If the Magic Fits Page 2

  “What would you call this, Lindy?”

  “Well, Your Highness, I’d call that a betrayal, that’s what. A flat-out dereliction of duty. The twisted work of a wicked sloth—”

  Cherice smoothed the ruffled flounces on the petticoat. “My dear, I’m sure there has been some unfortunate incident. The iron, perhaps, was too cool. Or the petticoats were scrunched in the hanging. Some silly little thing. I am sure.”

  Lindy pinked up with indignation and a smidgeon of guilt. Normally she saw to the final pressing, being zealous about the Princess’s wardrobe. But the evening before, she had left the task to her assistant while she flitted off to—but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just say that Lindy hadn’t done the final pressing, she’d trusted—

  “Faustine!” Lindy exploded. “Trust an Under-presser just once and see what happens!”

  Princess Mariposa blinked. This was an ominous sign. Blinking usually led to frowning, which often led to the Princess stamping her foot. When that happened, you knew she was really, truly angry. Cherice and Lindy held their breath. Princess Mariposa blinked again. The wrinkle in her nose reached her forehead.

  Princess Mariposa rubbed her wrinkled forehead. “Perhaps I should lie down. I feel the tiniest little headache behind my left temple.”

  Cherice eyed the little gold-painted clock on the wall beside her. It was nearly time for the feast to commence. “Now, my dear, think of all those long faces at the banquet when you don’t appear! The new suitors will be so disappointed.”

  “Forget them,” Princess Mariposa snapped.

  Cherice flinched.

  “Well then, that dashing Earl of Westerfield,” Lindy offered.

  “He. Waddles.”

  “Count Ruthven?” Cherice suggested.

  “Stumpy.” Princess Mariposa rubbed her forehead more energetically.

  “Prince Armand?” Lindy said.

  “Conceited.”

  “Prince Steffen?” Cherice’s voice had an anxious note in it.

  Princess Mariposa put her face in her hands and spoke through her fingers. “He has the face of a toad, the manners of a pig, and the mind of a flea.”

  This was the rudest thing Princess Mariposa had ever said. Cherice and Lindy exchanged shocked looks as the little gold-painted clock ticked quietly away.

  “I am sorry that Your Highness has had to make do with such uninspiring suitors. But if you won’t go down and meet these latest…” Cherice trailed off meaningfully. “I suppose you could always bow to your late father’s wishes and marry Prince—”

  The Princess dropped her hands, eyes flashing. “Don’t say that name!”

  “—Humphrey.” The name popped out before Cherice could stop.

  Humphrey hung in the air of the dressing room like a damp petticoat on a laundry line. The Princess closed her eyes, balled her fists, and counted to ten. Prince Humphrey’s father and Princess Mariposa’s father had gotten the two of them together one summer when they were nine. The two kings hoped that they would enjoy each other’s company, eventually fall in love, and marry when they grew up. The kings had been sadly disappointed; no two people disliked each other more thoroughly. Prince Humphrey and Princess Mariposa hadn’t spoken since.

  Lindy grimaced at Cherice, who shrugged. Said was said and couldn’t be unsaid. But Lindy, not being one to endure a long silence, spoke up. “Oh my goodness, Your Highness, I’m sure it won’t come to that. There must be one okay fellow—”

  Princess Mariposa nailed Lindy with a look that would parch the bubbling-est brook. For a moment, no one spoke; Cherice held her breath. Then the Princess, gathering her dignity and banishing all thoughts of Humphrey, said, “Take this petticoat and see that it is properly pressed at once!”

  “I’ll see to it personally,” Lindy said, bobbing a curtsy.

  The Princess signaled to the Wardrobe Mistress to untie the petticoats. “See that you do. And, Lindy.”

  “Y-yes, Your Highness,” Lindy said.

  “I never want to hear the name Faustine again.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Lindy and Cherice echoed. They exchanged a look. They needed to find a new Under-presser—and fast.

  Meanwhile, in the under- cellar, a fat soap bubble glistened on the tip of my sponge. A cloud of steam fogged the air. Gillian, the Under-dryer, leaned on her elbows over the vat, a thick towel around her waist, and put her chin in her hands. The rising steam tightened her dark curls and cast a dewy sheen over her cheeks. Her naughty grin dimpled her heart-shaped face.

  The Supreme Scrubstress had paired us up because we were the same age. And close in height—I was taller—which made handing things off to be dried quicker. Quickness was highly prized by Her Supreme Scrubself. Gillian and I had worked together for a year, washing and drying our way through a mountain of pots, and a bubble on the end of my sponge was a signal of an irresistible sort.

  “What do you see?” Gillian asked.

  Glancing around to be sure we weren’t overheard, I said, “I see a lone tower on a hill and a knight standing below it.”

  “Yes?” Gillian’s eyes sparkled. She was a sucker for a good story.

  “In the tower lives a great enchantress so powerful that—”

  “Is she beautiful?” Gillian prompted.

  “Very. No one can resist her charms. And so powerful that…” I trailed off, stopping to examine the bubble.

  “Yes, yes, go on,” Gillian breathed, gripping the vat’s edge.

  “The elixir she brews can mend anything.” My voice died to a whisper. “Even broken hearts.”

  Gillian’s mouth made a perfect O. She straightened up and clasped her hands over her heart.

  “The knight has a broken heart!” she cooed.

  I smiled, for I saw myself in the tower holding the vial of elixir aloft. If Sir Knight wanted his heart mended, then he must come to me, Darling the Great Enchantress.

  Gillian nudged me. I took a deep breath for emphasis.

  “The knight is a famous dragon-slayer,” I said.

  “Ooh, a dragon-slayer,” she echoed. “What happens next?”

  “The knight enters the tower and throws down his sword. ‘I will give all I have for this potion,’ he cries. The great enchantress smooths her very golden hair and holds the vial out to the knight. ‘Sir Knight, in exchange for my elixir I must have the scale of a golden dragon,’ she says.”

  “Scale of a golden dragon,” Gillian said. “Imagine.”

  “The knight vows he will slay the next golden dragon he sees, and so she gives him the elixir—”

  “Argh,” a voice gargled. “The potion burns!”

  A sandy-haired head popped up on the side of the vat, accompanied by a battalion of sandy freckles. Roger the Second Stable Boy, Freckled Wonder of the World, gripped his throat with both hands and made choking noises, staggering back and forth.

  “Aw, stop,” Gillian said, “you’re ruining it.”

  Roger grinned and lolled against my vat as if it were his. “Good thing I did; Darling was about to waste your time with another of her silly daydreams.”

  “It wasn’t a daydream! It was a story,” Gillian said.

  “I’ve got a story for you,” he said with a laugh, “about a valiant Second Stable Boy and his trusty shovel—”

  “Be off with you,” Gillian said, leaning dangerously over the vat to cuff Roger’s ear.

  Roger ducked as she swung, leaving Gillian teetering on the vat’s rim, flailing her free arm, trying to maintain her balance. I grabbed her collar and hauled her back with one hand while keeping a careful grip on my bubble-topped sponge with the other. Roger rocked with laughter. I steadied Gillian, eyeing His Freckleness with a baleful glare. Nearly falling into a vat of scalding water was no laughing matter.

  “Do you smell something?” I asked Gillian.

  She sniffed the air and shook her head. Puzzled. Not taking the hint.

  I held my free hand over my nose. “I think it’s horse manure. Loo
k at his boots!”

  Her eyes lit up and she gagged, pinching her nose shut. “Thmell arful!”

  “Go away,” I told Roger, wagging my sponge at him as the soap bubble bobbled precariously. “And take your stinky horse smells with you!”

  “We work hard out in the stables. You Scrubbers splash around all day, blowing bubbles,” he said with a scowl, and poked my bubble with his freckled finger. The bubble burst, sprinkling my stubby nose with its dying gasp.

  “Roger!” I shrieked, and brought my sponge down on the top of his head.

  Which was just what he deserved, but the sponge was full. The impact of it on Roger’s head sent a blast of hot water straight into Gillian’s face. She screamed and covered her eyes with her hands.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her.

  She answered by jumping around and shrieking like a teakettle with a hot bottom. In the distance, I heard the pounding of feet on the stone floor. More trouble was on its way. Roger glared at me, wiping the water off his face. He had a cap in his hand that he dipped into the scalding water and prepared to fling at me.

  So I did the sensible thing. I ducked. And the cap full of steaming hot water sailed over my head. Behind me, I heard a splat and someone exclaim, “Oof!”

  I peeked over the vat’s rim. Roger grew pale. Gillian dropped her hands. Her face was red where the water had hit, though her eyes were untouched. She gulped and turned a worrisome shade of sea green. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to see whomever she and Roger saw, but I turned slowly around.

  The Supreme Scrubstress stood there panting, red-faced, and dripping. This would have been bad enough if the water had been fresh, but I had scrubbed quite a few pots in it by this time. A nasty brown stain spread across her starched white apron. A tremor started in the Supreme Scrubstress’s second chin and rippled through each roll around her middle, down to her shoes, which began tapping a staccato rhythm. She quivered with fury.

  I swallowed hard.

  Up came her monstrous wooden-handled sponge. She pointed it straight at Roger. “You,” she said. “Get. Out. Of. My. Cellar.”

  Roger choked, torn. For underneath the fierce tapping of the Supreme Scrubstress’s shoe lay his soggy green cap. It was the same cap all the Stable Boys wore—and were required to replace should they lose it. I happened to know that Roger didn’t have any money to spare.

  “Now!” the Supreme Scrubstress roared, and took a swing at him with her sponge.

  Abandoning his cap, he dived out of her way. Straight into a stack of freshly washed and dried pots. The pots rattled and clanged as they tumbled onto Roger and over the wet floor. One hit Gillian on the knee. “Ow!” she cried, clutching her knee and hobbling in circles. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

  “You,” the Supreme Scrubstress said, pointing at me. “I’ll teach you to moon about when there’s work to be done.” She raised her sponge again. I braced myself.

  “Ahem.” A delicate cough came from behind us. “We were looking for the Head Scrubber.”

  A lady dressed in the bluest sky-blue gown stood there, twirling a magnifying glass she wore on the end of a long silver chain. Her hair was piled high on her head, which accentuated her long neck. She was fair and pretty. The lady next to her was tall and as stiff as an ironing board.

  The two dwarfed the Supreme Scrubstress, who drew herself up as tall as she could, banished her sponge behind her back, and smiled. I had never seen her smile before. And I would be thankful if I never saw it again. For her smile was not only big and wolfish, it was full of gold-capped teeth.

  “I am the Head Scrubber. Marci, at your service,” she purred.

  Marci? The Supreme Scrubstress had a name? No one I knew had ever called her by it, and I knew pretty much everyone under-cellar.

  Roger, who wasn’t nearly as stupid as he looked, took this opportunity to snatch up his cap and crawl away toward the stairs. I let him go. I knew where to find him.

  “Excellent, my dear. I am Cherice, the Wardrobe Mistress, and this is Lindy, the Head Presser. We require a helpful—”

  “De-pend-able!” Lindy put in.

  “Dependable girl to assist in pressing the Princess’s things,” Cherice said.

  Gillian immediately ceased her clatter, all bright-eyed and perky, ready to volunteer. But before she could speak, a fire lit in the Supreme Scrubstress’s eyes. Marci, Her Supreme Scrubself, smiled at me—the sort of smile that certainly couldn’t mean anything good—and turned to Cherice. I swallowed hard for the second time that morning.

  “Pressing, eh? Hard work that requires close attention, eh?” the Supreme Scrubstress asked. I did not like her tone.

  “There’s no shilly-shallying in my pressing room,” Lindy said.

  “And will this new—ah—Presser be well supervised?” the Supreme Scrubstress asked.

  “Watched like a hawk.”

  I cringed.

  “No idling. No mooning about.” The smile on the Supreme Scrubstress’s face grew till it threatened to invade her second chin. “No daydreaming?”

  “I should say not!” Lindy said.

  “Indeed not,” Cherice added.

  “Then I have just the girl!” the Supreme Scrubstress said. She reached back, seized me by the arm, and fetched me over to the Wardrobe Mistress. “Darling is the girl for you!”

  I gasped, dizzy with fear and excitement. Gillian sniffled in her disappointment. Clearly, she felt the wrong girl had been chosen. For a moment, I thought so too. This new job sounded like…well, all work and no fun. More so even than pot-scrubbing. And pot-scrubbing left a lot to be desired in the fun department.

  “Excellent,” Cherice said, clapping her hands.

  “She’ll do,” Lindy said. “Darling?” she added, as if she thought she hadn’t heard right.

  “Darling Dimple.” The Supreme Scrubstress’s multiple chins bobbed in assent.

  “A nice name,” Cherice said.

  Lindy frowned slightly but didn’t argue.

  “Curtsy to your new mistress, Darling,” the Supreme Scrubstress said.

  I did. And that was how I got out of the under-cellar.

  The upper-attic floated in a world high above the under-cellar. I’d been over every inch of the cellars, kitchens, lower gardens, and the castle’s main floor. I’d flitted into the ballroom, the galleries, the great hall, and even peeked into the throne room to gape at the marble swans holding up Princess Mariposa’s throne. But I’d never been higher than the first floor. The trip to the upper-attic lasted staircase after staircase after staircase, up and up, until my knees began to wobble and my breath came in puffs.

  Not only was the upper-attic high in a tower, it gleamed with light. Everywhere I turned, a window greeted me and sunshine caressed me. The white walls glowed. The polished floors shone. Even the doorknobs flashed me brassy winks. Despite the fact that we climbed the servants’ stairs and not the wide marble stairs the Princess used, we passed white-and-gold colonnades, arches, rooms painted in jewel tones, and corridors painted in mouthwatering pastels. I had no idea the upper servants worked in such beautiful places. I couldn’t wait to tell Gillian. She’d be so jealous her curls would tighten right into corkscrews.

  I tilted my head back, steadying an imaginary crown, as I ran a hand along a polished banister. The Princess would spot me pressing her clothes and see in me the friend she’d always dreamed of. We’d spend all our time together. We’d tell each other our secrets. She’d simply order me to wear a little silver crown so that everyone would know how special a friend I was.

  “Right in here,” Lindy said, smacking a door and knocking me out of my daydream. “The girls’ dormitory, your new home.”

  She opened the door on a bright yellow room lined with plump, eiderdown-covered beds. A rag rug lay by each bed. A jar of violets sat on a windowsill. There were no cobwebs anywhere.

  I stashed my wooden crate stamped ARTICHOKES under the bed Lindy pointed to. She’d told me to fetch my things. I was too ashamed to admit that
I hadn’t any, so I’d brought my crate. I figured that as long as I kept the lid on it, no one would know it was empty. I slid it deep under the bed, crawling halfway in to do so. There were no dust bunnies under there, no mice droppings, nothing. The floorboards felt as smooth and clean as the inside of one of the kitchen’s best copper pots.

  “That’s the new Under-presser,” I heard Lindy say.

  “Ah. And she’s wearing what?” a voice answered.

  I slid out from under the bed, dusting my apron off even though it didn’t need it.

  “That’s the under-cellar uniform. She’ll need clothes and boots,” Lindy answered.

  A slight girl stood next to Lindy. She eyed me and my brown dress and tan apron with disdain. She wore a silver-gray dress and a crisp white pinafore with a gray butterfly embroidered on the pocket. Her dark braids swished as she shook her head.

  “I had no idea they dressed like that,” she said as if I had on a potato sack and some dirty laundry. “I’m Francesca,” she said, pointing to her chest and speaking slowly. “I’m the Head Girl. All the Princess’s Girls take their instructions from me.”

  “Well, this one’s mine,” Lindy said shortly. “I need her ready within the hour.” With a nod to me, she turned on her heel and marched out.

  Francesca put her finger to her chin. “One hour. My, my. I can’t work a miracle in one hour, now can I?” She sighed. “What’s your name?”

  I licked my lower lip. Under-cellar people knew my name and the story behind it and no one minded much. But a glance at Francesca’s wide gray eyes and arched brows stilled my tongue. I was tempted to call myself Sally or Cora or Lucy, anything but Darling.

  “Your name?” Francesca prompted.

  “Dar-dar—” I stuttered.

  “Darla?”

  Temptation seized my wrist, twisting. It would have been so easy. All I had to do was nod, and my name would become Darla. Not that I was fond of Darla, but it had the virtue of being a nice, normal, boring name. Everyone in the upper-attic would call me Darla and no one would ever know…I paused, mouth open. The Supreme Scrubstress had told Lindy my name was Darling; she’d certainly call me that. Sooner or later Francesca would find it out.