Tonight the Dragon is decked out in a tight pink dress with sparkly feathers ringing her neck like a collar and a long train that sweeps across the ground behind her. Her eyes appear huge due to her fake sparkle lashes and the gobs of fuchsia eye shadow.
“Ah!” she says. “Don’t you both look marvelous? Now let’s go over the instructions. You must follow these exactly or everything will be ruined. You will both enter together and curtsy. Remember to pause at the top of the stairs, count to ten, and smile for the cameras. Then continue walking down the red carpet—do remember to glide with your chin held high—and commence directly to the dance floor for your dances.”
“I really don’t want to go in until I see my mom,” I say. “Have you seen her? She said she’d be back by now.”
“Oh, dear.” Ms. Teppernat wrings her hands. “I, um, think I did, actually. Didn’t you see her slip into the ball just a few minutes ago?” she asks Cheryl, who pauses from readjusting Bella’s dress. Cheryl’s eyes grow large, but her mouth remains shut. Perhaps because she’s clamping a bunch of pins between her lips.
“Yes, I believe we did!” Ms. Teppernat answers for Cheryl. “Now, don’t worry about a thing. It’s going to all be simply magical.”
Bella squeezes my hand as we step up to the front of the ballroom doors. “Don’t worry, Keira. I bet she’s right and your mom is already inside.”
The double doors swing open, and I’m stunned by the huge crowd staring at us as we walk in. Bella slips her arm through mine as we take our first steps. Flashes of light spark around us like lightning. The thunderous sound of people clapping echoes through the ballroom. My knees lock up even though I know I’m supposed to curtsey.
“For heaven’s sake, smile for the cameras!” Ms. Teppernat barks behind us. “It’s not that difficult.”
I scan the crowd from the top of the stairs. There must be nearly a hundred guests, not including the film crew. Earlier, Cheryl explained that the citizens of Chenonceaux had been invited for the event, as well as some French celebrities.
Somehow, I manage to bow, and I attempt to smile. Finally, the camera flashes cease and a buzz of conversation starts again.
There’s no doubt that Bella nailed the decorations. The golden tables scattered about the room shimmer from the white lights on the trees and tea lights. The white tulle sweeps across the wood-beamed ceilings. Banners hang along the walls displaying pictures of different fairy tales. White rose arrangements adorn every table.
“The decorations look really great,” I tell Bella as we step down and follow the red carpet.
“Glide!” I hear Ms. Teppernat whisper-yell from behind us by the doors. “Chin up! Smile!”
But then I freeze mid-stride. This runner looks exactly like the one Gabrielle walked along just yesterday. The memory of the white petals falling to the floor and bursting into icy clouds rushes over me.
“What’s wrong?” Bella says, studying me hard. “Let’s go get some food. I see a massive stack of cream puffs that are calling my name. Plus, I want to make sure Cinderella’s slipper isn’t melting.”
Then I spy Chet. He is standing there on the left, hands behind his back, all dressed up in a smashing tux. When his eyes catch mine, he winks and peels back a lapel of his black jacket to reveal his hockey jersey hidden underneath. I crack a smile.
“Wow,” Chet says as he saunters up to Bella and me. “You guys look really—pretty.” Then his whole face gets red.
I point to his jersey. “Nice jersey. It really adds a lot to your tux.”
“I take it the jersey wasn’t Ms. Teppernat–approved.” Bella lifts an eyebrow.
“Yeah, she’s been too preoccupied to notice. Um, Keira,” he says, and starts looking everywhere except at me. “I left the rope up for you just in case. Thought it might be fun to sneak out and climb to the roof later.”
“Nobody is climbing any roofs tonight.” Bella clamps her fists onto her hips. “You guys really scared me earlier.”
“Thanks, but the window isn’t really a window. Just a fake.”
Then, as if sensing we were talking about her, the Dragon swoops in before we can escape to the pastries.
“Time for the waltzing!” Ms. Teppernat says in her singsong voice.
“You’re not serious?” I eye the swarm of photographers who are surrounding the dance floor. It’s one thing to dance in a room with just an instructor. But it’s another whole thing to dance in front of a hundred people and be filmed.
“Completely,” Ms. Teppernat says. “Just make a few moves. Enough for the photographers to get a shot or two.”
“Okay.” I bite my bottom lip. “But after that, I need to go and look for my mom.”
Chet moves to stand before me, saying, “Let’s do this thing. Then we’ll go find your mom.” He smiles and the knot in my shoulders releases.
“Right.” I place my right hand in his and my left on his shoulder just like we practiced. “Thanks.”
He reddens a little, but says, “That’s what knights in shining armor do, right?”
I think about him in that knight helmet as the string quartet begins playing. “Honestly, I think you should stick to climbing. It fits you better than that armor.”
As we dance, my stomach flutters. Not that horrible sickening feeling that I’m so used to feeling, but this time it’s like a flurry of butterflies taking flight.
“Good thing that dance instructor isn’t here,” Chet says. “She’d be all over our moves.”
“One, two, three, four.” I mimic our instructor’s voice, giggling. “I suppose we look more like toy soldiers than dancers.”
Chet lifts my hand over my head and sends me into a spin. The crowd claps approvingly.
Halfway through our dance, Mrs. Jones skirts past me, wearing a dirt-brown floor-length dress. She beelines for the punch bowl, all the while making fugitive glances around the ballroom. My footsteps slow as I watch her. She withdraws a bottle from the folds of her dress, opens it, and then slips the bottle behind her while turning her back to the punch bowl. She pours the contents of the bottle into the bowl, all the while looking out into the crowd, smiling with a big goofy grin.
“Chet!” I whisper. “I just saw Mrs. Jones pour something into the punch bowl.”
“Seriously? I didn’t think she had the guts to really spike it with poison.”
“Well, apparently she does. Come on, I need your help.” I drag Chet over to the punch table as Mrs. Jones sashays away, nonchalantly patting down her white curls.
As soon as Mrs. Jones ducks into the crowd, Chet and I each take a side of the large bowl and lift it off the table. Punch sloshes over the side.
“Did anyone drink from it?” Chet says through clenched teeth, trying to balance the bowl.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. What do we do with it, though?” My muscles complain under the weight of the bowl.
“I don’t care.” Chet groans. “Just as long as it’s sooner than later.”
“There.” I nod to one of the plants. “Dump it in that.”
Chet backpedals across the ballroom while I focus on keeping the punch in the bowl. We’re halfway to the plant when Ms. Teppernat steps into our path.
“What in earth’s name are you two doing?” Ms. Teppernat says.
“Saving the ball from disaster,” I say.
“Saving the ball!” Ms. Teppernat scoffs. Her eyes narrow, thinner than the arrow slits of a castle. “Ruining it, more like. You look like hooligans lugging that punch across the ballroom floor. What are you thinking?”
“That maybe it was poisoned.” I grunt. “If you’ll excuse us, this is kind of heavy.”
We skirt around Ms. Teppernat and dump the punch into the plant. It splashes over the planter sides, too much punch for the pot to handle, and pours out in dirt-mixed streams on the floor. The hem of my dress drags through the muddy punch. I try lifting my skirts, but it’s too late.
“Don’t worry,” Chet says, as if
reading my thoughts. “It’s nothing that a good bar of soap won’t fix. Besides, I think the sludge really makes the dress.”
A group of guests huddles along the sides to watch us. Ms. Teppernat’s features soften and an easy smile replaces her angry red-lined lips. “Don’t worry, everyone. Keira and Chet will be returning to their dance within moments.”
But when she turns back to speak to Chet and me, she speaks in a grinding, low voice. “If you dare ruin this ball for me,” she says through gritted teeth, “so help me, Girls’ Life will revoke all purchases made for you on this trip, and you and your mother will pay for every penny. I promise.”
“Speaking of my mom.” I cross my arms. “You know where she is, don’t you?”
“Hush! You’re making a scene.” Ms. Teppernat attempts a smile and waves at some of the onlookers now taking pictures.
But I’m not finished. “I’m making a scene? I’ve done everything to help you make your little ball a success! It’s the Joneses you should be worried about. They poisoned the punch and are ruining all your plans.” I point to Mrs. Jones by the cheese platter. “There she is. Ask her yourself.”
Mrs. Jones’s eyes widen when she sees me pointing at her. A small crowd has gathered and are staring back and forth from Mrs. Jones to me. But Old Mother Hubbard’s features smooth away from her face like a cleaned whiteboard. She waddles over to me and shakes her head, those white curls shaking as they like to do.
“I overheard your ridiculous accusations,” Mrs. Jones says. “How can you accuse me of such a thing?”
“Because I heard you talking to your husband about poisoning the punch. And then with my own eyes I just saw you pour a bottle of liquid into the punch bowl!” A gasp erupts from the crowd. The room falls quiet. Even the string quartet in the corner stops playing.
I barrel on. “And while we are fessing up, admit that it was your husband who vandalized this room last night.”
“Never!” Mrs. Jones presses her hands to her chest as if in shock, her eyelashes fluttering. Mr. Jones races to her side, and she leans against him as though she might faint.
“I found a pole in your room, under your bed,” I continue, unimpressed with Mrs. Jones’s theatrics. “It was the perfect weapon to break the windows with. No one suspected you at first because when the maid screamed, we had all been there together. But then after hearing your conversation in the bedroom about bribing the maid, I remembered. Mr. Jones came in late for dinner that night. He apologized, but what he was really doing was switching the paintings and destroying the ballroom. Then he paid the maid to scream during dessert, hoping we’d all have forgotten he was missing earlier.”
Ms. Teppernat turns to face the Joneses, her face ashen. “Why is it that I believe her?”
“Total speculation!” Mr. Jones shouts, sweat dripping down his temples. “What you say is slanderous. I will sue!”
“You’re a better sleuth than I thought, Keira!” Chet laughs. “That makes perfect sense. I remember that night clearly because Mr. Jones sat next to me. He did come in late.”
“This is preposterous! We were set up,” Mrs. Jones yells. “Why would we do such things? We’re here on our second honeymoon.”
“No, you’re not,” I say. “Back in January, some of your house staff started to go missing. There were all kinds of rumors about you, even that you killed your staff. You went bankrupt and had to sell your castle for a ridiculously cheap price. You’re not even from England. You’re American! That’s why when you are alone, you speak with an American accent. I bet Jones isn’t even your real name because you knew it would be listed in the house registry. But since the sale, you’ve never been the same and have blamed the hauntings on the new owner.”
The Joneses glower at me.
“And now here you are in your old home, this very castle, trying to buy it back from Monsieur Monteque by making this place seem haunted so the castle will be more affordable. You’ve been getting clues on how to make a house look haunted from that ghost book of yours. It was you who stole everyone’s stuff, hid it all in the attic, and vandalized the ballroom.”
This really gets a reaction from the crowd, especially with most being owners of the surrounding châteaus. People gasp and the murmurings grow into a loud buzz.
Bella pushes her way through the crowd, sliding her arm through mine. “Let’s not forget about the hairnet.”
“Good point, Bella,” I say. “Mrs. Jones, if you’ll excuse me, but I really must know.” I reach up and snatch a handful of Mrs. Jones’s white tresses. I yank it so hard that Mrs. Jones’s hair comes off.
Her wig, actually.
Mrs. Jones shrieks, holding her hands to the hairnet that has slipped loose, releasing a trail of long brown hair. “Give me my wig back, you little devil,” she snarls.
“It is a wig!” Bella says. “I love it when you’re right, Keira.”
Ms. Teppernat’s mouth forms a giant O. Then her face contorts so that it becomes all scrunched up like a bulldog’s. She slaps Mrs. Jones in the face. “How dare you try to ruin my ball?”
“How dare you try to steal my castle from me!” Monsieur’s voice booms from the top of the stairs. Now everyone’s attention is suddenly on him. The crowd whispers as he makes his way down the steps. “Regardless, your antics are meaningless. Because there really is a ghost who haunts these halls each night. No need for you to attempt to conjure one up.”
But before he can say another word, the grandfather clock in the hall starts booming. Bong! Bong! Bong! The sound echoes across the room in a resounding drone. I clench my fists, counting each of the gongs. Because I know now that when it reaches twelve, it means my fairy tale has woven its way into our world. It’s Friday. The night of the ball.
The stepsister’s ghost will appear.
And someone will be taken.
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A whoosh of cold breeze sweeps through the hall, blowing out nearly all the candles in one giant gust. Even the electric lights have stopped working. Without the lights, we’re left with only a few candles and the moonlight that trickles through the tall windows, casting long, hollow beams across the ballroom floor. Everyone screams. But not me. I’m a stone statue. A chill creeps up my legs. The ghost is here. I can feel it in my bones.
“What is going on!” a man shouts. “I did not come tonight for some childish prank.”
“Ghost?” a lady in a pink dress says, her voice quavering. “There are ghosts here?”
Ms. Teppernat laughs and clasps her hands as if trying to hold everything together. “Of course there aren’t any ghosts here.”
“Oh, no, Ms. Teppernat,” Bella says. “There is a ghost here and Keira is trying to figure out how to get rid of it.”
“Yep,” Chet says. “Saw it myself. Whatcha going to do about it?”
“And according to Monsieur,” I say, “someone disappears every Friday night.”
“But that cannot be! People said it was only rumors!” the lady in pink says and begins fanning herself.
Suddenly, it’s as if our words process in the guests’ minds. The murmuring grows and the crowd shifts, edging for the exit. One lady shrieks as a gust of wind blows through the ballroom. She bolts for the door. Her husband races after her, calling her name. A buzz rises from the crowd, some demanding answers, while the press frantically continues to snap pictures of the scene.
Pink Lady obviously can’t take it anymore because she faints, collapsing against the nearby table and landing in the castle-design cake. Cake splatters everywhere. On the guests, walls, decorations. Arms spread out, Pink Lady groans from the floor, on her bed of white cake and frosting.
Chet scoops up a finger-lick and tastes it. “Delicious!”
Mr. Jones tramps up to Monsieur, saying, “You are nothing but a lying, cheating scoundrel. Sell the castle back to my wife and me
before things get worse.”
“Is that a threat?” Monsieur asks, his thin eyebrows rising.
The arguments rage back and forth among the adults. Suddenly, Mr. Parker drops his drink and collapses to the floor. Did he drink some of the Joneses’ punch concoction? I wonder.
“Chet!” I say. “Your dad! I think something is wrong with him.”
The wind kicks up stronger, and the chandeliers sway under the gales until they loosen their hold on the ceiling and crash to the floor. Glass shatters everywhere and the guests scream, scattering like mice across the ballroom.
I push through the crowd pressing against me to search for the ghost. There’s no doubt that the stepsister is here.
The shards of chandelier glass glow a midnight blue, radiating light across the ground like lasers. Then the pieces gather together, whirling through the air to form a funnel in the center of the ballroom. Piece by piece the shards meld until a woman forms, floating in our midst.
The ghost.
Her ball gown is a deep purple, shredded so that the torn pieces float about her in the air like ribbons. Strands of hair wave about her face, concealing her features so I can’t make out who it is.
The ghost reaches out a long pointy finger. At first I think she’s pointing at me, but I’m wrong. Because beside me, Bella starts shuffling toward the ghost.
No. No!
“Bella!” I seize her arm. “Stay with me. The ghost is dangerous.”
Still, Bella walks with a strength I’ve never known her to have. My arms latch around her waist. My feet slide along the tiled floor as Bella unwaveringly marches toward the ghost.
“Somebody help me!” I scream.
But looking about the room, my heart sinks. Everyone is literally frozen in place. Mouths opened in screams, hands extended, and legs stretched in full-out sprints. They can’t see or know this whole interaction is even happening.
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