The Princess and the Page Page 6

  I peek my head out from under the bed. Yep. It is Chet, leaning against the doorframe, looking smug.

  I blow a dust ball off my nose and wipe loose strands of hair away from my eyes as I stand, chin raised. “We aren’t looking for rats. Besides, if we were, it wouldn’t be any of your business. Now if you’ll be so kind and find your manners and leave us be.”

  “My manners?” He crosses his arms. “Here you’re rummaging through another person’s stuff and I’m the one who needs manners. This is really confusing.”

  I grab Bella by the wrist and attempt to squeeze past Chet, but he moves sideways and blocks the whole door.

  “You’re in our way,” I point out.

  There’s that mischievous smile again. “Why, yes, I am.”

  Voices coming from the staircase echo down the hallway. They sound just like the Joneses! My eyes widen. Bella squeezes my hand.

  “Please, Chet,” Bella says. “Just let us out.”

  “No sweat. Tell me why you’re snooping around in their room and I’ll let you little criminals out.”

  “That’s bribery,” I huff. “That’s illegal.”

  “You’re trespassing,” he says. “That’s illegal, too.”

  “Fine.” I glower at Chet. “Just let us out!”

  Chet moves back and flourishes his hand for us to pass like he’s some kind of knight trying to be chivalrous. Bella shuts the door just as Mrs. Jones crests the top of the stairs, with Mr. Jones coming behind limping slightly and wheezing.

  “Sweet honey and jam!” Her eyes narrow. “Whatever are you doing outside my room?”

  “Mrs. Jones!” I step toward her. “We were looking for you. I must have knocked on your door a thousand times. We had nearly given up.”

  “Dear me, this seems rather serious. Whatever could be the problem?”

  I bite my lip. I’d sunk so deep, I didn’t know how to get out.

  “Binoculars,” I find myself saying. “We spotted this lovely bird in one of the trees and wondered if you had a pair for us to use.”

  “I am terribly sorry,” Mrs. Jones says in a voice that sounds as if she’s most decidedly not sorry. “I don’t have a set. Try one of the shops in town.”

  The Joneses hurry into their room, slamming the door with a loud thud.

  I shoot a pointed look at Bella. “See! She’s lying. She totally had binoculars this morning,” I say. “Something’s up.”

  “Can’t wait to hear all about it,” Chet says meaningfully.

  “You are evil.” I scowl at him. “Pure evil.”

  “Hey,” Chet says. “I’ll take that over boring any day.”

  The door pops back open. Mrs. Jones holds Bella’s design journal in the air. “Excuse me, girls, did one of you drop this in my room?”

  Fact: The first recorded librarian was a Greek scholar

  named Zenodotus who lived 1,100 years before the first

  book was even printed. Talk about before his time!

  I plop into the library armchair after the Jones fiasco. The library has that melancholy, serious feel, with mahogany furniture, wood-paneled walls, and a ceiling painted plum. Normally, it would’ve soothed me, except I still have Mrs. Jones’s glare imprinted on my memory.

  “Okay, people,” I tell Chet and Bella. “What are we going to do about Mrs. Jones?”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” Chet asks, inspecting the coat of arms hanging on the wall. “You two were the ones snooping around in there, not me.”

  Bella shakes her head. “We are so dead.”

  “Naw.” Chet pulls the knight’s helmet off a suit of armor. “She’s just an old lady. What can she do to you?”

  “That’s my whole point!” I shoot up from the chair. “Madame and my mom will totally believe her when she tells them we were in her room.”

  “You’re acting like you were in the right.” Chet’s voice is muffled from behind the helmet visor.

  “By the way,” I say. “This morning at breakfast, you said you had something to show us.”

  “Don’t think I want to show you anymore.”

  “That’s juvenile,” I say.

  “Fine. But it means from now on, you have to let me in on all of your sleuthing expeditions.”

  “We don’t do expeditions.” Bella rolls her eyes as she digs through her bag. “It’s not like hiking a mountain.”

  “It’s a deal!” I say before Chet changes his mind and hold out my hand.

  “Okay. Cool.” Chet gives me a solid handshake and then withdraws a thin silver key from his pocket. “I found this on the floor outside of Madame’s room.”

  “What do you think it opens?” Bella sets her bag aside to inspect the key.

  “Don’t know, but you bet I’m going to find out!” Chet spins the key through his fingers. “Maybe it opens the door where she keeps the ghosts inside?”

  “You think Madame has something to do with the ghosts?” Bella asks.

  “Maybe.” Chet tugs on his earlobe, considering.

  “I’ll make a list,” I offer. I go to the desk and pull out a pen and paper, but pause.

  The memory of when I last used a pen to create a plan storms back at me. Grandma’s special pen. The one hidden safely upstairs in my room.

  “Maybe you should make up a list of ideas.” I hold out the paper and pen to Bella, needing time to think. She gives me an odd look, but takes them.

  There’s no doubt Grandma’s pen is special, but could it truly be magical? Could it help me solve this ghost problem? I consider this as I wander to the bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, soaking in that smell of old books. Everything about this room reminds me of my visits to Grandma’s house, when we used to secretly read together. Mom never approved of fiction stories, so it had always been so much fun hanging out with Grandma.

  A track runs along the ceiling where a moving ladder hooks into it, just like in the movie Beauty and the Beast. I grip the sides and step up on the first rung. A tingle spreads through my fingers and up my arms.

  “That was weird.” I wiggle my fingers.

  “It’s time you fess up,” Chet says, ignoring me. “I told you about the key. Why were you going through the Joneses’ stuff?”

  “You know, Keira”—Bella looks up triumphantly from her bag—“I wasn’t buying that Jones hunch of yours. But now that I think about it, maybe you’re onto something.”

  “You think so?”

  “And sure, you were dead wrong about the cat killer, but you were totally right about the chocolate pudding.”

  “Cat killer?” Chet says. “Chocolate pudding? What are you two talking about?”

  I shake my head. “Long story.”

  “You may not have found evidence, but voilà!” Bella pulls out a hairnet from her bag and dangles it above her head. “I did!”

  “A hairnet!” I say as if Bella had whipped out the Golden Fleece.

  “A hairnet?” Chet laughs. “You two are killing me.”

  “You’re brilliant, Bells!” I say.

  “Why, thank you.” She blows me a kiss.

  “I’m completely lost,” Chet says.

  “If she found a hairnet, there’s a strong possibility Mrs. Jones uses it to hold her hair under a wig,” I say, stepping higher on the ladder. “There was a heap of makeup in one of the drawers, now that I think of it. Do you think Mrs. Jones is dressed in disguise?”

  Bella shrugs. “It’s a possibility.”

  “Old ladies lose hair,” Chet argues. “They wear wigs.”

  “Are you sure she’s old?” I try to push the ladder along the bookshelves. But it’s jammed. “I mean, how many elderly people do you see leaping into bushes? Hey, Chet, can you give me a little push? I think the ladder is stuck.”

  The grandfather clock down the hall starts chiming, the noise vibrating so loud it shakes the walls.

  “That clock is messed up,” Bella says. “It rings at the strangest times!”

  Chet tries to turn around w
ith the helmet still on his head but, unable to see where he’s going, ends up stumbling and falls into the ladder. With a jerk, the ladder breaks free from the groove it had been jammed in and starts sliding along the bookshelves. I grip tight, expecting it to slow down. Except it doesn’t. It speeds up.

  And that’s when a surprising thing happens.

  The wall at the end of the bookshelf opens, allowing a stream of white light to burst out as if reaching for me.

  I clutch the ladder rungs, my knuckles bone-white. I should jump off, scream, anything but allow myself to go flying into that open space. But it’s as if my fingers are glued to the ladder.

  To my left, Chet’s visor is pushed up and he’s staring wide-eyed at me, while Bella shouts out my name. Both of them leap, trying to stop the ladder from continuing down its tracks into the unknown. They’re too slow.

  I fly straight into the shock of light, and they vanish from sight.

  Fact: Fairies are known to cause mischief.

  Note: Fairies are completely fictional,

  so please disregard this fact.

  I’m flung from the ladder and tumble across the muddy ground. Thankfully, mud is soft and forgiving. I sit up and wipe away the sludge from my face. It takes a few moments to get my bearings. The castle walls rise up just across the river. In fact, it appears as if I landed in the garden right across the moat.

  Weird.

  I blink a few times, trying to understand what happened. The only explanation for this is I hit my head against the wall after Chet pushed the ladder. I must have been knocked out and now I’m dreaming.

  A wave of dizziness tumbles through my body as I attempt standing. I stumble to the bushes to throw up. My dress is torn and streaked with mud. It’s a good thing I’m dreaming; otherwise, Cheryl would have a heart attack.

  I’m about to slump back to the ground when a girl rushes over to me, panic filling her big eyes. Wait a second. She’s the same girl from my dream last night! Today she’s wearing a long pink dress, puffed out like a bell. White ribbons are woven around the skirt and up her bodice. Her hair is curled into ringlets and pinned back with flower barrettes.

  “Thou hast returned!” The girl runs up and hugs me. I pat her awkwardly on the back. “I’ve been wishing upon a star every night since thou escaped.”

  “Um—thanks? Where am I? And who are you?”

  “But I am Gabrielle, dost thou not remember?” The girl clucks her tongue while shaking her head. “Now let us not be foolish. I know thee and thou knowest me. Clearly. So heed the plan. We shall proceed directly to the party and thou shall attempt to work out who it is that schemes to capture us and take us to the Dark Tower. Then we shall meet afterward to find a way to stop them.”

  My body freezes momentarily, and my mind whirls. I don’t even protest when Gabrielle begins to drag me down the oak path.

  Dark Tower. She keeps talking about that. I glance around, wondering if there are any more of those creatures nearby that nearly tore the door apart and chased me.

  Second, her name nags me. Gabrielle. Is it just a coincidence that it is the exact same name as the princess in the fairy tale I wrote for the contest? And that the princess in my story was captured in the same way? And how did the girl even know me?

  “Princess Gabrielle?” I say breathlessly, hoping she will tell me I’m wrong.

  The girl giggles. “Of course! Thou art most assuredly not what I was expecting. But I like thee.”

  Yep. I’m definitely dreaming. After all, what are the odds that I’d pick the exact name as her? It won’t be long before I wake up with a huge bump on my forehead and a terrible headache. Meanwhile, the girl continues to talk about the guests and who she thinks are the prime suspects.

  We turn off the main path and enter a wide grove filled with at least fifty people dressed in similar fashion to the girl, drinking from teacups and eating delicacies. Tables edge the forest like flowered hedges, filled with towering cakes and plates of delicate macaroons. Fresh-flower streamers stretch between the oaks. Bands of blue and yellow material are woven together and sway from the tree boughs.

  My heart dips. This is exactly how I imagined the party my character attends in my fairy tale. I suck in a deep breath, pressing my fingers to my forehead. I just need a moment to wrap my mind around why I’m dreaming about this part.

  Except that’s kind of hard when Princess Gabrielle is handing me a large ball.

  “Keep a good eye out for anyone who looks suspicious,” the princess whispers.

  I stare at the ball, completely baffled. Does Gabrielle want me to hit the killer with this?

  “Whatever is the matter? It is thy turn to play.” Princess Gabrielle’s ringlets bounce as she laughs. “Thou dost know the rules of pétanque? Throw the ball and attempt to get as close as possible to the smaller ball over there.”

  “Riiiight,” I say, eyeing the group of girls giggling over my dress. Not that I blame them. Compared to their big frolicking, frilled skirts, my Renaissance dress—now ripped and muddy—could serve for their servants’ dishrags.

  I take a deep breath. It’s only a matter of time before I wake. I’ll go along with things until I do. Besides, why not play some baseball and have a little fun to boot? So I spread my feet apart, turn, and hold the ball against my shoulder like I’m about to throw a baseball.

  Gabrielle frowns. “Whatever art thou doing?” she says. “Do not hold it that way.”

  I’m about to ask for more details when I spy Madame strolling through the crowd with two men carrying a large box wrapped with a ribbon and piled high with flowers. Oddly, she isn’t wearing her housekeeper outfit but a midnight-blue dress that sways with each step she takes.

  “Madame!” I drop the ball, or whatever it is, and race to Madame. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m—”

  But I don’t utter another word because when Madame turns to face me, it isn’t the same woman, or not exactly. Sure, it’s still Madame, but she’s so much younger! The harsh lines ringing her eyes are washed away and the gray of her hair has vanished.

  “Don’t think you can get away with this.” Madame sneers at me. “I know what you’re planning.”

  I back up. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “And you believe this stunt with your ridiculous dress and games will work?” Madame says, and then cackles. “I think not. You will still lose once again. And your princess is next.”

  “My princess? I don’t understand.”

  Madame points with her eyes to Gabrielle strolling toward me, her forehead bunched in confusion.

  “You’re talking about Gabrielle?” I decide this dream is getting weirder by the second.

  But Madame merely sniffs. “Tick-tock, little meddler. Listen for the stroke of midnight and perhaps next time you will take me seriously.”

  “Art thou feeling ill?” Gabrielle touches me lightly on the shoulder. “Thou seemest rather peeked. Here, take some of my smelling salts.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you after all,” I say. “And I’ll pass on the salts.”

  “Happy birthday, Gabrielle,” Madame says in a sickly sweet voice as she elbows me aside. “I brought you a present.”

  Madame flourishes her hand, and the two men with white wigs, and the oddest tight pants ever, step forward and present Gabrielle with a box piled high with white flowers. Madame opens the lid to reveal a piano-looking instrument.

  “A clavichord!” Gabrielle clasps her hands to her pink cheeks, gasping. “It is simply lovely.”

  “Yes!” Madame says. “For you to play at the ball.”

  A clavichord? A ball? I back away from Gabrielle and Madame. This dream keeps getting weirder and weirder. The costumes, my supposed princess, and Madame’s crazy threat.

  I push my way through the crowd, causing people to gasp in shock at my horrid behavior. But I don’t care. My heart starts thumping as if a hammer is banging against it. Something is wrong and I need to wake up.
Maybe if I go back to the castle, that would help.

  As I break free of the last of the partygoers, I take off into a sprint, not caring that my bare feet are getting sliced up by pebbles and sticks. I skid back out onto the path and pump my arms. But as I round a corner, a cloud of large colorful dragonflies heads in my direction.

  And then they are everywhere, swarming down from the whispering trees in a cacophony of colors. Shimmering like a rainbow of falling stars, they dive down directly into my path and start stinging me. I swat them away, but falter when I hear one of them make a humph sound.

  “The ugly thing thinks she’s so big and bad!” one of the dragonflies says.

  Squinting, I realize that the dragonfly is actually a miniature person. It’s a girl with long wavy purple hair. She floats in the air using iridescent wings. Her ears are pointed and her sharp nose twitches like she smells something disgusting. Her eyes twinkle in a taunting manner as she twirls a spear in her hand as if it’s a baton and she’s in a parade. She wears a tight purple bodice with tiny gems sewn so closely together that, as they flash, it gives the illusion that the girl’s bodice is moving.

  I rub my eyes. No, it can’t be.

  “Fairies?” I say. “But fairies aren’t real.”

  “Does this feel real, slobbery human?” Something jabs me in the neck and then my arm. “Or this? Or this, this, this!”

  “Ouch!” I’m flailing my arms around me, but their little spears really hurt. Like bee stings. I bet these fairies put poison in their little spears.

  Fairy wingbeats fill the canopied path with a twittering sound that starts to pulse against my ears.

  “Go away, go away, and don’t come back any other day!” sing the fairies as they titter and poke and swarm until I’m dazed and confused.

  I try to remember which way the castle is, but the dizzying fairy wall of colors blocks my sight. They continue to sing the “go away” song as they stab me, each jab reminding me of when I took a sewing class in fifth grade and kept stabbing myself with the needle. Only, this is the nightmare version.

  I have no clue which way to run I’m so disoriented, but if I don’t go somewhere soon, I’ll pass out from their poison. So I take a deep breath and charge through the shimmering wall, running faster than I ever have at a soccer game.