The Princess and the Page Read online

  For Julianne—

  muse, fellow princess,

  but most importantly,

  my sister

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  From Princess to Princess: An Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Sleuthing 101: Walk on the balls of your feet.

  Bare feet are best for silence and speed.

  WEDNESDAY (MERCREDI) JANUARY 15TH

  None of this would have happened if Mom had just made macaroni and cheese for dinner. After all, it’s got grain and cheese in it. That’s two of the five food groups! But no, Mom went on this health kick ever since Dad’s doctor told him he had to watch his blood pressure.

  “It’s time this family got healthy,” Mom announced, taking the saltshaker from Dad’s hand. “No more eating fast food and frozen dinners.”

  And that’s how it began. The crazy grocery lists, the printed recipes scattered about the kitchen, and her cooking—or should I say burning?—exotic dinners. After last night’s near fire fiasco, Mom decided, to our relief, to order our dinners from Healthy Meals Delivered.

  “It’s the perfect solution,” Mom said.

  Dad and I agreed.

  But tonight as I stare at the dinner menu, I’m thinking charcoaled chicken might not be so horrific.

  “This looks great!” Dad kisses Mom on the cheek before filling in the time he arrived home from work on the Lists and Charts Wall. Last year, Mom bought a wall-size whiteboard that she dedicated to keep track of everything we do. When I asked her why, she said it relaxed her.

  It’s annoying how Dad always goes along with Mom’s crazy schemes. Like the charts and graphs and endless nonsense lists and rules. And especially the No Writing Stories rule because apparently stories are a waste of time. Or the craziest one, No Pens in the House rule. Who on this planet has rules like those?

  No one. (Oh, wait, no one except my family.)

  The doorbell rings. Healthy Meals Delivered delivering right on time. I march to the front door, not caring that I’m tromping through the house in my soccer cleats, and fling it open.

  A large man wearing all black and holding two square boxes fills the doorway. A green baseball cap covers most of his brown curly hair, and the bill is pulled down so low I’ve no idea how he can even see.

  “Good evening,” he says in a gravelly voice. “I have a meal for the Harding family from Healthy Meals Delivered.”

  “Thanks.” I take the boxes.

  I push to shut the door, but his boot blocks the path. The man peers past me, assessing the house. I frown, now able to see the man’s face clearly. A jagged scar runs from the corner of his eye across to his ear. A trail of chills courses down my back. There’s something off about this guy.

  “Your foot is in the way,” I point out.

  “Ah, so it is.” He chuckles and then pulls it free from the doorframe. “Enjoy your food. And sweet dreams.”

  Sweet dreams? What a weirdo. I secure the lock and head to the kitchen. Dad opens the boxes while Mom goes through her list, double-checking the order. After she proclaims the meal satisfactory, we sit down to eat.

  But I can’t.

  “There are green balls on my fish.” I pick one up with the edge of my fork.

  “Don’t be silly, Keira.” Mom says, nibbling on something that resembles a weed. “That’s a caper. They’re delicious.”

  Visions of creamy macaroni and cheese dance about in my head, causing my stomach to growl. I decide to make the best of this moment and practice my sleuthing skills. While Dad shows Mom his latest data-crunching report, I covertly slip the slimy tomatoes into my napkin and shove them under the edge of my plate.

  I’m flicking my capers one by one over my shoulder as inconspicuously as possible, when Dad’s fork and knife clatter to the table. His shoulders droop, and then he tumbles off his chair, crashing in a heap on the floor. Mom screams. She bends down, reaching for him, but then she, too, collapses, dropping at his side.

  “What are you guys doing?” I say, completely mystified. “Is this a new game or something?”

  They don’t answer. I set down my fork and peer under the table. They both are so still. As if they were passed out. Or dead.

  “Dad! Mom!” I jump out of my chair and dive under the table.

  I kneel and grab Mom’s hand, searching for a pulse. My breath catches in my throat and it’s hard even to breathe, let alone concentrate on what to do next. My ears ring as I press my fingers to Mom’s wrist to find a pulse. That’s what they trained us to do in PE class. But I can’t find her pulse. Every fiber of my being flies into a numbing panic.

  Until Dad starts snoring. I pause, confused, and stare at him. His chest rises and falls. Suddenly, my throat opens up and I’m able to breathe. Beneath my fingers, the gentle thump of Mom’s pulse throbs, telling me she’s going to be all right. A slight smile curls on her lips and her long blond hair lies about her as if she’s pretending to be Sleeping Beauty and having the most wonderful dream.

  “You’re sleeping?” I say in a choked voice.

  I shake Dad and yell in his ear, trying to wake him, but he continues to snore. What is going on? I don’t understand why they’re sleeping. I lie on the cold linoleum floor between them, burying my face in my hands, my mind whirling.

  The front door squeaks. Footsteps clomp through the living room toward the kitchen. Someone is sneaking through our house! My eyes flutter open and I clutch Mom’s hand so tightly it nearly turns ashen. I don’t move. Through the kitchen chair legs, two sets of boots appear at the kitchen’s entrance. My eyes trace up the figures. The boots belong to two men, both dressed in black, one wearing a green baseball cap. My chest stutters and I clamp my eyes shut. I should run, hide, but it’s as if my body has forgotten how to move.

  “They’re out cold,” one of the men says in a thick accent I don’t recognize. Then he says something in another language to the watch on his wrist. “Let’s move. We’ve got ten minutes max.”

  The boots tromp back into the living room. I quietly dig through Dad’s pockets in hopes of discovering his phone. It’s not there. He must have left it on his dresser to charge.

  The men begin opening drawers, rifling through them. Papers flutter through the air. Pillows are slashed and feathers scatter about like snow. Picture frames are torn to splinters and lamps are shattered across the ground.

  I lick my lips and focus on Rule #12 for sleuthing: “Walk on the balls of your feet. Bare feet are best for silence and speed.”

  I stealthily slip off my cleats and soc
ks, easing them to the floor. Then, ever so slowly, I creep to the far side of the kitchen, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me. The linoleum bites cold against my feet. With my back pressed against the far wall, I rack my mind, trying to figure out where my parents’ phones would be. They got rid of the landline years ago to save money.

  Should I go upstairs to find Dad’s phone? Mom would tell me to hide. Dad would say run to the neighbors’ house.

  “Hey!” one of the men says. “The kid isn’t lying on the floor anymore.”

  My heart dives as he steps into the kitchen. The counters are barren, sparkling clean. Not a weapon within my grasp. I slide toward the kitchen’s other exit into the hall, when my foot hits something smooth. My soccer ball. I pick it up and kick it as hard as I can at the man’s face. My aim is true. It smashes the guy so hard, he slams backward into the wall. With a wail, he slumps to the floor, holding his face.

  I spring past him, through the living room and into the hall, sprinting for the front door. There at the other end of the hall, blocking the front door, stands Baseball Cap Guy. His lips curl into a devious grin. I skid to an abrupt stop.

  “Having a bad dream, are you?” he says.

  I backpedal, only to discover the other man now fills the doorway to the living room I just exited.

  “Easy now, little girl.” He holds up his hands as if to calm me, but my eyes are riveted to the glowing watch on his wrist. “We don’t want to hurt you. If you’ll just tell me where your family keeps their special things, then everything will be okay.”

  I clench my fists. As if I’m telling him anything.

  I bound up the stairs and sprint down the hall, pumping my arms and focusing on the door at the end. My parents’ room. The walls press in too tight. The house suddenly feels too small. I careen inside the room and slam the door shut, clicking the lock. Quickly, I drag Mom’s desk chair over and jam it under the doorknob.

  The lights flicker. And I’m plunged into darkness. They cut off our electricity.

  One of the men pounds on the door, screaming at me to open it. The door shudders. I swallow the lump in my throat, trembling as the wood bulges under the man’s bulk.

  Don’t panic, I tell myself. Stay strong.

  With only the moonlight to guide me, I rush to Dad’s dresser, shoving everything on it to the floor in my search. Wristwatch, comb, magazines, envelopes. It’s not here. Then I move to Mom’s desk. No phone there either.

  The sound of wood splintering cuts deeper into my terror. The chair holding the door scrapes the wooden floor as the door jostles it about. It won’t be long before the men will burst in.

  A blue glow from the partly open bottom drawer of Dad’s dresser captures my attention. Could that be Dad’s phone calling? I dive across the room, flinging open the drawer. Shimmering blue light emanates from a long, slim velvet box buried along with Dad’s bird books, broken cameras, and shell collection.

  A desperate need to open the box overwhelms me. I know I shouldn’t waste my time and instead keep searching for the phone.

  But I can’t.

  My hands tremble as I pick up the box. An emblem is imprinted on the top. Two Ws—one gold, one silver—woven together. Slowly, I open the lid. Glittery blue light showers me and I’m drenched in a cool mist. Tucked within the velvety folds lies an old-fashioned silver pen. Just the sight of it sends a thrill through me. As if I’ve been waiting my entire life to see it. To touch it.

  My fingers curl around its cool surface. It sinks into the center of my palm, feeling as though it was crafted just for my hand. The world washes in blue. Stars swirl around me. Time stops.

  It’s just me and the pen. My world is complete and I’ve never felt more alive.

  And yet, in the corner of my mind, something nags at me. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Then I remember. There are intruders, terrible men, out to hurt me. I must stop them, but I don’t know how.

  A stream of ideas bubbles through my head and I need to write them down. I snatch up the copy of Dad’s Field and Stream and, clutching the pen tighter, I scribble out a list on the back flap.

  When I finish, the sapphire winds churn in a stream of stars and whispers around me before sinking back into the pen. The room is black once again and the pen is just an antique from Dad’s drawer. I drop the magazine from my hand, blinking in confusion. Did I just have a hallucination? I’ve heard that kind of stuff happens when people undergo massive stress.

  “Open this door right now!” the man yells, pulling me back to the moment. “Or I’ll hurt your parents. Then they won’t be having such lovely dreams anymore, will they?”

  Those words spur me to action. I stare at my list on the back of the magazine lying on the floor. What if this list actually worked? I rush to the bed where Dad’s suit jacket is laying, just where the list said it would be. Then I dig into the pocket and discover his phone. Just like the list said.

  I dial 911 and quickly explain the situation to the operator. Relief floods me when she tells me the police will be here within minutes.

  But my relief is short-lived as the door splinters along the center and the hinges bend one by one. I clutch Dad’s phone tighter. I have only seconds before the door comes crashing down. Frantically, I continue down my list.

  I rip up the loose floorboard by the bedroom door, which creates a good-sized hole. Mom always complained to Dad to fix it, but now I’m glad he was too busy. Next I sprint into their bathroom, grab the bottle of shampoo, and step back out to dump it on the floor outside the bathroom door. I pause, panting. What is next on the list? The hinges of the bedroom door groan.

  Shells! I run over and grab a handful of them from Dad’s dresser drawer and toss them onto the shampoo just as the bedroom door begins to snap off a hinge. I snatch up the lamp from the bedside table as my final weapon of self-defense and hide behind the curtains just as the door crashes open against the bedroom wall.

  “It’s gotta be in here,” one of them says. “She must know about it.”

  I peek from behind the curtain. Flashlight beams slice the darkness. The men barrel into the room, but one steps into the hole, which swallows up his entire leg, and he starts screaming in agony. Ignoring his buddy, Baseball Cap Guy heads toward the bathroom but slips on the shampoo, his legs skidding across the floor like losing control on an ice rink. He falls into a heap, groaning. Outside, sirens cut through the intruders’ shouting.

  “The cops are here!” Stuck Guy says.

  Baseball Cap Guy crawls across the wooden floor, picking off the shells stuck to him. But then he pauses and his flashlight lands on the opened copy of Field and Stream. My list! He picks it up, reading over my words as he rises to his feet. My hands grow cold when his head swivels to where I’m hiding, peeking out from behind the curtain. He knows I’ll be there because it’s number five on the list.

  “Help me up, man!” Stuck Guy says. “My foot is stuck and the police will be here any second.”

  But Baseball Cap Guy just leers in my direction. He rips off the back cover of Field and Stream where my list is and tucks it into his pocket. Then he turns and vanishes into the hallway.

  I sag to the floor as police swarm into the room and arrest the intruder who’s stuck in the hole. Someone turns the lights on and a paramedic rushes over to check me for injuries. I refuse to move, sitting there in a daze, clutching the lamp, until my parents stumble in shortly afterward, now awake and complete wrecks. I should feel safe now that they are all here to protect me.

  But I don’t.

  “Oh, Keira!” Mom says, wrenching the lamp from my grasp as Dad talks to the police about the burglary. “Are you okay? I can’t believe I fell asleep while you were all alone with those horrible men.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  She helps me up and directs me to the bed. Its soft cover soothes my nerves. Suddenly, though, Mom releases me, her eyes and mouth widening as she sees something from the other side of the room. As if in a trance, she staggers to D
ad’s opened drawer and lifts up the empty velvet box.

  “They took the pen!” Her voice quivers as she shows Dad and the officer.

  “Oh no,” Dad murmurs, and he wraps his arms around Mom.

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?” the officer asks. “Is it a special pen? An heirloom?”

  “They took it!” She shakes the box in the officer’s face. “This is what they came here for!”

  The officer nods, but his expression remains quizzical as he notes Mom’s complaint. “They stole a pen, you said? Could you explain it to me? Is there anything else you noticed they stole?”

  This is the moment when I should run up to Mom and give her the pen. Show her I found it and then everything will be okay. I reach into my pocket to take it out, but as my fingers touch its cool surface, it tickles my skin and I remember that rush of power I felt as I wrote the list.

  I can’t give it up.

  Ever.

  Fact: Both Cinderella and Snow White

  have wicked stepmothers.

  I tug on the hem of my practice jersey as I pause at the top of the stairs. Memories from last night throb at the back of my mind as I survey the stark living room. While I slept in, Mom and Dad must have cleaned up the mess. The walls are barren. The cushions have disappeared from the couches, and the broken glass is gone. I swallow the lump in my throat and head toward the smell of something burning in the kitchen.

  A glance at the counter reveals the source of the smell—a plate stacked with burnt toast.

  In the center of the room, Mom is cramming papers into a trash can. Labels that once had been placed carefully all around the house are now strewn at her feet.

  “Keira!” Mom abandons her pile to grab my shoulders, her blue eyes stare intently at me. “How did you sleep? Are you okay?”

  “I guess. What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning.” She wipes the sweat off her forehead and goes back to jamming the rest of the papers into the trash can. Her hair is tied up in a blue ribbon and she’s wearing her Soccer Mom T-shirt. The one with the big O on it that looks like a soccer ball. After she explains how the police arrested the burglar, and Dad is out getting a new security system, she scoops a handful of pencils from one of the drawers and chucks them on top of the discarded papers.