If the Magic Fits Page 9

  “It’s time to get moving,” Francesca said crisply.

  I nodded as if she were right—I’d been too long in the bathroom—and ambled over to my bed to pull on my clothes. I wanted to fall across the bed in a swoon of relief—Francesca could accuse me of being slow just so long as she didn’t guess the truth. I whipped on my clothes and picked up my brush.

  I slid the brush in my hair and it stuck fast. I pulled again and my scalp screamed in pain. I heard a muffled twittering behind me. Tears started in my eyes. I felt something gooey drip down my forehead. I dabbed at it with a finger and a white glob coated my fingertip. Glue. Someone had poured glue into my hairbrush! That Francesca! No wonder my bedsheets had been sand-free. She’d dreamed up a new way to torment me.

  I struggled with the brush, but the more I pulled, the more my dandelion-fluff hair twisted around it. A tear ran off the end of my nose. I stood, brush hanging in my hair, glue dripping down my scalp, back turned to the Princess’s Girls, and fought the urge to bawl. The sand had been petty, but this was downright mean. I swallowed a lump of hot, unshed tears that burned down the back of my throat.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I would not turn around. I would not speak. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me miserable. I planted my feet like stone and set my face like iron. Gradually, the twittering ceased. And a long silence followed until I heard the last of them tiptoe guiltily out the door.

  Only then did I let myself sob out loud, crying hot, angry tears until my nose ran and my eyes burned. And I was so late that Lindy would…oh, what did it matter what Lindy would do? I’d never get the brush free without yanking all my hair out. And I’d be a bald orphan with nowhere to go and no one to care and poor Princess Mariposa would marry that awful Prince—

  The thought ricocheted through my mind, bringing me to my senses.

  No matter what, I, Darling Dimple, would not stand for that! I would not let Prince Baltazar and the Cloaked Lady get their fingers on the talisman or hurt the Princess or release the dragons or wreck the castle. No. I. Would. Not.

  I marched straight out of the girls’ dormitory without any breakfast. The brush bounced painfully against my temple, as the roots of my hair cried out for relief, but I kept going, not stopping until I reached the pressing room.

  “Don’t that beat all,” Lindy said. “That Laundress is blind as a bat! Grease stains!” She pointed to a ball gown of spring-green fabric draped over an ironing board.

  “Are you sure that’s not candle wax?” Cherice asked, squinting at the spots. “Candle wax we might scrape off, but grease! My dear, grease is another matter.”

  They both shuddered at the thought. They both lifted the cloth to their noses and sniffed.

  “Grease,” Cherice said.

  “Grease, for sure,” Lindy agreed. “I have a bottle of orange spirits in my cupboard—”

  I coughed—loudly. They both looked up at the same time.

  “Whatever did you do to yourself?” Lindy demanded.

  Cherice dropped the folds of satin and took my chin in her hand. She turned my head this way and that, clicking her tongue. “Glue,” she said.

  “Glue?” Lindy exploded. “Darlin’, what ails you? Whyever would you put glue in your hair?”

  “I doubt she meant for it to find its way there,” Cherice said.

  “It wasn’t me,” I said, “it was—”

  “An accident,” Cherice finished, giving my chin a warning squeeze. “Lindy, my dear, spirits of orange! An excellent idea. Why don’t you work on those spots and I will see what I can do with this?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she spun me around and marched me across the room to the tub of water we used for pressing. Lindy, muttering about the worthlessness of Laundresses, opened her cupboard and began digging through its contents. Once we were out of earshot, Cherice shook my shoulder.

  “Listen to me, my dear, tattling never cures the crime.”

  “But Francesca—”

  “Shh. What proof do you have? See? None. And I promise you that whoever in this castle is punished for this, it won’t be Francesca.”

  “It’s not fair,” I protested. But before I could say more, she plunged my head in the tub and began to work a bar of soap through my hair.

  “No, it’s not fair, my sweet, but believe me, it is the way it is,” Cherice whispered at my ear. “Her mother will never allow her to be punished; some other girl will be dismissed as a consequence. Wouldn’t you hate for that girl to lose her job because of you?”

  I’d forgotten that the Head Housekeeper was Francesca’s mother. Cherice was right; it wouldn’t do me any good to complain. I shut up, wincing as Cherice dug my soapy hair out of the brush, bristle by bristle. I clenched my fingers around the tub’s rim and grit my teeth. I had almost decided that I’d rather be bald when Cherice freed the last strand of hair. She tossed the ruined brush into a wastebasket and poured a pitcher of clear water over my head.

  “There,” she said. “Voilà.” She handed me a towel with a flourish. “Cheer up, my dear, your hair is sparkling clean.”

  “Great,” I said. I rubbed the towel into my sopping-wet hair while rivulets of water ran down my neck and soaked my collar. I’d find a way to deal with Miss Francesca myself. She wasn’t going to get away with this.

  Over at the ironing board, Lindy clutched a white cloth in one hand, a bottle of orange-tinted liquid in the other, and scowled. “Indolent, slack, good-for-nothing sluggard,” she sputtered.

  “I take it you have not had success?” Cherice said, winking at me.

  “Success!” Lindy said, tossing the white cloth and the bottle on the ironing board. “Grease should be soaked out immediately, at once, if not sooner, not left to dry into this—this—this—” She gestured, too full of indignation to speak.

  I glanced at the damp green satin and did not see any spots.

  Cherice leaned over me. “Looks spotless to me,” she said.

  “There. There!” Lindy stabbed her finger at the cloth.

  I squinted, looking hard at the spot where Lindy pointed. If there were stains, I couldn’t see them.

  Cherice squeezed my shoulder. Her cheek twitched in amusement. “My dear, only those with the eyes of a hawk could see any spots! The satin is saved; all is well.”

  Lindy started to speak, but nothing more than a harrumph came out.

  Cherice patted my wet head. “And our Darling, she still has hair.”

  Lindy glanced at me. “All that fluffy hair don’t amount to much wet, does it?”

  I shrugged.

  Cherice laughed. “Someday Darling will grow up and have long flowing curls and be very pretty. And we will be old and jealous.”

  “Ha!” Lindy said, and picked up the bottle of spirits of orange.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t decide if Cherice was teasing or serious as she swept past me on her way out the door. Lindy set to work again on the spots only she could see. Behind her, I caught the sprawl of her possessions that had tumbled out of the open cupboard: a sunshade, a broom, a bucket, and a cloak.

  A long black cloak. A cloak I’d seen her fling on and waltz away in day after day. Before now, I had never thought once about it.

  A chill gripped me. Earlier that morning, I’d seen a long black cloak vanish around a corner. A long black cloak worn by the Cloaked Lady. Lindy the Head Presser was scheming with Prince Baltazar to find the king’s talisman and release the dragons on the roof! If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears—I’d never have believed it.

  I realized right then that Francesca’s tricks were the least of my problems.

  Hours later, I had a crick in my neck from pressing and, at the same time, watching Lindy’s every move. She flitted back and forth between her irons and her board, pressing a cascade of delicate laces with a series of different-sized irons. The smaller the flounce, the smaller the iron she used. Turn, twist, flex: each movement precise. I could picture
her insides: gears, wheels, springs, ticking away like a clock. Acres of the finest fabrics flowed beneath her careful hands. Never scorch marks, never a blot, just smooth folds of cloth and lace, wrinkle-free and hanging on gilded hangers.

  I had to admire that kind of efficiency.

  It confused me. Who was Lindy really? Was she Lindy the Head Presser, devoted to eradicating wrinkles, or Lindy the Cloaked Lady, whispering behind corners and plotting? I tried to picture that: Lindy, eyes wild, cloak blowing in the wind as she rode the back of a ferocious scaled monster. Could that be the real Lindy?

  Deep down, I hoped it wasn’t true. But maybe it was. The thought of the long black cloak inside her cupboard plagued me until my head spun.

  I thought about Lindy’s scalding tongue. It was a good thing the Head Laundress hadn’t heard what she’d said about those spots. Down in the under-cellar, the Head Scrubber washed the priceless porcelain and crystal used by the Princess, the Scrubbers washed the regular dishes and silverware, and the Under-scrubbers washed the pots and pans—which, being metal, couldn’t be broken. The Laundry worked the same way. Only the Head Laundress would be allowed to touch the Princess’s gowns. Lindy had called her blind as a bat and a bunch of other things. The Head Laundress took pride in her work; she’d scald Lindy in one of her vats if she heard her say those things. Why wasn’t Lindy worried about being overheard?

  Then again, despite her temper, she hadn’t swatted me like the Supreme Scrubstress had. Lindy got mad fast, but she got over it quickly too. It was hard to imagine her doing anything really terrible.

  Lindy whipped open the cupboard door and my knees twitched. Out came her cloak. Out came that smile I’d seen a hundred times. “Finish up and get some lunch,” she told me, and vanished out the door, whistling.

  Who could eat at a time like this? I sprang after her. But I skidded to a stop at the door. What was I thinking? If she saw me follow her, she’d be suspicious. I mean, what excuse did I have? Lindy ate with the Head Housekeeper and other important servants. I ate in the kitchens. I gnawed on my knuckle, deep in thought. How could I keep an eye on Lindy?

  The dresses! I needed the dresses!

  I raced to Queen Candace’s closet, jerked open the door, and tripped over a pile of rags. I twisted my ankle for the second time in less than a day. Rubbing my sore foot, I looked to see what I’d fallen over.

  Number Eighteen, lying where I’d tossed it last night. I scooped up the pile. Shreds of silk and remnants of ribbon slithered over my fingers, a tattered ruin. Every hint of magic was gone from the fabric as if it had never been there.

  “Oh my goodness!” The dress that had yesterday been as new as the day Queen Candace had hung it on its silver hanger was rags. I gathered the remains of Eighteen in my arms and held them out to the canary.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  The canary eyed me sharply as if to say, Don’t you know?

  “No, I don’t know,” I said. I started for the hanger. Maybe that’s all it needed, hanger eighteen, and then it would be as good as new. The dresses bristled as I limped past. Nineteen flinched as though my touch were poison when I reached for the hanger. Gently, I laid the dress over it and hung it back up.

  It hung, listing, a sleeve trailing by a thread, the skirt dragging the floor in spots. The air around me steamed with outrage. Eleven hung on its hanger, quiet and still, but still beautiful, still looking like new. It was asleep, but Eighteen was…dead.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I told the dresses. “Truly. I meant to bring it back, meant to hang it up, but…” I swallowed. I’d hidden it all day in the west wing and then left it on the floor for hours. The once-pristine Eighteen looked as if it had aged overnight. The sun glinted off the silver hanger’s gold badge.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” I whispered. “You have to either be worn or on your hangers.”

  The canary flicked his tail and looked out the window.

  “I didn’t know,” I said again. “I really didn’t.”

  But deep down, I felt I should have. Eighteen had fought me when I’d tried to take it off. It had tried to tell me, but I hadn’t listened. I was too afraid of getting caught.

  A lump rose in my throat. I’d killed Eighteen and I couldn’t undo it. I turned to go and the dresses shrank as if Darling the Dress-Murderer were going to snatch them off their hangers. I didn’t blame them at all. I left, closing the door silently behind me.

  Cherice was locking the door of closet number three. “The canary is well?”

  “He’s fine,” I said.

  “You mustn’t let Francesca make you miserable,” Cherice said. “Get some lunch—and put a ribbon in your hair! Young ladies should always wear ribbons.”

  I nodded, numb, and walked off on frozen feet with a frozen heart and a frozen mind. I had ruined one of Queen Candace’s magical dresses. How could I ever make up for that?

  Gillian beamed when she saw me. The Supreme Scrubstress let her workers eat early, before the dirty dishes started piling up, so I hardly ever saw her at lunch. I grinned back, glad she was there.

  “So,” I said, putting my plate down across from her. “What’s up?”

  “Roger ’n’ me have a plan,” she said.

  I nodded, picking up my spoon. I hadn’t had breakfast, so I dug right in.

  “A plan to see the dragons on the roof,” Gillian confided, stirring her soup.

  “Wh-what?” I choked. “You are crazy.” I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “You can’t go up to the roof; it’s a mile above ground. You’d fall and break your neck.”

  “Jane did it.” Gillian leaned closer. “She didn’t fall.”

  “Well, that was Jane,” I said. I tried to imagine Jane as a kid tiptoeing on a crossbeam, arms out, balancing a gazillion feet above ground. My head swam and my stomach gurgled in protest.

  Gillian paused to blow on her spoonful of soup before adding, “The Supreme Scrubstress told me she was our age.”

  I swallowed hard. “Well, you don’t know how to get up there, so that’s that.”

  “Roger does,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.

  Dizziness washed over me as I remembered standing on the star on the Princess’s terrace and seeing the dragon come into focus. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to see it up close.

  “Scared?” Gillian whispered.

  “I have work to do. I can’t just go a-dragon-hunting for fun,” I said, sounding a lot like Lindy. I winced.

  Gillian grinned. “I think Roger likes you.”

  “No, he doesn’t!” I shouted. Every head in the room turned. I felt my face burn. “No, he doesn’t,” I repeated in a steely, quiet voice. “We are just friends.”

  “Friends,” Gillian said, dark eyes alight with a wicked gleam. “Good friends.”

  Heat crawled across my cheeks. I knew I looked like a poppy-red dandelion.

  “I could ask him for you,” she said, curling a dark lock around her finger.

  “Do and I’ll never tell you another story as long as I live,” I said, pointing my spoon at her nose.

  “You can’t resist telling stories,” she said with a laugh.

  “You can’t resist hearing them,” I retorted.

  “So,” she said, eyes sparkling, “thought up any new stories lately?”

  I wanted to tell her everything—all about Prince Baltazar and the dresses. But it all sounded like some story I’d made up; she’d never believe it. So I whiled away lunchtime telling her a story about a mouse who spied for a king. Not my best story, but good enough to satisfy Gillian for a day or two. At least until I could think up a better one.

  Later when I arrived back at the wardrobe hall, Cherice stood in the door of closet number three, holding a fan out to Princess Mariposa.

  “You should have sent for it.” Cherice bit her lip. “If you are displeased with me—”

  Princess Mariposa wore a gown embroidered all over with rosebuds and crystals. Her complexion turned as pink as
the rosebuds. She snapped the fan open and waved it agitatedly.

  “Oh, no. Of course not. It’s warm today,” Princess Mariposa said, flapping the fan faster.

  “Did something happen at luncheon?” Cherice said.

  At that, Princess Mariposa turned as poppy-red as I’d been in the kitchen.

  “Don’t be silly,” Princess Mariposa said. “I wanted my fan.”

  Cherice looked unconvinced. It was a long walk from the luncheon tent, and there were dozens of servants who could have fetched anything the Princess desired. Before Cherice could comment any further, the Princess spotted me.

  “My Darling Under-presser!” she exclaimed, and held out her hand.

  I froze, eyeing the porcelain hand with its pearl-pink nails and gold rings. The Princess’s own hand. Held out to me. She smiled encouragingly, wiggling her fingers. I took her hand.

  “Have you seen my butterflies?” she asked.

  “No, Your Highness,” I said.

  “Come with me,” Princess Mariposa said, and walked off to her rooms.

  “Your Highness! Luncheon. The princes—” Cherice called.

  Princess Mariposa led me through a vast bedroom with the hugest bed I’d ever seen. It was so big that all the Princess’s Girls could sleep in it at the same time. The bed curtains were purple velvet lined in blue satin. A coverlet of blue satin embroidered with purple-and-gold butterflies sailed over the bed like a vast sea. A mountain of lace-trimmed pillows teetered against the headboard, which rose in great carved heights under the canopy. I wanted to see more, but the Princess tugged me along.

  The next room flashed past in a wonder of green and silver, filled with tapestry chairs, inlaid mother-of-pearl tables, and golden candelabras with tall white candles. I saw a hint of books on shelves and smelled a whiff of lavender before we plunged into a long gallery. A gallery of ghost-white marble floors and white walls, white velvet curtains at white-trimmed windows. And a white ceiling high overhead that was covered in a million white butterflies: each one hanging from the ceiling by a silver thread.