If the Magic Fits Read online

  “Wh-whosh,” I said. Which sounded pretty stupid, even to me, but all that white made me breathless.

  And if that hadn’t taken my breath away, the million real butterflies would have. Butterflies in cases, mounted in white picture frames, and set in white cabinets and curios, added the only splashes of color to the room. If someone had spilled a rainbow, that’s what it would have looked like: a glimmer of green here, a gleam of orange there, a hint of purple, a speck of gold, a flash of blue. I turned around, drinking in the beauty of so many butterflies.

  They were dead, of course, pinned by tiny steel pins to cork or wood or velvet. A million, million fragile wings absolutely still. A trillion antennae hushed. Their tiny hearts quiet in their tiny chests. This made me scratch my head and wonder, Do butterflies have hearts? If they didn’t, they ought to.

  “Did you catch all of them?” I asked.

  “Oh, no!” Princess Mariposa exclaimed. “No, only a few; most were gifts.”

  That made sense. I stepped closer to a cabinet and gazed through the glass. A large butterfly with a mosaic of yellow, black, and orange on its wings lay over a small silver plaque that read ZERYNTHIA RUMINA, GIFT OF HERMANN OF SYLVANNIA.

  She leaned over me, tracing the glass top with a finger as if she wished she could touch them. “They come from all over the world. Some are common in their own countries, but some are very rare.”

  “Why do you collect them?”

  She drummed her fingers on the glass. “Do you collect anything?”

  I shook my head. A memory of the Supreme Scrubstress handing me the empty artichoke crate flashed through my mind. Would I ever own anything to put in it?

  Princess Mariposa arched her eyebrow. “It seems silly, doesn’t it? Keeping all this beauty hidden here? But…they remind me that true treasure can’t be held in our hand, it can’t be kept. It touches us, grazes our palm, and flits away….” Her eyes darkened. “Once Eliora was known for its many beautiful butterflies, but they are gone now.”

  “Gone? Why?”

  The Princess shrugged. “No one really knows. There are butterflies here and there, but not like there used to be. Perhaps something scared them away?”

  “Dragons,” I muttered under my breath. If I were a butterfly, I’d stay as far away from a castle with dragons chained to the roof as I could.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Um. How long have you been collecting them?” I asked, fumbling to cover my blunder. I wasn’t supposed to know the secrets she’d told Teresa.

  “Since I was ten.”

  “That’s a long time,” I said.

  “Do you think so?” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Well…” I realized I had no idea how old the Princess was. And Jane had once scolded me for asking about her age. It probably wasn’t the sort of thing you asked a Princess either. I bit my lower lip and twisted my hands together.

  “Watch!” Princess Mariposa said.

  She unlatched a window and threw it open. The afternoon breeze flowed in and the millions of white butterflies danced on the ends of their silver cords.

  “Goodness!” My hands flew to my cheeks as I watched the whirlwind of butterflies above me.

  The Princess laughed. “See! It always cheers me up.”

  “It cheers me up too!” I said.

  And it did. But only for a moment, because the next moment I thought about Prince Baltazar’s butterfly and his plot to snatch the kingdom from the Princess. But with all these competitors, the purple-shot copper didn’t seem so exciting. Not nearly exciting enough to win the Princess’s heart. I glanced around for that traitorous butterfly, but there were so many…a gold-lined casket on a cabinet top caught my attention. I gravitated toward it. An elegant white butterfly with black-veined wings lay inside next to a handwritten parchment. To Princess Mariposa of Eliora, From Prince Humphrey of Tamzin, in large loopy letters written at a slant as if some child had scrawled the message.

  “Who’s Humphrey?” I asked.

  Princess Mariposa’s smile melted. She toyed with her fan. “Humphrey was a boy I met when I was your age.”

  “Was he nice? His butterfly is pretty. It looks like stained glass.”

  “It’s very pretty. He was a prince. A spoiled prince.” A line creased her forehead.

  “Was he a brat?” I asked. “I know some boys that are brats.” Like Roger, Mister Make-plans-with-Gillian-to-go-see-dragons. My Jane had seen them; he should have asked me to go first. Not that I wanted to.

  “Yes, he was a brat. He called me Po Po!”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “What did you do? Lock in him a dungeon? Banish him to an island?” I could think up lots of great punishments for spoiled-brat princes!

  “I called him Tubby.” She spoke with a hard edge to her voice, gripping her fan.

  I heard a faint crunch as the spines broke, and flinched.

  “But he deserved it,” she assured me. “He pulled on my curls. He put a spider in my soup. He didn’t behave at all like a prince.”

  “Did you tell on him?”

  She shook her head. “He was Father’s guest.”

  “Did you ever see him again?” I asked, disappointed. I’d have told on him. And stuck a spider in his soup.

  “No,” she said. “Never again. But he sent me this butterfly.”

  I mulled that over. She met this spoiled prince who was mean to her and she never told on him and then he gave her this beautiful butterfly….

  “You kept his butterfly,” I said, stating a fact.

  The Princess started as if this had never occurred to her before.

  “I guess I did,” she said, frowning. She glanced around as if somewhere lay the reason for her having kept it. She shook her head as if puzzled, tapping her fist with her fan.

  “I guess I did,” she repeated to herself.

  I shifted from one foot to the other. It was awkward, standing there wondering what I’d said to make her act so strange. So I said, “Thank you, Your Highness, for showing me your butterflies.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said absently. “Run along now.”

  That night, I tossed and turned, my sleep haunted by dragons and butterflies. I woke in the darkness, panting from racing up and down nightmare castles. I needed someone to help me. But who? I’d tried after dinner to talk to Jane, but she refused to hear anything I said. She would not discuss dragons or princes or anything. She made a beeline for the Head Cook and struck up a conversation about puddings, of all things.

  And if she wouldn’t listen, no one else would. I’d told one too many stories for anyone to listen to me now. There was only me, Darling Dimple, Dragon-Thwarter, at hand to save the Princess.

  Any Dragon-Thwarter worth their mettle will tell you that dragon-thwarting is not an easy business. A Dragon-Slayer only kills dragons, usually with a big sword. A Dragon-Thwarter has to thwart the dragon without getting within claw’s reach of him. Because Dragon-Thwarters like me lacked big swords, not to mention shields, armor, or those big heavy boots that Dragon-Slayers wear.

  I planned to keep the entire castle’s length between us. Just to be safe. I had to stop those dragons without grappling with them in person. The easiest way to do this was to tackle the problem of Lindy the Cloaked Lady and Prince Baltazar. And for that, I would have to follow them to find out more about their schemes.

  I needed to make peace with the dresses. But I was a short on bright ideas as to how one made up with angry clothes. As I pondered this dilemma, something soft and warm curled up against my shoulder.

  “Iago?” I whispered. “Is that you?” I felt my shoulder, touching the tip of his tiny tail. “It is you. Iago, I was worried.”

  He popped up on my chest and studied me. Nodding, he waved his tail around over his head, turned around twice, and shook himself.

  “You were confused…you got lost twice? You were scared?” I guessed, still not very conversant in Mouse.

  Iago bowed, curling his t
ail in a knot.

  “And since then you’ve been tied up with…mouse business?”

  He nodded sharply. I grimaced. What business did mice have to take care of? The four little mice, maybe? He saw my puzzled frown and put a paw to his brow as if looking for something. Then he pantomimed tiptoeing and looking.

  “You’ve been looking for something?”

  Iago dropped down on all fours and crept down my chest, darting behind a clump of bedcovers, and then popping up for a look before darting to another.

  “Spying?” I breathed. “You’ve been spying?”

  He tipped an imaginary hat to me.

  “Who’ve you been spying on?”

  Iago scampered up to my nose and stretched as tall as he could, his tail stiff behind him, his paws curled up like claws. He mimed breathing fire and slashing with his claws.

  “Dragons?” I yelped, forgetting to whisper. The lump in Francesca’s bed turned over. Iago froze. I held my breath and counted to a hundred. The lump settled back in. Exhaling, I whispered in as quiet a voice as possible, “You’ve been spying on the dragons? Why?”

  Francesca mumbled in her sleep. Iago flicked his tail and vanished under the bed. I meant to demand that he explain what was going on, but just then someone else snorted in their sleep. I froze. I’d lie awake until everything was silent and then…

  Something poked my shoulder. I opened my eyes. Francesca hung over me.

  “Wake up!” She poked me again. “Darling, this is your last warning!”

  I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Warning for what?”

  She snapped her fingers. “For tardiness! You’ve slept so long all the other girls are gone!”

  I glanced around the empty room and bolted up. “Oh, gosh! Oh, no!” I scrambled around, yanking on stockings, dress, and apron. I shoved on my boots and hobbled to the door, grabbing at my trailing apron ties.

  “No girl of mine goes out like this!” Francesca said, catching my apron and hauling me back. “Hold still.” She tied my apron and slapped me on the head. “Brush this mop,” she ordered, “and tie those boots!”

  I plopped down to lace my boots. From the corner of my eye, I saw two black dots blink at me from under my bed. Iago. He’d been telling me something about dragons and I’d fallen asleep—

  Francesca whacked me with a hairbrush. “Wake up!”

  I shot up and balled my fist under her nose. “Don’t ever hit me again!” I shouted. Her eyes widened; she fell back a step. Then her features hardened.

  “Don’t threaten me,” she said. “One word from me and your little friend, what’s her name…” Francesca put a finger to her chin and cocked her head. “Oh, yes, Gillian the Under-dryer, that’s who. Will. Be. Gone. Understand?”

  I understood that blood boiled in my veins. I understood that steam rose out of my ears. I understood that I could punch her to the ground and stomp on her.

  “And that blind lady, Jane,” Francesca continued, unaware that she was about to be pulverized. “She’ll have to go too. We just can’t have her sort around. She’s a bad influence, raising a monster like you!”

  At that, all the fight in me fizzled out like a match in a puddle. Where would Jane go if the Head Housekeeper tossed her out? How would she survive out there, stumbling along, unable to see? My shoulders slumped all the way down to my belly button.

  “So you can see reason. Good. Brush your hair,” Francesca said, holding out the brush.

  I took it, checked the bristles for glue, and ran it through my hair. Then I tossed it back to her and turned on my heel. I walked away. An ember of resentment burned in my chest. She’d been mean to me from the start—all because of her stupid sister. I’d never even met her sister. And I didn’t want to. She was probably just as rotten as Francesca. My fists curled; my steps quickened. If Francesca hadn’t interfered, I’d have gotten to talk to Iago and probably learned something important, something a top-notch Dragon-Thwarter needed to know. The ember in my chest roasted away. The angrier I felt, the faster I walked. My heels were burning when I scooted into the pressing room.

  My ironing board staggered under the pile of linens waiting for me. Lindy was gone, but a note was pinned to the pile.

  Good work yesterday. Here are some new sheets. Give them special care.

  Considering that the Princess had enough sheets to swaddle all the people in the kingdom with some left over for the horses, I couldn’t imagine why she needed new ones. I wiped my hot, sticky palms on my apron. I didn’t have time for this! I needed to find out what Lindy was up to. I had dragons to thwart. Plots to unmask. A prince to stop.

  I needed a dress—now!

  The canary eyed me like a yellow sentinel guarding a treasure from a barbarian horde. The dresses played dumb, hanging on their silver hangers all stiff and cool. They didn’t fool me.

  I planted a fist on my hip. “You know something is seriously wrong around here, don’t you?” I told that canary. “There’s a plot against the Princess.”

  Those black eyes stared back at me without blinking, but a feather in his tail twitched.

  “A plot to release those dragons,” I added.

  The dresses stirred as if they were murmuring among themselves.

  “I was careless with Eighteen. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but…well, I did. I am very sorry.” I paused, letting that soak in.

  Then I turned in a full circle so that they could see how serious I was. A couple of dresses perked up, obviously interested. One dodged deeper behind the dress in front of it. The rest waited, still stiff and cool.

  “So, are you going to help me? Or are you going to stay mad and let the castle be destroyed?”

  The canary glanced at One Hundred. Closest to the window, One Hundred basked in the warm morning light, its satin shimmering like freshly fallen snow. I held my breath; there was something special about One Hundred. The whole closet held its breath too. Precious seconds ticked by. Even now, Lindy might be on her way back, might catch me leaving the closet.

  Might start asking questions.

  One Hundred shrugged its crystal-embroidered shoulders, throwing a rainbow of sparkles across the floor. My breath escaped with a whoosh. The dresses relaxed. A black sleeve poked timidly out from behind a sapphire taffeta. I walked over to the sleeve. Number Forty-One: velvet black as ebony with a high collar encrusted with pearls. Gold swirls, leaves, and flourishes intertwined with more pearls traced the dress’s sleeves, bodice, and hem.

  “You’ll help?” I asked.

  The dress extended its sleeve as if to shake hands. So I shook it, careful not to crush the velvet. “Thank you,” I whispered, and slid it off the hanger. The dress hit the floor. I hastened to scoop it up. It weighed as much as a loaded basket of laundry. Would I be able to walk in this?

  There wasn’t time to argue, so I stepped into the dress. For a moment, I tottered under the weight, but then the dress hugged me close and became as light as air. I looked in the mirror to see who I was now—a lady greeted me with laughing brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She wore a navy-blue dress with a silver emblem pinned to the shoulder. A Lady’s Maid.

  “Perfect,” I told the canary, peeking out the door to see if the coast was clear. “A Lady’s Maid can go anywhere the Upper-servants go. I can follow Lindy almost anywhere.”

  The canary snapped his tail and shook out his wings.

  “Thank you!” I called over my shoulder. Behind me the canary whistled sharply, but I kept going. I had a plot to foil and a dragon to thwart, not to mention a huge pile of sheets to press. I loped down the first available stairs. Where would Lindy be this time of the day? Could she be in the kitchens? In the laundry room scolding the Head Laundress? Outdoors? Lurking in a corridor? There were too many possibilities to count.

  Was she slinking around in that black cloak? I paused midstride; I should have checked on that before I left. If she had the cloak on, then she’d likely be conspiring with Prince Baltazar in a dark corner s
omewhere. I scratched my nose. Should I go back and see if the cloak was gone? What if she was at her ironing board? What excuse could I make for being there? I didn’t even know who I was supposed to be or whose servant this was…all the Princess’s Ladies wore gray or silver, but this lady wore navy blue. This meant that she was someone else’s servant.

  I drummed my fingers on the banister. I’d take a look around the first floor. I’d act busy; Lady’s Maids usually looked like they were very busy. What exactly they were busy doing, I couldn’t imagine. But they always looked very busy doing it.

  When I reached the first floor, I turned sharply toward the west wing and strolled past the throne room, head high, brow furrowed. The doors to the throne room were open, revealing a bustling scene inside. Princess Mariposa stood at the foot of the throne, flanked by Prince Baltazar and Prince Sterling, gazing up at a Footman who juggled a massive portrait up a ladder behind the throne. A throng of onlookers oohed and aahed. I stopped to gape at the portrait.

  It was of a dark-haired man in a crown ringed with emeralds. Gold and pearls bespeckled his robes and a huge ruby gleamed on his chest. One hand held a scepter topped by a diamond the size of my fist. The other held a gold-clasped book. His fingers glittered with rings, and a gold cuff graced each wrist. But the thing that arrested my steps was the expression in his deep blue eyes. He looked right at me! Me, Darling Dimple, Imposter. His gaze drew me into the throne room. I stood gawking at him as people jostled around me.

  A plump hand accosted my elbow. “Dorothia, whatever has taken you so long? Where’s my shawl?”

  I snapped out of my reverie. “Shawl?” I said.

  The well-cushioned lady beside me shook my arm. “Did you not find it?” The woman looked like a popped-over soufflé in a lemon-colored gown with a high-piled swirl of white hair. Every inch of her glittered, from the pile of chains on her bosom to the stack of bracelets on her arm. Rings pinched her thick fingers and bobbed at her sagging earlobes.

  The lady squeezed my arm impatiently. “Dorothia! Really, you must attend to what I say. My paisley shawl, the one dear Cousin Alfonso sent.” The woman’s eyes narrowed; she glanced down at my elbow between her fingers.