Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  Her blurry blue gaze cleared momentarily as if she could see right through me. Her mouth crimped at the corner. A feisty hardness gripped her jaw. She had the look of a Laundress about to wring out a petticoat.

  “Don’t get in trouble for my sake,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, getting up. “I have to go talk to Agnes.”

  She left, feeling her way as she went.

  “Jane’s nice,” Roger said, finishing his soup. “But I wouldn’t want to be her enemy.”

  “Me neither,” I said, trying to imagine Jane having enemies.

  That night I set out a piece of my leftover bread. No sooner had Marci begun mumbling in her sleep than Iago appeared at the foot of my cot, whiskers wiggling as he nibbled the edges of the bread.

  “How are things in the laundry?” I asked.

  He held up his paw to signal that he wasn’t finished with his snack. I waited patiently until he patted his belly.

  “Did you find out who’s bothering the Laundresses?”

  His eyes darted from side to side.

  “You looked everywhere?”

  He nodded, then slid a fold of blanket over his head and sank down so that only his eyes were visible.

  “You hid and watched.”

  He popped up and threw his paws wide, holding only empty air.

  “You didn’t find anything.” I sank back into my pillow.

  He crept over and settled against my shoulder, blinking sadly.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Thanks for looking.”

  He sniffed the air but otherwise said nothing.

  “You’re a huge help, Iago. And a great friend.”

  His nose twitched.

  “Maybe you can check up on the dresses for me?”

  His head popped up. His ears quivered.

  “You have something to say?”

  He stood very still, and then he turned his head to the right, stopped, and then turned his head to the left. He repeated this, and then he took a step.

  “Watch where you’re going?” I guessed.

  He put his paw over his eyes.

  “Oh! Watch where I’m going? You mean I should watch my step!”

  He scurried up to me and tapped me on the nose. His tiny black eyes gleamed with concern.

  “Okay,” I said. “I will.”

  He flipped his tail and disappeared into the darkness. I snuggled into my pillow, squeezing it a bit to smooth out the lumps. Watch my step…, I thought as sleepiness tugged at me. What steps? Did Iago think I might fall? Or step into more trouble?

  What more trouble could I possibly get into?

  —

  Gillian traced her iron over a handkerchief, dissolving the wrinkles. She tilted her head to one side, as if listening to faraway music while she worked. She kept one hand tucked into her hip as she swayed to a silent beat.

  She existed in her own world, one that included Lindy, the Baroness and her stories, and the Princess, but not me. I chewed my lip as I waited, holding a freshly mended pile of handkerchiefs out to her.

  “They’re done,” I said at last, tired of holding them. Tired of watching her. Tired of being left out.

  “Oh!” She started and whipped around, a blazing iron in her fist.

  “Watch that,” I grumbled. “It’s hot.”

  “Sorry!” she sang, taking the handkerchiefs. “I got lost in my ironing, it’s so soothing.”

  Soothing? Ha!

  “Ann told me that Francesca couldn’t stand how you were so good at it,” she said. “Something about her sister.”

  “Faustine, that’s her name.”

  “Yes, Faustine and Francesca. They have a younger sister named Faye. She lives with their grandmother.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Kate told me.” Gillian smiled, and her dimples creased. “They talk all the time, those Girls. They never shut up.”

  I felt steam rising from the iron, which was almost as hot as my face.

  “They never talked to me!” I blurted out.

  Gillian frowned. “Course not. They thought you took away Faustine’s job.”

  “The Princess fired her. Cherice and Lindy came and got me. You were there. I had nothing to do with it!”

  “I know,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Weird, huh?”

  My fingers curled into fists.

  “So,” she said, lowering her voice, “when are we going to go look for that ghost?”

  She looked so concerned, so eager, that all my irritation melted away.

  “Soon as Roger thinks up a plan.”

  “Count me in,” she said. “Count me in.”

  —

  By evening, I was famished, exhausted, and anxious. Roger had said he was going to come up with a plan. I sped down the corridor on my way to supper. I needed that plan now! Not later. And I intended to tell him so.

  Politely, of course.

  Ann and Kate rounded the corner, dragging Dulcie between them.

  “Stop! Cut it out!” she squalled. Her face was tear-stained, and her braid disheveled. Her apron looked like someone had used it to clean the floor.

  I pulled up short. “Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “We found this one hiding in the scullery,” Ann said.

  “We’ve been looking for her for hours,” Kate added.

  “How come? What’s she done?”

  “Spilled a pitcher all over the dormitory floor. Soaked the rugs! And she’s going to clean it up!” Ann added, giving Dulcie a shake.

  I dug out my handkerchief.

  “Let her go; let her clean off her face. It was an accident.”

  “How would you know?” Kate said. “You weren’t there.”

  Dulcie sniffled and hiccuped at the same time.

  “It—it wasn’t me,” she wailed.

  “There, it wasn’t her,” I said.

  “Likely story,” Kate snipped.

  “Did you see it happen?” I asked, my temper rising. “Just because there was a mess doesn’t mean she made it.”

  Ann and Kate exchanged a guilty look.

  Ann dropped Dulcie’s arm. “Okay, clean up.”

  Dulcie took the handkerchief and dried her eyes. That didn’t make her face any cleaner, but she looked relieved.

  “What was she doing hiding in the scullery?” Kate demanded.

  Dulcie hiccuped again, silently pleading with me. I realized she’d been hiding so she could cry. And I could just imagine what Ann and Kate would make of that.

  “She’s a little kid; she was probably scared. Right, Dulcie? Those Messenger Boys are mean.” I tousled her hair.

  “They are,” she agreed, nodding solemnly.

  “Go get cleaned up. Fast. Or there won’t be any supper for you,” Ann threatened.

  “And don’t get any of that filth on the beds,” Kate added.

  Dulcie nodded and streaked down the hall.

  Ann eyed me. “I see you’ve developed a sympathy for the criminal element in the castle.”

  “Two peas in a pod,” Kate said.

  “I’d rather be like Dulcie than you two. Sand-spreading, glue-dumping sneaks,” I shot back.

  They cringed, shocked into silence. That reminded me; I hadn’t told on them. Yet.

  —

  Six and seven, six and seven, the ghost moaned.

  I wandered through the dark corridors, skin prickling, clutching a burned-out candle. The walls rattled at me, clanging like the dresses on their hangers. I looked down. I was wearing one. A greasy, grimy, torn black dress.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The dress slithered around my knees, binding them. The walls leaned closer.

  Six and seven, the ghost screamed.

  A hand grabbed me. The Head Steward loomed out of the darkness.

  “I have you now!” he snarled.

  I woke with a start, heart pounding, and sat straight up in bed. Something sharp pierced my arm. I shook it off.


  Iago landed with a thump on my covers, eyes rolling back in his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, scooping him up. “Are you all right?”

  He glared at me as if to say, Watch where you throw things.

  “I had a bad dream,” I explained. “I thought something had a hold of me.”

  He shook his head.

  “That was you, wasn’t it? You were trying to wake me up?” I shifted in bed, and something crackled beneath me. I felt under the blanket with my free hand and found a piece of paper. I pulled it out. Iago spread his paws as if to say, Voilà.

  “You brought this for me?”

  His head bobbed.

  “Thank you.” I squinted at it. It was too dark to see.

  “You’re the best, Iago. I’ll have to find you a nice hunk of cheese.”

  He dipped his head at the paper as if to say, And?

  “I can’t read it in the dark. Can you tell me what it says?” I asked hopefully.

  He spread out his paws and turned in a circle. Then he jumped down out of my palm.

  A circle? A ball? Was this about the Princess holding a ball? Or—a sudden bolt of insight struck me—was this about a dress?

  “This is about the dresses?” I guessed.

  His ears drooped in disappointment.

  “I’ll have to read it in the morning,” I told him.

  He scratched his head, flicked his whiskers, and disappeared.

  I folded the paper and slid it under my pillow. I lay down, but I had a hard time getting back to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the echo of six and seven and felt the Head Steward’s grasp.

  “You’re going to be late,” Marci said, shaking me awake.

  I tumbled out of bed. “I’ll be right there.”

  “You’d better be.” She smoothed her crown of braids. “You have shoes to polish.”

  Marci had made good on her promise to keep me occupied. And while the tasks weren’t always exciting, they kept me close to the closet. Even if I couldn’t figure out how to use a dress.

  “Good,” I said.

  She left and I pulled on my clothes, tying my apron in a well-practiced bow. I dashed a comb through my hair and, as I was about to leave, saw a folded paper on the floor. Iago’s note. I snatched it up and stuffed it in my pocket.

  Leather shoes of every color and style covered the desk in the wardrobe hall. Next to them was a tin marked MINK OIL and a pile of clean rags. The dressing room door stood open by a hairbreadth, and the sound of voices floated out. Marci was dressing Princess Mariposa.

  I shifted from foot to foot. I’d seen servants polish boots, but I’d never learned how they did it. I picked up a rag and a shoe, a glossy black leather with a spray of diamonds over the toes. I peered inside; the diamonds were part of a clip fastened to the shoe. Should I take them off? Leave them on? Would the polish ruin the diamonds?

  I put the shoe back down; I had enough problems in my life. I didn’t need any more. I dropped the rag, took a deep breath, and listened. I heard Marci talking to the Princess, and Lindy lecturing Gillian in the pressing room. It was time to feed Lyric; I dived into the closet.

  Sun blazed through the stained-glass window. The dresses fluttered. Lyric trilled his delight. Crystals flashed. Flounces stirred. Hangers tinkled merrily.

  “Good morning,” I told the dresses.

  Lyric chirped as I slid the drawer out of the cage and filled it. Then I popped it back in.

  “Enjoy,” I told him.

  A grass-green ribbon wiggled my way. I couldn’t wear the dresses anywhere, but I could try one on. Just one. For a minute or two. I started to follow it.

  The closet door flew open.

  “Ready?” Marci asked, eyeing my outstretched hand.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I snatched my hand back. “I fed the canary.”

  “Good.” Her lips twitched, but she didn’t say anything.

  I followed her to the desk to learn the art of shoe polishing. Each shoe had to be rubbed with mink oil (after decorations were removed) and buffed with a cloth. Then lavender-scented sachets were packed into the toes. Marci informed me that the shoes on the desk were only the beginning of a long parade of footwear.

  “Wonderful,” I said, although I’d rather sew.

  “The Head Seamstress is fitting Her Highness’s new court dress, so I need to get back in there,” she said, leaving me to it.

  I polished away until Selma arrived, a petticoat draped over her arm.

  “Is Lindy here?” she asked in a clipped tone.

  “Yes, ma’am, right in there,” I said, pointing at the door.

  Marci came out of the dressing room just as I spoke.

  “Good morning, Selma,” she said.

  “It would be if a certain person did her job,” Selma retorted.

  “Which person are you referring to?” Marci asked, reaching for a pair of blue shoes. “I am currently busy doing mine.”

  Princess Mariposa called from the doorway, “Marci, not the blue.”

  She wore a gown of sapphire brocade woven with gold threads. A tiny line creased her forehead. She held her arms up, away from the silver pins tacked into the bodice at her sides. Pins dotted the hem that flared behind her in a long train. The ragged ends of unfinished armholes feathered around her shoulders. More pins marked where sleeves would be added.

  “Darling’s polished the black with diamonds,” Marci answered. “Perhaps you would prefer those?” She picked up the shoes to offer them to the Princess.

  “Maybe. What is that?” the Princess asked, gesturing at Selma’s arm.

  “A petticoat, Your Highness,” Selma announced, unfolding the undergarment to reveal a jagged edge around the bottom. “Someone’s ripped the lace right off the bottom.”

  “Is that an old garment?” the Princess asked.

  “No, Your Majesty, it’s new. I found it in a basket collected from the Head Presser.”

  The Princess opened the pressing room door.

  “Lindy,” she said. “Please come here.”

  Setting her iron down with a bang, Lindy popped out of the pressing room.

  “Lindy, explain this,” the Princess said, gesturing to the petticoat.

  “I—I don’t know anything about it!” Lindy gaped at the ruined garment.

  “It was in the basket you sent down,” Selma retorted.

  “I collected those clothes from Marci,” Lindy replied.

  “That petticoat was intact when I put it in the basket last night,” Marci said, clutching the shoes against her chest.

  A tiny crease formed in the Princess’s forehead.

  “Does that basket stay under her charge?” Selma said, pointing at Lindy.

  “Now, you see here—” Lindy said.

  “I wouldn’t put it past you to slip something into the bottom of the basket so that my gals is blamed for it,” Selma interrupted.

  “What?” Lindy exploded. “Why would I do that?”

  The Princess moved to interrupt, but Selma waved the petticoat under Lindy’s nose.

  “Malice, pure and simple,” Selma said. “I have reason to believe that you’ve been a-messin’ with my laundry!”

  “Ladies, ladies!” Marci waved the shoes to get their attention.

  “Messing with your laundry?” Lindy turned a dark purple. “I wouldn’t step foot there for all the cake in the kingdom!”

  “Somebody left a saltshaker and a thimble in my laundry—explain that!” Selma cried.

  “Enough!” Princess Mariposa roared, her cheeks crimson.

  I rocked in my seat; I’d never seen the Princess so angry before. Marci nearly dropped the shoes. Lindy blanched. Selma took a step back.

  The Princess clapped a hand over her mouth. Her brow furrowed. Her whole face burned with embarrassment. Marci, Lindy, and Selma shrank inward like a fallen soufflé. The three eyed one another guiltily.

  Princess Mariposa took her hand away from her mouth and drew herself up regally
.

  “Now then,” she continued in a softer tone, “I want to know what is going on around here. Who is tampering with my things?”

  “I’ve seen Selma wearing your white shawl—that one with the tassels!” Lindy announced triumphantly. “Ask her what’s going on.”

  Selma wheeled around as if struck.

  “I gave that to the Head Laundress for her own use,” Princess Mariposa said, her eyes darkening to sapphire. “Am I not free to bestow my things on whomever I wish?”

  “I didn’t know,” Lindy said in a small voice. “My apologies, Selma.”

  Selma nodded sharply. I realized I’d been rubbing the same shoe for several minutes and set it down.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Marci said, placing the blue shoes on the desk before me. “But I assure you, Your Highness, that none of us would abuse your trust.”

  I cringed. Marci meant well, but when she said it, the others glanced at me. Selma grimaced and Lindy looked pained.

  “Very well,” Princess Mariposa said. “Selma, hand that to Lindy. Lindy, that’s new fabric; find a use for it—repair it, reuse it, do something so that it’s not wasted!”

  Without another word, Lindy took the petticoat, curtsied, and went back to the pressing room, closing the door silently behind her. Selma, seizing her chance, bobbed her head and left. Marci and I held our breaths to hear what Her Highness would say next.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this later,” Princess Mariposa told Marci. Then she took a deep breath and smoothed the waist of her unfinished gown.

  I caught sight of a woman hiding behind the dressing room door. The Head Seamstress, most likely. From the shocked expression on her face, she had no intention of stepping out into the wardrobe hall. I didn’t blame her. I wished I were a thousand miles away.

  “The black shoes, Darling, please,” the Princess said, her voice unsteady.

  I snatched up the shoes and presented them to her.

  “I polished them,” I said.

  The Princess looked at the shoes in my hand and gestured to the floor. I stood there awkwardly. Marci took them from me and helped Her Highness step into them. The Princess turned her foot from side to side under the fabric of her skirt.

  “I don’t know,” she said, biting her lower lip. “All these decisions: ribbons! jewels! shoes! The bother of having new clothes!”

  “The Baroness probably thought that some new gowns would cheer you up,” I offered in a tiny voice.