If the Magic Fits Page 6

  “So the King and a group of handpicked men scaled the mountain and cornered the dragons in their aerie. There they were, hunkered down on their treasure, unwilling to blast the King and risk melting all that lovely gold.”

  “Did he kill them?” Gillian whispered.

  “No. Richard had, in his travels, collected unusual beasts for his menagerie, and the dragons were magnificent creatures. He hated to slay them. However, he didn’t trust them. Once they’d been spared, what would keep them from resuming their destruction? So Richard had brought along beautiful golden collars. Because what dragon can resist anything shiny? Now, these were no ordinary collars. Once the dragons allowed the collars to be fastened around their necks, they fell under an enchantment, slaves as long as the collars held.

  “King Richard ordered the dragons to build a castle to replace the one they’d destroyed. The dragons soared up the mountainside clutching massive blocks in their talons. Stone by stone, the castle rose. The people in the valley below gathered to watch.

  “When the dragons finished building the new castle, they perched on the north tower to rest. King Richard sent his men to climb out on the roof, creep up on the dragons, and shackle them with great iron chains to the tower’s spire. The captive dragons’ cries echoed through the mountains, splintering stones and cracking evergreens. As the days passed, the cries quieted, and slowly but surely, the dragons hardened and turned to stone.”

  “Bah,” Agnes said. “Where’d Richard find them collars?”

  “Grandmother didn’t know that; I asked,” the Supreme Scrubstress replied. “Perhaps he found them on his travels.”

  “Ain’t seen no menagerie,” an Under-laundress scoffed.

  “Oh? Then you’ve not taken a good look at the greenhouses,” the Supreme Scrubstress retorted. “They were converted years ago.”

  I squinted; the greenhouses did resemble glass cages—a little.

  “Dragons on the roof?” Gillian exploded. “There can’t be!”

  “Ask Jane,” the Supreme Scrubstress said, folding her arms across her plump chest.

  “Have you seen them, Jane?” I asked, tugging her sleeve.

  Jane frowned. “What, dear?”

  “Have you seen them? The dragons, I mean,” I asked.

  Worry marks creased the corners of Jane’s eyes. She dabbed at her forehead with her handkerchief, stalling, I knew. She always stalled when I asked a question she didn’t want to answer.

  “My, but it is getting late,” Jane said.

  “Come on, tell them what a daredevil you were, how you walked the crossbeam on the north wing and saw them.” The Supreme Scrubstress reached over us to poke Jane.

  “You promised you would never tell that!” Jane said.

  “At our age, I doubt anyone’s going to send us to bed without our supper,” she replied.

  “Oh, please! Tell me!” I begged Jane, wringing her arm.

  Remember how Jane had a soft spot for me the size of a plum pie? She must have misplaced it that evening, because she stood up.

  “Time for bed!” she announced. She marched blindly down the stairs, scattering servants right and left as she went.

  Magical canaries? Dragons on the roof? Mice who swept floors? Just what sort of a castle had I been living in for eleven years? Why hadn’t Jane told me about the canary and the dragons? And what else hadn’t she told me?

  The next morning the sun sparkled on the sand-free floor. Francesca glared at me while I tied my pinafore and laced my boots. The other girls brushed past me with puzzled frowns. They all acted as though I had waved a wand and, poof, made the sand disappear. I grinned at the thought.

  After they all left, I slipped a slice of cheese I’d kept from supper under my bed. A tiny, whiskered white nose peeked out from under the eiderdown. A pair of black eyes blinked solemnly at me. “Enjoy,” I told him, and scurried off to work.

  I arrived just in time to have a basket of sheets thrust at me.

  “From now on, you press the Princess’s sheets, towels, and handkerchiefs. I see to the Princess’s clothes. Understand?” Lindy said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I crowed. I was an Upper-servant, one of the Princess’s own Girls. I kicked the basket of practice rags aside and set the new one in its place.

  “Mind you don’t scorch anything!” Lindy called after me.

  I pulled a sheet out of the basket, a rippling, glossy-white cloth as fine as a spider’s web. My heart fluttered; this delicate fabric would be all too easy to scorch. I shook myself. Now was not the time to have doubts, not now that I’d graduated from practice rags. I set to work.

  At first, it was easy. The wrinkles dissolved under my iron. But after a while, the sheets lost their sheen and simply became cloth. Acres and acres of white cloth. How large was the Princess’s bed anyway? I parked my iron. Lindy had mentioned towels and handkerchiefs. I spied two more baskets waiting for me. Lindy was nowhere to be seen.

  I ran a hand through my hair while my thoughts inched toward Queen Candace’s closet. Had that canary really belonged to Queen Paloma, and Queen Candace before her? How old must he be? The Supreme Scrubstress had claimed the canary was magical. This might make sense if I believed in magical canaries, which I did not.

  Did I?

  I scratched my nose. That canary knew about Eleven. That dress was peculiar. Dresses remained on hangers until you wore them. The same as the sheets I’d pressed would sit in the basket until someone put them away in the cupboards. Sheets didn’t spread themselves on beds any more than dresses sprang off hangers and dressed themselves on people. They stayed where you put them. They didn’t want to be worn.

  Did they?

  I yanked my thoughts back to the remaining baskets of laundry. I ironed my way through the towels. Then I stared at the basket brimful of handkerchiefs; how many of these could one princess use? I glanced at the pile of freshly pressed and folded towels and sheets, each monogrammed with a silvery-gray M. How many days of laundry did this represent? Had Lindy been saving this for me to do? Or was this one day’s worth?

  I shook that thought right out of my head. I was the Under-presser; my job was to press the Princess’s sheets, towels, and handkerchiefs. Princess Mariposa could use a hundred handkerchiefs a day if she wanted to. She was the Princess.

  A whistle rippled through the room as if in agreement. That canary! What could he want now? I set my hot iron down on the stove and went to see. I poked my head into Queen Candace’s closet. The canary greeted me with a song. Sunlight painted the glass canary in the window and scattered golden beams across the rose-strewn carpet. Everything seemed fine to me.

  “I will feed you later,” I told him. “I have a pile of ironing to do.”

  The silver hangers clattered on the closet rods.

  “You’re just a bunch of old dresses,” I said aloud. Not to the dresses or to the canary. Not really. I said it out loud so that I could hear it.

  The dresses roiled like a stewpot full of onions stirred by a spoon.

  What had gotten into them?

  “Oh, really,” I began, and then I saw Eleven hanging limply on its hanger.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I did try you on once,” I told it. “Once ought to suit anyone.”

  Eleven hung there like a damp towel. The other dresses quivered like the Supreme Scrubstress’s outraged chins. With a loud sigh, I stalked into the closet, shut the door behind me, and plucked Eleven from the hanger.

  “A quick try-on, that’s it!” I told it with a shake. I pulled it on and turned to the mirror.

  And there I was, Darling Dimple looking silly in a too-big, too-long silvery dress. No zip and the dress fit—and no Supreme Scrubstress. Eleven was…cloth, thread, ribbons, and buttons, nothing more. I turned to the canary, who blinked at me in an owlish manner.

  “Well?” I said with my hand on my silver-clothed hip. “What’s wrong now?”

  The canary eyed me with his beady little eyes. I stared back. And then I decided that
enough was enough. I took the dress off and put it back on the hanger where it belonged. A plum-colored ribbon curled around my wrist and tugged at me.

  “I am very busy,” I said, following the ribbon to Number Eighteen. Eighteen was a cream-colored silk with plum ribbons and sparkling diamond buttons. “You’re very pretty, but I have so much—” Eighteen wrapped a sleeve around my waist and hugged me. “I can’t try you all on. I have work to do.”

  I set about untangling myself from the sleeve and then a thought popped into my head. Who would I look like in this dress? The Supreme Scrubstress, me, or someone else?

  My head buzzed. My heart pounded. Was that what the dresses were trying to tell me? That I could try them on and look like someone else? It had worked with Eleven. It didn’t work now, but it had. Once. Yesterday. Holding my breath, I eased Eighteen off its hanger and stepped into it. Eighteen shivered delightedly and snuggled me up tight. Once again, a perfect fit. I glanced at the mirror on the back of the door—and saw a beautiful lady with raven-colored curls tied back in a satin bow.

  It was what the dresses were trying to tell me! Each dress worked once.

  I grinned and the beautiful lady grinned with me. I wrinkled my/her porcelain nose in the mirror. I batted my/her dusky eyelashes over my/her sapphire eyes.

  “Oh my, she’s gorgeous!” I told the canary, who chose that moment to examine his little claws. “And look at her dress,” I commanded, pointing. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Because the dress in the mirror was not cream-colored silk; it was a bright turquoise embroidered all over with gold and crystals.

  The canary didn’t answer, so I turned back to the mirror. Who was she—the lady in the mirror? A princess? Or an enchantress from a faraway land? I shivered, thrilled at the thought. If Gillian could see this, she’d be so jealous her curls would kink right up into knots so tight they’d never comb out! I sashayed from side to side, setting the crystals twinkling. This lady must be a famous dancer who whirled around on the tips of her toes. I wouldn’t mind looking like her all the time.

  “Much better than Eleven,” I murmured.

  I clapped a hand over my mouth, suddenly aware that the dresses were listening. I removed my hand and inhaled to apologize, and smelled something burning—

  With a screech, I yanked open the door and raced to my ironing board. All three irons sizzled on the stove, glowing red-hot. Wisps of smoke hissed from their plates. A handkerchief sat close by, curling in the heat. I snatched the handkerchief away, fanning the air. My heart skipped twice. My knees felt watery. I mopped my brow with the handkerchief. What a close call! Another minute and something might have caught fire. I felt faint at the idea.

  Sweat trickled down my neck. I dabbed at it with the soggy ball of handkerchief. Goodness! My eyes snapped open. In my clenched fist I held a grimy, wet handkerchief with a silvery-gray M embroidered on the corner. I gulped. I had used one of Princess Mariposa’s own handkerchiefs! One of the delicate sparkly-clean handkerchiefs she touched to her own face.

  Lindy would kill me.

  The door to the hall swung open and one of Princess Mariposa’s ladies came in. “There you are!” she said. “I’ve searched everywhere for you. The Princess is waiting!”

  Princess Mariposa wanted me?

  “Teresa!” the lady said, shaking my arm.

  Teresa?

  The lady snatched the handkerchief from my hand, tossed it in a basket, and latched on to my wrist. “Come along,” she said, and began dragging me to the door. At that moment, a second lady appeared.

  “Oh, good, you found her. The Princess insists that Teresa sit next to her at lunch,” the second lady said. “It was no use hiding, Teresa! It will be fine. The Princess won’t bite you.”

  And with that, the two ladies marched me out of the pressing room.

  My heart drummed as I marched outdoors into the Princess’s private garden. The ladies were taking me to have lunch with Princess Mariposa! I had to resist the urge to skip. I, Darling—no, wait, I, Teresa, had received an invitation to dine with the great, the beautiful, the…legendary Princess Mariposa. At my feet, a stone path led to a set of marble steps flanked by two marble peacocks. One of the ladies gave me a little push in the center of my back. I stumbled forward. She shooed me on with her hands.

  “Down the stairs, first arch on the right, hurry,” she hissed.

  A part of me wanted to race down the steps and jump through the rose-covered arch. Another part of me wanted to rip Eighteen off and gallop back to the upper-attic before the real Teresa showed up and I got caught. Damp spots grew under my arms. I took a step down the stairs.

  “Teresa,” the other lady said, “the Princess is waiting.”

  “But I’m not really—”

  The first lady wagged her finger at me. “Lady Teresa, if you don’t go, your mother will have to be told! I’ll write to her myself.”

  I frowned. Teresa was getting herself into quite a pickle here. Well, not here, because she wasn’t here. I was. But she was getting herself into trouble wherever she was hiding.

  “Please, Teresa,” the second lady said.

  I swallowed hard. I should have told them I wasn’t Teresa right away. Now it was too late. I would have to go to lunch and be Teresa. I glanced down at Eighteen. How long did the magic last? What if Eighteen dozed off or whatever magic dresses did, and Princess Mariposa saw me instead of Teresa? How would I explain? “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but the dress made me try it on”?

  The worst thing that could happen to Eighteen was to be sent back to its hanger. The worst thing that could happen to me was—I didn’t want to imagine what the worst thing might be. I’d have to go have lunch with Princess Mariposa and hope that the real Teresa stayed hidden. And that Eighteen behaved.

  I walked down the steps and along the path.

  “You wanted me to put you on. You’re in this with me. If I get caught, you get caught,” I scolded Eighteen under my breath. The waistband squeezed me. The dress had heard.

  “All right, then,” I murmured.

  First arch on the right. With a deep gulp, I plunged through the arch.

  The clink of silverware greeted me, along with a murmur of conversation and the Princess’s warm laughter. Lunch had already been served. I was late. Princess Mariposa presided over a table crowded with guests and nestled under a golden canopy. A blond-haired man with huge shoulders sat at the Princess’s right side. The seat on her left was vacant. She waved at me with a silver soupspoon, eyes twinkling.

  “Here she is!” Princess Mariposa announced.

  Everyone turned to stare at me. A blush bloomed on my cheeks. I wrinkled Eighteen in my sweaty hands. What would the real Teresa do if she were here? What would she say to them? What would I say? My, what a lot of handkerchiefs Your Highness uses.

  “We saved you a chair.” Princess Mariposa patted the seat beside her.

  There was nothing else to do but sit in the chair the Princess was saving for Teresa. Princess Mariposa squeezed my hand under the table.

  “I am famished! Let’s finish our soup!”

  Everyone picked up their spoons. The portly gentleman across the table nodded to me.

  “Tomato and basil,” he offered. “Excellent.” His bowl was nearly empty.

  The blond man leaned closer to the Princess. “As I was saying, Your Highness, my last hunt was quite…exhilarating.” He flashed a smile at the Princess and leaned a little closer.

  I took a sip of my soup, thankful that someone else was talking and I didn’t have to. The soup was excellent, rich and creamy. I scooped up another, bigger bite.

  “Good?” the portly gentleman asked.

  “Excellent,” I said, echoing his opinion.

  He smiled at me as if I’d passed some difficult test.

  A gloved hand reached in front of me and plucked up my bowl. Startled, I turned in my seat. A Footman stood behind me, collecting soup bowls and setting them on the tray he carried. I waved, hoping he
would bring back my uneaten soup, but he kept walking. With a sigh, I turned back around. This was the shortest, smallest lunch I’d had in ages. Frowning, I wondered how poor Princess Mariposa lasted until evening on only a bowl of soup.

  “That’s just the first course,” a voice beside me said.

  The gentleman who sat next to me wasn’t as big or broad-shouldered as the man on Princess Mariposa’s other side, but he had warm brown eyes and a kind smile. He dusted his hand off on his faded brocade coat and offered it to me.

  “Prince Sterling,” he said. “And you are the mysteriously always-absent Teresa. Pleased to meet you.”

  Prince Sterling! The impoverished prince that I’d overhead Princess Mariposa talking about, the one she’d so enjoyed talking to. I beamed.

  I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” I said, hoping that was what the mysteriously absent Teresa would say.

  A quizzical look lightened Prince Sterling’s eyes. He squeezed my fingers and glanced down at my hand. It looked like a grown-up lady’s hand, but maybe it didn’t feel like one. I snatched it back and tucked it safely under the table.

  “What’s the second course?” I asked, stomach rumbling.

  He looked puzzled for a moment. Then his smile returned. “Spinach salad,” he said, darting his eyes at a glossy paper card by my plate.

  I picked it up. It read, MENU FOR MARIPOSA’S RUBY LUNCHEON, followed by twelve lines of curly writing. Oh. A blush crept up my cheeks. A similar card was parked by each plate. Everyone else at the table knew enough to read the menu. Everyone but me. Well, this was my first lunch with a princess. I skimmed the long list. Spinach salad with strawberries, pickled beets à l’orange, red snapper with dill sauce, shrimp paella, roasted red peppers, and brandied cherries, just for starters. I gulped. Who could eat all that for lunch?

  “The menu tells you what will be served for each course. That way you can save room for your favorites,” Prince Sterling whispered, glancing at the portly gentleman, “and not have to be carried away from the table on a stretcher.”