The Starlight Slippers

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  —

  I went down to the kitchens, where the first rush of servants wanting supper had arrived. So I joined them. I fetched my plate and looked about for a place to sit. Ann and Kate waved me over to their table. I didn’t especially want to eat with them, but it seemed rude to refuse. I sat down and unfolded my napkin.

  Ann leaned over and motioned for me to come closer.

  “Don’t repeat this,” she said in a low voice. “Francesca gets to go to the ball.”

  “First she gets that ring, and now this!” Kate said.

  “She’s just a kid,” I said, not believing it.

  “She’s thirteen,” Ann said, as if that were old.

  “Ann’s fifteen; I’m fourteen. If any Girls get to go, it should be us,” Kate said.

  “It gets worse,” Ann confided. “Not only is she going, but so is Faustine!”

  “Some of the Upper-servants get to watch, but none of them get to attend,” Kate said.

  “What are they wearing?” I asked, thinking of the sky-blue dresses I’d labored over.

  “Pepperwhistle is having dresses specially made in the city,” Ann said.

  “They’re wearing dresses from the Royal Dress Designer?” My voice rose in a crescendo of outrage. This was beyond unfair!

  A table of Dusters glanced my way.

  “Shh,” Kate hissed.

  “Imogene Tansy, Dressmaker at the Carnelian Dress Shop, is sewing for them!” Ann’s aggrieved tone suggested that I should know the name Imogene Tansy.

  I hadn’t heard of her, but that didn’t make me any happier. Francesca and Faustine got to dress up, attend the ball, and watch Princess Mariposa and Prince Sterling dance under the starlight. And I would most likely spend the evening in the kitchens, listening to everyone’s stories of how they saved the wedding. Because all the kitchen staff thought the entire affair depended on them; never mind the rest of us.

  I was just about to put these thoughts into words when Gillian arrived.

  Gillian slid her plate beside mine and winked at me. She’d come for dinner—and the key. I dug it out of my pocket. And it occurred to me: I wouldn’t spend the ball stuck in the kitchens! It’d be the ideal opportunity for Gillian and me to try a few unwatched locks.

  I grinned at Gillian and slipped her the key.

  “What’s up?” Gillian asked.

  “Well,” Ann said, before I could answer, “you can’t tell anybody, but—” And then she launched into the whole tale.

  * * *

  —

  I crept into the Girls’ dormitory after dinner. I wished I’d taken Bonbon or even Iago with me to the west wing. But I was so used to talking to my mice—and being accepted by them—that the outcome of the afternoon was entirely unexpected. And now I had to confess my failure.

  I knelt down by my bed and pulled my crate stamped ARTICHOKES out from underneath it. I lifted the lid—and dropped it onto the rug!

  Six mice sat huddled together on my lavender socks. Iago, Bonbon, Flan, Éclair, Anise, and their mother. It was such a warm, happy sight that I put the lid back on without interrupting.

  Francesca threw open the windows and let the sweet-smelling breeze flow in.

  “Let’s get going,” she chirped, smiling. “Lots to do. Wedding day is almost here!”

  Ann and Kate flashed her sour looks, but the other Girls—who didn’t know that she was attending the ball without them—smiled back. I ignored them. Sulking wouldn’t change it.

  I ran my brush through my hair. The bristles glided through my thick, silky locks.

  I stared at myself in the mirror.

  My once-dandelion-fluff hair cupped my face in smooth waves. I blinked. But the image in the mirror stayed the same. I put my hand on my head, feeling a few strands.

  It was my hair. It was attached to my head. But it had changed overnight. It had become an inch longer, easily tamed, and a gleaming shade of platinum! I turned my head back and forth, admiring the spring sunlight dancing in my tresses.

  “What happened to your hair?” Gillian asked. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It just changed overnight.”

  “Like magic,” Dulcie said, wiping jam off her chin with the back of her hand.

  Magic. I gripped the bedpost, dizzy. The starlight slippers had done this!

  “Look at Darling’s hair,” Gloria piped up.

  Every Girl turned to stare at me. The bedpost rocked under my hand, shaking the whole bed. My pillow slithered onto the floor.

  “What did you do to yourself?” Francesca demanded.

  “Nothing,” I said, lifting my chin.

  Francesca frowned. I could tell she didn’t believe me.

  Ann marched over to the other side of my bed and gave me a once-over.

  “She’s tight with those kitchen folks,” Ann said. “I’ll bet they cooked up some tonic for her.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, brazening it out. Letting them think that the Head Cook was behind this change was far better than having them suspect the truth.

  “What’s that?” Dulcie asked, pointing to the bed.

  A folded-up paper lay exposed on my sheets.

  Magnificent Wray’s note! I’d forgotten about it. I dived to retrieve it, but Ann grabbed it and waved it triumphantly over her head.

  “I guess Sugar Baby isn’t the only one who hides goodies in her pillowcase,” Ann said.

  Several Girls chuckled.

  “Hey!” Gloria said.

  “What is it?” Kate asked. “A love letter?”

  A couple of Girls snickered.

  “Let’s see,” Ann said, and brought it down to her eye level. “ ‘Darling Amber’— Who’s Amber?”

  Amber. Of course, the note wasn’t written to me. Deep down I’d known that, but I was still disappointed.

  “Hand that here,” Francesca said, holding out her hand.

  While Ann gave her the note, Gillian caught my eye. She wasn’t happy that I hadn’t told her about it. Francesca glanced at the paper.

  “It looks ancient,” she said. “Where’d you get this?”

  “It’s a note from my great-great-grandfather to his daughter,” I said, flashing Kate a glare. “Not a love letter.”

  “Bo-ring,” Ann said.

  “Who’d send love letters to Darling?” one of the Girls asked.

  The room rocked with laughter. Dulcie burned bright red; I could tell she was just about to volunteer a name, so I poked her.

  “Can I have my letter back?” I asked Francesca. “I need to get to work.”

  Francesca handed me the paper without bothering to unfold it. I stuffed it in my apron pocket.

  “It smells musty; don’t leave that under the pillow,” she told me. Then she clapped her hands. “Let’s get moving, Girls!”

  I left immediately. Gillian followed so closely she almost trod on my heels.

  Once we were on our own, she nudged me. “So tell me about it,” she said.

  “I found it in the armoire,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “I figured out that much. What does it say?”

  “I haven’t had time to read it,” I said, digging the note out of my pocket.

  Underneath Darling Amber, the paper was creased and water-stained. It was folded twice. I opened it. My dear, the note began—

  As my life comes to a close, I have only two regrets: leaving you and leaving the magic unattended. You must take a message to Her Highness—

  —and stopped, only to be furiously scribbled over with charcoal. I could only pick out a few more phrases:

  I regret pouring the magic into the slippers. I hadn’t realized what—

  —agic unleashed, powerful—

  —threaten the foundations—


  —starlight unlocks the opals—

  Father

  At the bottom, the words Father’s last letter appeared in another person’s handwriting. Lady Amber’s, I assumed.

  “That’s useless,” Gillian said. She kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word.

  Starlight unlocks the opals stood out in bold strokes. I swallowed. That had to refer to the slippers, but what did it mean? What was about to be unlocked?

  I felt ill. Marci had been right; those slippers were dangerous. I remembered Magnificent Wray’s letter to Queen Candace—shoes that embody something new, different, strange, and wonderful. Shoes that can truly be appreciated only when seen by starlight.

  They’d changed my hair—they’d made it quite lovely, so I wasn’t upset. But what else could they do?

  Threaten the foundations—

  And what would they do to the Princess? She planned to dance in them at her wedding ball! At night! When the stars were out! A vision of the ballroom sprang up before me: the patterned marble floor, the velvet curtains, the gilded carvings, the chandeliers—and the doors leading to the terrace. I could see the Prince whirling the Princess across the floor and straight into a waiting patch of starlight!

  This was terrible. I had to stop the Princess from wearing those slippers!

  “Darling,” Gillian groused, “you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  I blinked; we were standing right outside the wardrobe hall.

  “I think those slippers are dangerous,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Gillian said, pushing open the door. “The Princess has worn them several times already.”

  “Good morning, girls,” Marci sang out as we walked in. She had a pair of beige shoes in one hand and a pair of lace gloves in the other.

  “Look at you!” Gillian exclaimed.

  Marci beamed. Not only was she wearing her new mauve dress, but she had a gold-and-pearl pin atop the jabot and a mauve ribbon woven through her coronet of braids! Her silver chatelaine swung from its clip on her new mauve belt.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, sashaying her skirt back and forth.

  “I love it,” Gillian said. “Did you sew it yourself?”

  “No,” Marci said, practically giddy with glee. “The Royal Dress Designer had it made—especially for me!”

  “Oooh,” Gillian said. “Aren’t you lucky?”

  Marci glowed, looking prettier than I’d ever thought possible. But then she eyed me. “Have you done something to your hair?” she asked.

  I shrugged without answering.

  “Be careful with those cooked-up rinses,” Marci warned. “They can make your hair fall out.”

  The dressing room door opened. Princess Mariposa floated out on tiptoe, stocking-footed, holding her bluish-lilac gown up in one hand. Her other hand patted the jeweled lace butterfly in her upswept curls. Lady Kaye walked behind her.

  “Look,” Princess Mariposa said. “The courier just brought it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Gorgeous,” Gillian said.

  “It is,” I agreed.

  “That was quick,” Marci said. “Madame must have stayed up late creating it.”

  “It’s very charming,” Lady Kaye said, grinding her cane into the carpet. “But, Marci, don’t you think that a princess ought to marry in a tiara?”

  “What do you think, Marci?” The Princess’s eyes danced.

  Marci fiddled with her jabot, stalling. I was glad not to be in her shoes. Which was worse: getting on the wrong side of the Baroness or crushing Her Highness’s enthusiasm?

  “Generally, I would agree with Her Ladyship. A princess ought to wear a tiara. But,” Marci emphasized before Lady Kaye could interrupt, “the hairpiece is perfect, charming and lovely, and it completely suits you.”

  “It does,” Gillian said.

  Lady Kaye pursed her lips; she didn’t take kindly to being contradicted. Princess Mariposa cast a questioning look my way.

  “You’ll look just like an enchanted princess in that butterfly and your dress,” I said.

  “And your slippers!” Gillian added.

  Which was the worst possible thing she could have said. Because it caused all of us to glance at Marci’s desk, where the starlight slippers balanced on their satin pillow.

  “My dear Mariposa,” Lady Kaye said. “Have these slippers with their priceless gems been left sitting here unguarded? Why, anyone at all could walk right in and steal those opals out from under your nose. Marci, I believed better of you than this!”

  A blush stung Marci’s cheeks.

  Princess Mariposa gasped. “You don’t think that would happen?”

  “Cherice is locked up,” I said. “Nobody else would dare—”

  “Are you the authority of who dares do what?” Lady Kaye demanded.

  I shook my head.

  Marci put down the shoes and gloves she’d been holding. “I don’t believe there is any danger that the slippers might be stolen,” she said, picking up the pillow. “But I shall lock them in the closet at once!”

  She marched stiffly to closet two and unlocked the door. Then she took the pillow with the starlight slippers into the closet and left them there. She made a show of relocking the door.

  “They are safe now, Your Highness,” she said, throwing a hurt look at the Baroness and patting her chatelaine. “These keys never leave my side. The only way anyone will get in that closet is over my dead body!”

  After lunch, Rose appeared with several of the sky-blue silk dresses to be hemmed. This time she didn’t ask; she told me that she had to have help or several Girls wouldn’t be attending the wedding.

  I sewed, more aware of the jangling of Marci’s chatelaine than ever before. Her keys rattled and clanged together as if they were hammers and tongs. Marci was the most conscientious person I knew. As the Wardrobe Mistress, she held the keys to all the Princess’s valuable clothes and personal jewelry. She was responsible for their safety, maintenance, and preservation. In her former position as the Head Scrubber, she’d spent long, dull years in the castle’s under-cellar, toiling in the soggy heat. She treated her promotion as a special sign of the Princess’s favor.

  The silver keys on her chatelaine were proof positive of Her Highness’s trust. Marci never forgot to clip her chatelaine to her belt, never left her keys lying around, and never lent them to another person. She personally unlocked and locked each door and drawer that was opened by those keys. They lay under her pillow when she slept. Another servant might have said “Over my dead body” as a casual oath, one they meant to break as soon as the sound of their words died away. But not Marci; she meant them with all her heart.

  And the key to closet two, where the starlight slippers were, swung on her chatelaine. It might just as well have hung from the corner of the crescent moon, as far as I was concerned.

  Thinking of chatelaines made my hand gravitate to my apron pocket to caress the starburst key. I could have sworn that the tiny buzz of magic in its bow had seeped throughout the key, making the whole of it tingle. For all the good it was going to do me. My inheritance felt so close that I could almost taste it. But I’d probably never know what it was, because the wedding was only days away. Princess Mariposa would don those shoes and dance at her ball. The starlight would unlock the opals and…

  Imagination failed me. I didn’t know what would happen after that. I only knew that whatever it was would change everything. Because every time Magnificent Wray used magic, it was for something big: chaining dragons, filling the castle, or bringing the dresses to life. I didn’t expect the opals to be any different; otherwise why would he have written to his daughter about them just hours before his death?

  Threaten the foundations—buildings had foundations.

  This wasn’t just about the Princess. The castle
itself was in danger!

  I needed a distraction! As soon as I finished my work for the day, I tromped down to the kitchens, where a frenzy of dinner preparations was under way. I eyed the locked drawers in the spice cabinet as Under-choppers and Under-slicers zipped past with aprons full of fruits and vegetables. There was no way the Head Cook had left one of them unopened in all her years there.

  Extra tables had been hauled into the central kitchen, where wedding preparations had begun. The Head Icer, the Head Cook, and the Pastry Chef were each working on a different project.

  “Can I help?” I said to the Pastry Chef.

  “What do you know about the art of pastry?” he exclaimed, looking up from crimping a piecrust.

  “Not much,” I said. “But I can measure stuff—”

  “Stuff!” He slapped his chef’s hat, sending a puff of white powder through the air.

  “She can count,” said the Soup Chef, who walked past lugging a tureen.

  “She can read,” Esperanza, the Head Icer, chimed in from her station, where she was piping icing onto a sheet of petit fours.

  “She can taste,” the Head Cook said, measuring a pungent spice into a pot. “And if you don’t need help, I do.”

  At that, the Pastry Chef became indignant. “She doesn’t want to cook,” he said, brandishing his crimping fork. “She wants to create!”

  The Head Cook dusted her hand on her apron. “Does she?”

  “Of course she does,” he said. “Apron! Now!” He snapped his fingers at me.

  I fetched a clean chef’s apron out of the kitchen closets and tied it over my own. Then I went back to the pastry counter and found a cloth pastry frame, a crock of flour, a rolling pin, and a ball of dough waiting for me.

  “Begin!” the Pastry Chef ordered, sprinkling his own pastry cloth with flour. “We will create the galette!”

  I figured rolling out dough couldn’t be any harder than pressing. But I was wrong. My dough was too thick or too thin or too sticky. And the more mistakes I made, the more I had to flour the pastry cloth, and the stiffer my dough became.

  The Pastry Chef surveyed my mess. “Go help someone else,” he said.