The Princess and the Page Read online

  Tip of the Day: If a fairy godmother warns you to

  hurry home by the stroke of midnight, you should listen.

  FRIDAY (VENDREDI), JUNE 11TH

  “Voilà,” the driver announces. “Welcome to Château de Chenonceau, mademoiselles.”

  “What did he say?” Bella riffles through her French language book for the zillionth time.

  “I think he said we’re here.” I yank open the taxi door and step out of the car, gravel crunching beneath my feet.

  To think that I actually won the fairy-tale contest blows my mind. But now, standing here in the heart of France, about to stay in a French castle for a week with my best friend and Mom, is beyond anything I could ever have hoped for. I wish Dad could’ve come, but since he had to work, he told us to think of it as a girls’ trip. An escape from the memories of the break-in.

  Oak trees branch out like a canopy above and the air smells of flowers. A stone guardhouse stands about ten feet away, next to a massive wrought iron gate. I drag my suitcase behind me as I rush to peer through the bars.

  A dirt lane runs as straight as an arrow, racing from my feet through the path to the castle.

  Someone clears their throat, jolting the three of us back to reality. It’s the gatekeeper, wearing a spotless blue uniform. He has a slight smile on his round, tanned face. Probably because we’re standing outside the castle gates, heads back, mouths open like total idiots.

  “You must be Margaret and Keira Harding, and Isabella Francois,” he says as he checks his clipboard. “From Girls’ World?”

  “Yes,” we say.

  “May I see your passports?” After he gives them a quick glance, he says, “Bonjour. I will open the gate, but please wait. Allow me to call Pierre. He will pick you up. Princesses should never have to walk such a distance.” He winks before ducking back inside the miniature house.

  “He just called us princesses!” Bella squeals.

  “Princesses.” I grin. “I could handle that for a week.”

  “A week?” Bella snorts. “More like a lifetime.”

  A guy riding a golf cart buzzes out of a side building and veers straight toward us as the gate creaks open. The cart jolts to a stop before us. A tall and lanky man with short black hair leaps out and bows. He’s wearing brown pants and a cream-colored button-down shirt that looks well-worn, but neatly pressed.

  “Mademoiselles, I am Pierre. May I escort you to le château?”

  “Oui!” Bella says, beaming. “Yes, you may.”

  Pierre loads up our suitcases while we all slide into the cart. We take off, flying down the avenue, wind rushing against my cheeks. We stop at the bridge of the most beautiful castle I could imagine. I gawk in awe at how the castle itself acts as a bridge, stretching over the entire river.

  The afternoon sun sparkles on the water below. A blue flag waves in the afternoon breeze from one of the four turrets. The pointed peaks remind me of upside-down ice-cream cones. Along the slanted roof in the front, three intricate windows jut out of dormers. A broad staircase runs up to the bridge, which crosses a moat and leads to the castle’s massive double-door entrance. A balcony is just above it on the second floor. The castle glistens like fresh snow, all pure and sparkly.

  Château de Chenonceau.

  “It’s like it’s been snipped out of a storybook and slapped here for the world to see,” I tell Bella and Mom as we all step out of the cart. “You know what’s so cool; it’s exactly how I imagined the castle in my fairy tale.”

  “It’s even more beautiful than Cinderella’s castle.” Bella sighs as she lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head. “It’s everything I’ve dreamed of and more.”

  “You’re right,” I whisper. “It is magical.”

  Mom’s smile turns into a frown. “Let’s hope not. It looks like a perfectly normal building to me. Nothing unusual to it.”

  “Right,” I say, grasping for facts to appease her.

  For the past month, Mom and I have made lists of interesting facts about the countryside and the castle. We even got a new calendar on castle facts. Once I got news that I won the contest, I told her I’d typed the story. I don’t know why I lied. Maybe because I could totally see Mom canceling the whole trip if she suspected that I used the special pen.

  So I quickly spew off a few facts to calm her. “The building of the castle began in 1515,” I recite. “And the architecture is a mix of late Gothic and early Renaissance.”

  Pierre begins to unload the luggage and waves his hand at the entrance.

  “I think he means for us to go ahead,” Mom says.

  Before I even touch the knocker of the large front doors, one of them swings open. A thin man with slicked brown hair, an angular face, and black suit jacket meets me. He dips into a bow, causing his long suit tails to flip up behind him.

  He must be the butler, I decide. A butler who looks as if he’s off to the opera.

  “Bonjour,” I say, expecting him to say something. He doesn’t.

  I shrug and step past him into a long cream-colored hall smelling of old wood and lilies. The floor, mahogany-colored tiles, shines brighter than Mom’s kitchen floor, which is really saying something. A bright red carpet rests in the center like a wedding runner. Rooms fork off, and the ceiling rises so high a ladder couldn’t touch the triangular ribbed arches. Mirrors and life-size paintings hang on the walls, and a round table sits in the center of the hall with fresh-cut lilies in a vase.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselles!” A woman bustles toward us. She has pale skin that looks like it’s been caked with powder, and her black eyes appear almost sunken. Her graying hair is pulled back in a bun so tightly her face appears pinched. “The gatekeeper rang to say you had arrived. I am the housekeeper of the château. So you see, it is my responsibility to make sure everything runs its course properly and efficiently.”

  A large grandfather clock resting against a wall starts tolling. Boom. Boom. Boom. There’s something about the sound that sends spider chills down my back. Mom checks her watch when the clock doesn’t stop at two.

  “Looks like your clock is off,” Mom says. “My watch says it’s two in the afternoon.”

  “Ignore the clock,” the housekeeper says over the clanging. “It is broken.”

  I try to smile, but the housekeeper only frowns back. Now that I think about it, this lady could’ve passed as a witch at Halloween.

  “My name is Madame DuPont. You will call me Madame.” She smooths down her black jacket and skirt of nonexistent wrinkles. “There. Introductions have been made.” I raise my eyebrows. She hadn’t even asked for our names. “Come. I will escort you to your chambers.”

  Once Madame turns her back to lead the way, Bella clutches her neck and starts pretending she’s being strangled. I snicker, clamping my hand over my mouth. Madame spins around just in time to see Bella, back arched and tongue dangling out of her mouth. From Madame’s scowl and pointed look, it’s obvious Madame doesn’t appreciate good acting.

  “I see I can’t wait until we get upstairs to lay out the rules of le château,” she snaps.

  Bella and I jerk to a military stance, which seems the best course of action at a time like this.

  “There will be no degrading property, running within these halls, mischief, or stealing.” She glares at us—even Mom—as if we’re convicted criminals. “If you leave the property, you must be supervised by an adult. Curfew will be at ten p.m. sharp. At which time, you must be in your room, door locked. No sneaking about.”

  “Curfew?” I say.

  Madame glowers. “There will be no arguing about the rules. And finally, remember that the kitchen and attic are restricted.”

  “We will gladly comply with your rules,” Mom says. “It’s lovely to have everything so clearly organized and laid out. If you would be so kind, could I have a printout of those?”

  Madame ignores my mom, instead giving us a good stare-down with those creepy eyes of hers before continuing her march down the hall.
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  “Geez,” Bella mutters. “Maybe we’re at the wrong place. This is sounding more like a dungeon.”

  “Really?” I whisper to Bella as we head upstairs. “After that list of rules, I’m beginning to feel right at home.”

  Madame strides down a corridor mirroring the one downstairs, to a front room on the left. Reaching into her pocket, she withdraws a large key ring. It jingles with a mass of old metal keys.

  Muttering in French, she selects a thin silver key and slips it into the lock. The wooden door creaks open, but when I enter the room, I instantly decide I love it. It’s a corner room with two large windows, one on each outer wall, so that sunshine fills every crevice.

  “This was once the bedchamber of Gabrielle d’Estrées,” Madame explains. The name Gabrielle makes my head snap up. That’s the same name as the character in my story! It’s as though this room was destined for me! Then Madame clears her throat as if her necklace is clutched too tightly and continues, “But I prefer to simply call it the Corner Room. This will be Keira and Isabella’s room.”

  “It’s very sparse,” Bella points out. “Very bare. It really could have some decor added.”

  Tapestries cover the white stone walls. Carved golden-colored beams make up the ceiling, and the floor is tiled. A wide red carpet is positioned under the red brocade canopy bed. I guess with Bella’s decorating skills, she might think it’s sparse, but I thought it pretty complete with desk, chair, wardrobe, floor lamp, and square table holding a bouquet of lilies. Still, if anyone could make a room gorgeous, it would be Bella. She’s got the eye for decorating like no one else.

  “This is lovely,” I say with a contented sigh, tracing my hand over the desk.

  “The owner doesn’t like clutter.” Madame waves Pierre away once he deposits our luggage by the door. He bows and disappears. “The owner, Monsieur Monteque, is a proponent of order and cleanliness, which I presume you will honor.”

  As if to prove her point, Madame strides across the room, trails her finger across the desk, and then inspects her fingertip for dust. Apparently, she doesn’t find anything out of place since she clasps her hands together and says, “Unpack and freshen up. Mrs. Harding, allow me to show you to your room. It is just across the hall.”

  Once the two of us are alone, Bella giggles. She lifts her chin and mimics Madame’s voice, saying, “A proponent of order and cleanliness.”

  Laughing, I snatch up a tasseled bed cushion and toss it at Bella. “Okay, stop it already! Only one witch allowed per castle.”

  “Now, you’ll pay for that, my little dearie,” Bella sings in her best Wicked Witch of the West voice. She picks up another pillow, and we launch into a pillow fight.

  A knock at the door sends the cushions sailing back onto the bed. Red-faced, we snap to attention. A maid peeks her head around the door.

  “S’il vous plait,” the maid squeaks. “My name is Camille and if you should need anything, do tell me. Tea will be served in the sitting room in thirty minutes. Your mother said she wished to take a rest, so she will not be attending.”

  “Okay. Merci,” I say.

  Once the maid disappears, Bella collapses onto the bed, laughing. “This trip is going to be so great.”

  “I know, right? I can’t believe how lucky we are.”

  Or maybe it isn’t luck at all.

  I think about the sapphire colors whirling around me in a sparkling dance as I wrote the words of the fairy tale. What was that? Was it magic? Was it my imagination?

  Suddenly, the desperate need to hold the pen rages through my core. To touch the pen’s smooth surface, to watch the words spin about me like fireworks, to allow the power of it to flow through me as I write.

  I dig through my suitcase, frantically tossing my clothes aside until I find the pen where I buried it in one of my socks. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me Bella isn’t paying attention, too busy talking to her mom on her phone. I’m not sure why I don’t want to show her the pen, but right now I just want to keep it as my own secret.

  The pen slips out of the sock and into my palm. It shimmers once, almost as if it’s whispering to me. Promising me wonders to come.

  I squeeze it tight and press it to my chest, soaking in the magic flowing from it.

  Ancient Castle Fact: No toilets.

  (Unless your idea of a toilet is just a hole in the floor.)

  After we unpack and splash water over our faces, we head downstairs and follow the sound of voices in hopes of discovering the sitting room and, more important, food. We find ourselves standing in the doorway of the most glamorous sitting room I’ve ever seen. With the velvet-covered furniture and gold-trimmed ceiling, it’s a room fit even for King Louis XIV himself.

  “Oh!” Bella says, and her fingers twitch as she hugs her design sketchbook. I know that sign. She wants to sketch all the decorating ideas she’s seeing. “This is a designer’s paradise.”

  I, on the other hand, find the people fascinating. I suppose it’s the writer in me. An elderly couple sits on the smaller couch, sipping from teacups. The white-haired lady reminds me of Old Mother Hubbard with all those wrinkles. She takes up more than half the space on the couch due to her size. The man next to her is as skinny as she is large. He leans his head back against the couch, snoring. He has these thick, bushy white eyebrows that quiver with every snore.

  As Bella and I stroll into the room, Old Mother Hubbard elbows him. He snorts and jerks like a pecking rooster as he’s startled awake.

  In the corner, by the fireplace, a long-legged man lounges in a wingback chair. The newspaper in his hands crinkles as he glances up over it. He drops his pointed chin and scrutinizes us above his spectacles with his brown eyes. His black hair is sculpted in a perfect swoop. I bet he spent a lot of time and gel to get that perfect arc. As if bored with what he sees, he hides back behind his newspaper.

  Mother Hubbard smiles. “Good day.” She pats the bun in her hair and adjusts what looks like knitting needles that apparently hold her bun in place.

  “Hi,” Bella and I chorus as we settle on the empty flowered couch.

  “My name is Rose Jones, and this is my husband, Mr. Jones. We are from England. Somerset, actually,” Mother Hubbard says. “My husband and I are here for the week on our second honeymoon.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, trying to be civilized. “My name is Keira and this is my best friend, Bella.”

  A woman waltzes in with a tray holding two teacups and a plate of scones. A giant puffy hat is perched on her head, reminding me of whipped cream. She’s a hefty woman who carries her bulk with purpose. Her dark brown hair is twisted back into a low bun, and she has thick eyebrows that form a wall across her face. She sets the tray on a side table and pours us each a steaming cup of tea.

  “Bonjour,” she says, passing me a cup. “I am zee cook. My English ees not good, but I am learning so I can be an international chef someday.”

  “Merci.” I take a scone from the offered plate and add it to my tea saucer. “That sounds like a wonderful plan.”

  I sit rigid, praying my tea won’t spill all over the embroidered couch, but somehow I manage a tight smile. Oddly, the cook doesn’t smile back. In fact, her expression makes me think she just drank soured milk.

  “At least you will not die from zee food,” the cook says as she places the teapot on the tea server. “Zat much I can promeese.”

  I choke on my scone and watch in horror as a splash of tea spills on the couch. But the cook doesn’t pay any mind; instead, she whizzes out of the room.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

  “Wow. She’s kind of morbid, isn’t she?” Bella says.

  “She said that because the castle is haunted,” a boy’s voice says from above.

  Startled, I peer up to see a boy about my age with black spiked hair, wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans. The T-shirt says EVEREST OR BUST! He’s squatting inside a small window alcove above a china cabinet, with a mischievous gr
in.

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Jones begins fanning herself.

  “How did you get up there?” Bella asks.

  “Haunted?” I say curiously, setting down my teacup.

  “Chet Parker!” the man who had been hiding behind his newspaper yells. “Get down this instant before Madame sees you and kicks us off the premises. We’ve only been here a day and she’s already threatened twice.”

  Chet scoots to sit on the cabinet’s edge, then pushes off the side with his hands. When he launches from the cabinet, his feet first touch the wall before he drops to the floor with the ease of a cat.

  “Wow.” Bella’s eyes are as wide as her scone. “Cool move.”

  “Well! I never,” Mrs. Jones exclaims, holding her hand to her chest. “Do come and sit with us and have yourself a scone straightaway before you give us all a heart attack.”

  Chet smiles easily and saunters over to plop into a chair. He cocks his head in my direction and says, “Yep. Haunted. Well, not so much during the day. But last night, I could’ve sworn I saw a ghost.”

  Bella nearly drops her teacup. I snatch it from her hands just in time.

  “A ghost?” she whispers. “Here?”

  “Now, don’t be scaring the girls,” Chet’s dad says, and then to Bella and me, “Chet has been a tad bored here. Making up all kinds of nonsense to pass the time. Good thing you two arrived. Maybe you can keep him out of trouble.”

  Chet laughs and shrugs, not denying his dad’s words. Still, I can’t help but notice how the Joneses don’t refute Chet’s story of ghosts as they shift uneasily in their chairs, staring at the carpet.

  “Right,” Chet says. “So as you heard from my dad there, I’m Chet Parker.”

  Before I can open my mouth to introduce myself, Mrs. Jones jumps in. “This is Keira and Bella. They are from the States.”

  “The States, huh?” Chet grabs a scone and wolfs it down in one gulp. “We’re from Montreal, but my family is originally from China. Are you here on holiday?”

  “Keira won a writing contest from a magazine,” Bella says. “A fairy tale for four at a French castle. Her mom and I came with her.”