“The Wrays were a great house once, rich and powerful. The tombs are some of the most elaborate in the cemetery,” the Warden said in a hushed, almost reverent voice.
“What happened?”
He licked his lip, considering. “They made bad choices, I suppose.”
“Bad choices?”
“I make it a rule never to speak ill of the dead,” he said. “May they rest in peace.”
“Wh-where is my mother?” I asked, hating to think of her somewhere in that gloomy place.
At that, the Warden snapped his fingers. “This way.”
I went with him through the gate, hunching my shoulders. I hoped the Wrays didn’t mind my coming, seeing how rich and powerful they’d been and seeing how poor and unimportant I was. I found myself clutching the locket, ready to thrust it out at any specter who challenged my right to be there.
The mist gave way to marble arches and pillars, to great statues of men seated on horses. Some tombs were carved all over with leaves and flowers. Some still held traces of gold and silver where they’d once been decorated. Vespera Wray, one proclaimed in rose-colored granite. Barnett Wray! Ramira! Xavier! Lorette! the names of the Wrays screamed from their stones.
And then they grew small and quiet, simple little stones with names obscured by weeds. Something had silenced the Wrays. I wondered what it was.
“Over here,” the Warden said, pointing to a little stone set in a cramped corner.
Emily Wray Fortune, her pale gray stone whispered in tiny letters.
“I found a spot for her,” the Warden said, drawing a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaning off her stone. “She was the last of the Wrays.”
The last of the Wrays echoed in the stillness.
“The last one?” I asked.
“The very last,” he replied. “You must understand, my dear, that there wasn’t room for your father here.”
“He was lost at sea,” I said.
“Of course! Silly me,” Warden Graves exploded, and rambled on about what a tragedy it all was.
I nodded, only half paying attention. All these rich and powerful Wrays—and my poor mother, who had worked in the castle kitchens, was the very last one. I squeezed her locket, the last thing left by the Wrays. And now it belonged to me.
“I didn’t think he’d mind,” the Warden added.
“Who?” I asked, my spine tingling so that I glanced over my shoulder for him.
The Warden waved at the stone behind my mother’s, a dull gray marble column that tapered to a jagged point at the top. Moss had ensnared it, obscuring most of the bottom half. A gilded fence encompassed its base. Dead roses peeked between the narrow, barbed posts. Overhanging branches raked the top of the stone, which blended into the wall behind it.
I hadn’t noticed it before.
“I usually trim them back each fall, but…” The Warden waved a glove at the roses. “This past fall, the wedding…I mean, when we didn’t have the wedding.” He reddened.
I leaned over my mother’s stone to the pillar. I curled my fingers in the moss and yanked. Dried-up vegetation crumbled in my hand. Underneath, the carving of a starburst appeared.
I gripped my locket, holding it up to the stone. It was the same design.
The very same. The same starburst that sat at the only spot on the castle grounds where you could stand and see the dragons on the castle roof!
My pulse pounded in my ears. I scrambled to scratch more of the dead moss from the stone. And there, under the starburst, silver letters gleamed in the dull morning.
MAGNIFICENT WRAY
ARCHITECT
“Magnificent Wray?” I asked.
“The greatest Wray of all. The King’s Architect,” the Warden replied.
My mother, the Under-chopper, was tucked at the foot of greatness. I hoped Magnificent wasn’t disappointed.
“Which king?” I asked, although I already knew in my heart which one.
“King Richard.”
Princess Mariposa’s grandfather, who had collared the dragons and built the castle.
“I suppose Magnificent Wray would be your great-great-grandfather, young lady,” the Warden said. “How about that?”
The letters winked at me as a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom. Your great-great-grandfather, the wind murmured.
“What’s an architect?”
Warden Graves chuckled. “Someone who builds buildings.”
“What kind of buildings?”
“All kinds. The cathedral in town, the big one with the maritime chapel—your father would be memorialized there. All the sailors lost at sea are, you know.”
“Huh.” I rubbed the surface of the letters with my thumb.
“And the Star Castle is probably his most magnificent accomplishment. Ha-ha, magnificent—a little pun there.”
“Princess Mariposa’s castle?”
“The very same.”
My heart thudded. Magnificent Wray had built the castle for King Richard—with the dragons! The very castle I lived in! The castle that hummed with magic. I traced each letter in the word architect, feeling for the pulse of the magic. And finding nothing.
Below the letters, something glistened through the remaining moss. I brushed the moss away, and words carved in gold glimmered at me.
Light shines, I read.
Light shines? Every other gravestone said something like Rest in peace or Beloved mother and father or In loving memory. That made sense. That’s what I would put on a gravestone. Not Light shines. What did light have to do with a creepy place guarded by black angels?
By the time I got back, lunch was past and my work waited for me. Lindy had left me a tray and a note: Gone out. I want this all done by dinnertime! Lindy. Off to visit her beau, the Captain of the Guard, I assumed. I gobbled down my food, tied my hair back with my ribbon, and got to work.
My brain buzzed like a hive full of angry bees. Questions multiplied like unwashed pots on a feast day. What had happened to the Wrays? How could they have been so rich and my mother so poor? The Warden had said that Magnificent Wray was the greatest Wray, but his tombstone was much smaller than the older ones. What made him so great? What on earth was Light shines supposed to mean? How had my mother felt about being the last of the Wrays?
The very notion of being the last Wray sent a shiver down my spine.
By the time I folded the final sheet, it was dark outside. I tidied myself up and set off. The glow from the hearth’s embers lit the faces of the Under-servants clustered in the castle kitchens. Some of them polished boots, sewed, or whittled to keep their hands busy. But their real reason for gathering was to talk.
The Head Cook had her own domain, a corner with a desk and a towering bookcase crammed full of recipe books. She perched on a high stool, squinting at papers, choosing the occasional nut from a bowl at her elbow. She scrutinized each one before popping it into her mouth as if every bite had to meet her standards.
I leaned against her desk and waited for her to notice me.
“Five, but I thought there were six,” she muttered, tapping the paper in her hand and crunching a nut.
“Six what?” I said.
“Six dozen eggs,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
I shrugged. “Thought I’d say hello.”
“Hello,” she said.
“Six dozen eggs doesn’t seem like that many for all of us,” I commented.
“Goodness, no. We use many, many more than that in a day. These were put aside in my cupboard.”
“For what?”
“A new recipe I want to try,” she replied, shuffling through her papers. “A meringue, it’s called. It’s made out of lots of egg whites. It’s supposed to look like an edible cloud.”
“Sounds pretty but not very tasty.” Although at that moment, I’d have eaten almost anything.
“Well, it’s sweetened with sugar and topped with raspberries.”
My stomac
h chose that moment to gurgle like an emptying sink.
“Did you miss supper?” the Head Cook inquired.
Every servant knew that mealtimes were sacred. Miss a meal and you went hungry. But. I’d learned long ago that the Head Cook had a soft spot for starving children.
“It was my fault,” I said. “I was so long finishing my work.”
“Why was that?” she asked, putting her papers down.
“I had to go out with the Princess all morning, so I started late.”
The Head Cook tucked a stray hair back into her bun. “All morning?” she asked.
I nodded. “We went to the Royal Cemetery.”
She snorted. “Of all places to drag a child! Tilly!” she barked over her shoulder. “Fetch a bowl of leftover stew and round up a crust of bread.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely.
She held out her bowl. “Have a nut.”
“Thank you.” I selected a plump one.
A harried-looking Kitchen Maid appeared with a bowl of stew and a slab of bread drizzled with honey. I thanked her. She eyed me like a rat in the pantry, but I ignored her and scampered off to a safe corner to eat. When I’d finished every drop and eaten every crumb, licking the last trace of honey off my fingers, I glanced around.
I had questions. Someone had to know something. Who?
The Head Cook had a pencil between her teeth and a paper clutched in her fist. She might know more than the others, but she didn’t appear as if she wanted to be interrupted again. My gaze drifted over the Under-servants. Roger perched on a hearthstone, whittling. He looked like he’d recovered from his encounter with Mrs. Pepperwhistle. But he was as short on answers as I was. I’d talk to him later.
I spotted Jane on a bench next to a table where Marci sat sewing. Jane hoarded secrets like a squirrel guarding nuts. She had answers—if not about the Wrays, then about my mother.
I squeezed into the knot of servants and wiggled my way onto the bench.
“That Sterling fellow keeps hanging around,” one of them grumbled. “All the other guests had sense enough to leave after the wedding fell apart.”
“He’s sweet on Her Highness,” a Kitchen Maid said with a giggle.
“Well, she ain’t sweet on him,” a Cook retorted. “He’s a third son!”
“Second,” Marci corrected, sewing a button on a sleeve. She belonged with the Upper-servants now, but she still spent time in the kitchens. “And it’s just as well. If she married an heir to another throne, where would they live? He might take her to his kingdom and leave us stuck with a regent.”
“The castle wouldn’t be the same without Her Highness,” a Groom said.
The group sighed glumly.
I’d listened to their chatter my whole life without minding, but tonight I squirmed impatiently. I needed answers, and all they wanted to talk about was the Princess getting married.
I slid closer to Jane. She was knitting me winter socks. I’d chosen the yarn. She could knit by feel, but choosing colors was another story. Not that she couldn’t see, but she was so shortsighted that she mistook similar colors for each other. If I didn’t pick out three balls of yarn that were identical, I was apt to end up with stripy socks. To Jane, red and bright pink were the same, and lilac and gray looked alike.
“Thank you for knitting me socks,” I began.
“You are welcome,” Jane told me.
“I was thinking about my mother,” I began.
“She was a sweet, kind person and a dear friend,” Jane said, stopping to count her stitches.
That’s what she always said.
“I know, but—” I said.
Gillian, the Under-dryer, appeared from nowhere and plopped herself next to me on the bench. She waved a paper-wrapped piece of toffee under my nose.
“Are you thinking up a story?” she asked, her eyes bright and her dark curls kinked with excitement.
I eyed the candy; I’d appreciated the stew and the bread, but it hadn’t filled me up entirely. I still had room for a slice of pie, a piece of cake—or several dozen toffees. But the hive of angry questions in my brain buzzed louder than my hunger.
“I don’t have one now, but I will later,” I offered.
Gillian sighed dramatically, and the toffee disappeared into her bulging apron pocket. Then she flopped back on the bench as if she’d never hear another story.
“I heard that Prince Sterling went with Her Highness today in the royal carriage,” Esperanza, the Head Icer, piped up. “And Darling went with them.”
“Darling?” a Gardener exclaimed.
They all turned to stare at me.
“That Darling,” one of them said. “She’s up there all day hearing what goes on, but does she ever tell us anything?”
A spark flew up from the embers and drifted on the air. Someone dropped a thimble that went clattering across the flagstones. But their eyes stayed on me.
“Well…,” I said. I didn’t like to talk about the Princess. She was the Princess, after all, not some Sweeper. But the pointed looks on their faces told me I wasn’t wriggling out of it this time. I sighed. Questioning Jane would have to wait.
“Prince Sterling did go along,” I admitted. They could find that much out from the Footmen.
“Ooooh,” one of them breathed. “They went together?”
I shook my head. “Only in the carriage. At the cemetery, the Princess went off by herself, and the Prince escorted the Baroness; she said she had old friends to visit.”
“What did you do?” Gillian asked, popping back up, eyes alight. “Chase ghosts? Open a hidden vault and find—”
“If you’d let her answer, you’d find out,” Marci said.
A coal of inspiration sparked in me. Here was the perfect opportunity to dangle the Wrays in front of the Under-servants. Maybe I wouldn’t have to pry things out of Jane after all.
“Warden Graves—” I began, stopping when an outburst of laughter interrupted me. “He can’t help his name!” I exclaimed. Names were a sensitive subject to me. Anyone named Darling would understand.
“Go on,” Marci said.
“Warden Graves showed me my mother’s grave,” I finished. “It—”
“Poor little Emily,” the Soup Chef moaned.
All the older servants tsk-tsked.
“Was it a nice stone?” one asked.
“Yes, it was nice,” I said. “She’s next to a big monument and—”
“She was a sweet girl,” one of the Laundresses mused. “If only she hadn’t fallen for that good-for-nothing sailor.”
My ears perked up. Father was a good-for-nothing? What?
“That’s enough,” Jane barked, reddening. “Darling had a sad day. I’m sure it was kind of the Princess to take her, but enough is enough. And leave Emily alone! She’s not here to defend herself.”
“That’s right,” one of the Grooms said. “Don’t talk bad about the dead.”
I shriveled like one of Magnificent Wray’s dead roses. Trust Jane to stick up for me just when I didn’t want her to.
“Hmm,” Marci said, eyeing Jane. “So, Darling, it was a nice stone?”
I wanted to hug her. I didn’t, of course, but right then I could have.
“Yes. Right next to Magnificent Wray,” I announced, glancing around.
The younger servants’ faces stayed blank, but the older ones’ shone with awe. Servants from nearby clusters looked up when the name was mentioned. Several drifted closer to our group.
“Magnificent Wray,” a nearly bald Picker named Agnes echoed. “Oh my.”
“Did you know him?” I asked, hanging on the edge of the bench.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Agnes snapped.
“He died a long, long time ago,” Marci said, selecting another button from her sewing box.
“He was an old man when King Richard was crowned,” the Head Cook agreed, looking up from her papers. “Think how long ago that was.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
> “My grandmother, who was a little girl when the castle was built, probably could tell you a story or two if she were here,” Marci said.
“So could the Librarian,” the Soup Chef added.
“That old windbag,” the Pastry Chef said with a laugh.
“Windbag?” a Scrubber groused. “Doesn’t say two words to anybody, doesn’t leave his library. Windbag indeed!”
“Maybe he only talks to people worth talking to,” the Pastry Chef said.
The Scrubber jumped out of her seat, banging into the copper pans above her. “I know when I’ve been insulted!” she cried, rubbing her forehead.
“Oh, sit down,” the Head Cook said. “All the Upper-servants have their airs.”
Marci sniffed.
“Well, all the ones who think their jobs are more important than everyone else’s,” the Head Cook amended. “So, Marci, do you think the Princess is interested in this Sterling?”
“Hmm,” Marci said through her teeth, snapping off a thread. “She likes him, but will she risk her heart a second time?”
“Oh, her poor bruised heart,” one of the Sweepers groaned, pressing her hands to her chest.
“Princess Mariposa has been so sad,” the Head Cook agreed. “Not even my best soufflé cheered her up.”
“She needs time for her heart to mend,” an Under-duster chimed in.
“Bosh,” the Scrubber grumbled, still massaging her head. “I say one prince is as good as another.”
“She can’t marry just anyone,” Marci disagreed.
“Well,” the Pastry Chef exclaimed, “let’s hurry and pick someone for her!”
And with that, they were once again absorbed in their favorite subject, the Princess’s love life. I sank back against the bench, rubbing my locket between my fingers. I polished Wray with my thumb. I’d be Jane’s age before I pieced together any information from the Under-servants.
But the Librarian sounded promising.
Roger hooked me by the arm outside the kitchens as I headed back upstairs.
Ghost of a Chance Page 3