the Earth).

  Chances of a Word Weaver existing and changing

  history—obviously better than
a comet.

  FRIDAY (VENDREDI), JUNE 18TH

  The next morning is a flurry of activity as two trucks rumble down the once quiet path of the castle and begin unloading all of the equipment for the ball.

  I stride out of the castle, rolling my suitcase behind me. Sure, I am early, but after last night, I couldn’t leave soon enough. Bella is already outside, where she’s meeting Cheryl to help instruct the workers on where to put the objects and on the unpacking of the tables, chairs, and decorations. I find Bella on the bridge, waving her hands as she yells out directions.

  “Isn’t this so amazing?” Bella says when she spots me. “I’ve always dreamed of planning my own event, and now it’s really happening!”

  “Bella.” I hate saying this. “We have to leave in an hour to catch the train to Paris. I told you that last night. Tell me you’re all packed.”

  “Are you sure we have to leave? Nothing bad has happened. I mean the whole thing with the ghost was scary, but it’s just a ghost. She can’t hurt us. Besides, how can I leave all of this?”

  A worker passes by, teetering a glass statue of Cinderella’s slipper. “Hey, don’t break that,” Bella warns the carrier. “That’s the centerpiece. If it breaks, the whole experience won’t have the complete effect.”

  Last night when I told Mom what Monsieur said, she went into a complete panic and started cleaning her entire bedroom. We ended up deciding that I would continue pretending I had no idea what he was talking about. Since he seemed to want me for his historical organization, Mom didn’t think our lives were in any jeopardy. Then the next morning, we’d slip out of the castle and catch our train to the airport without telling anyone except Bella.

  I just hadn’t counted on Bella not wanting to come.

  “You have to trust me, Bella. We need to leave. Please.”

  “When has the ghost hurt any of us? And you saw her yesterday walking down the aisle. She needs us more than ever. We can’t leave now!”