The Princess and the Page Page 7

  Finally, I stumble back onto the smooth lawn that surrounds the castle, and there right before me stands a large ladder smack in the middle of the green. It sparkles in the sunlight as if someone spilled a bucket of silver glitter over it.

  From the polished wood, I can tell that this is the exact ladder I was on in the library before I woke up on the muddy ground. Tentatively, I reach out and touch a rung. A shiver of electricity flows through me just as it had when I first stepped up on it at the library.

  I hesitate, unsure if this is the best idea. But then the sound of the swarming fairies permeates the air. They’re flooding out of the forest path, so many more than before. I bet they went and got all of their cousins, aunts, uncles, and extra spears. And now they’re charging at me for no reason.

  Maybe this is how Alice felt entering Wonderland.

  I leap onto the ladder, hoping it might be my ticket to waking up. The ladder whips me sideways. Startled, I scream. My hair streams behind me, long and wild, and the wind soaks up my cries. The ladder hurtles toward the castle walls at an alarming speed. I try to jump off, but I can’t. My hands are glued to the rungs. I’m going to smash into the white wall! Suddenly, a tunnel of starry light appears, allowing my ladder to slide through.

  The light swallows my ladder and me in one gulp.

  Fairy-Tale Tidbit: In the brothers’ Grimm version of

  Cinderella, a small hazel tree that Cinderella waters

  with her tears is what gives her the ball gown.

  I sail off the ladder, roll across a wooden floor, and smash against the side of a couch.

  “Holy fire!” Chet says, lifting the helmet off his head. “That was wild.”

  “Keira! Are you okay?” Bella rushes to me and starts checking my head and arms.

  Groaning because every inch of my body hurts from tumbling twice and being stabbed by hundreds of fairies, I drag my head off the floor and take in my surroundings. I’m back in the library. Safe. Bella and Chet are here, too. Their eyes are practically popping out of their sockets.

  “I had this crazy dream,” I say weakly.

  “Dude,” Chet says. “I’m sorry for falling on the ladder. I didn’t know it would fly away—”

  Then his voice drops off as his gaze wanders to the back wall.

  “What happened?” Bella says. “You went flying on that ladder when a big light appeared and you got swallowed up inside. Then a few seconds later, you flew back into the room. Oh my gosh. That was so scary.”

  “Wait a sec,” I say. “You saw that light? But I thought it was just a dream.”

  “Oh, we saw it all right,” Chet says. Then he stands and picks up the broom lying beside the fireplace and starts poking the back wall where I came through.

  “I don’t understand.” I’m finding it hard to breathe.

  “I don’t either.” Bella wraps me in a hug. “But you’re here now. Everything is okay.”

  “Okay?” Chet says. “I don’t think that would be the word I’d use. Cool, maybe. Crazy, probably. But definitely not okay.”

  The library door swings open and Mom emerges with a scowl on her face.

  “There you are!” she says, one hand on her hip, the other on the doorknob. “I thought I heard something in here. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Keira. And the library is the last place I expected you to be. How could you break my rule of entering the library without my supervision?”

  “I—um—” What do I say? Is it weird that I really, really wish I’d followed Mom’s rules after all the stuff I’ve been experiencing?

  Mom’s eyes wander to the bookshelves. She inches to the closest shelf and with shaking fingers touches one of the books’ spines with incredible reverence. Then her hand snaps away as if the book bit her.

  “So many books,” Mom says, her voice suddenly quivering. “And pens. And paper.”

  “I think there are some nonfiction books here,” Bella says, moving to Mom’s side.

  But Bella’s words must have jerked Mom from her reverie because she whips around sharply and clears her throat.

  “No, I need to leave.” Mom backs away toward the door a little unsteadily. “Madame has called us for dinner. Let’s not be late. She’s in a bad enough mood as it is.”

  Madame. Just the mention of her sends a tremor through me. She is the only common thread between my bizarre experience and reality.

  “Good,” I say. “Because I need to talk to Madame as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  Dinner is a formal affair with a linen tablecloth, tall candles poised in silver candelabras, and so many forks and spoons it’s intimidating. A server sets a bowl of cucumber soup in front of each guest.

  But the bigger issue for me is being in the same room as Mrs. Jones and Madame. I try my best to avoid eye contact with Mrs. Jones during dinner, which isn’t too hard since it seems Mrs. Jones is also avoiding me. But Madame, on the other hand, I study carefully. What did I experience at the other end of the light? Does Madame know about that place, too?

  Dad always said that usually the most direct approach brings the most honest responses. So I take a deep breath and plunge forward.

  “Do you believe in fairies, Madame?” I say.

  Bella drops her spoon, causing soup to fly across the table and land on Mr. Parker’s downturned mustache.

  “Keira!” Mom gasps. “This is a formal dinner. Not a time for silly stories or jokes.”

  Madame lifts her eyebrows and stares at me in disbelief. “You cannot be serious, Miss Harding. Of course I do not believe in such nonsense.”

  “Do you own a clavichord here at this castle?” I continue, undaunted.

  “I own nothing in this castle.” Madame sets her spoon down. “I am merely the housekeeper. Now, if you would so kindly refrain from further interrogating, I would appreciate it.”

  “Keira!” Mom whispers harshly. “Stop being impolite and eat your soup!”

  I bite my lip and focus on my puke-green soup. I know I haven’t gone totally delusional because didn’t both Chet and Bella see the light and then me disappear into it? There must be some clue I’m missing.

  Chet raises his soup spoon to his mouth, blows, and takes a loud slurp. Grimacing, he spits it back into the bowl. Then when Madame and Mr. Parker aren’t looking, he dumps the contents of the soup into the plant’s soil behind him. He winks at me.

  “Madame.” Mrs. Jones dabs her lips clean of green soup. “You must give us the history of this castle.”

  Madame lifts her chin and stares evenly at each of us. As Madame’s eyes pass over me, I can’t stop the shudder that jerks through me. The silence lasts so long even Chet’s dad allows his eyes to leave the steaming hot plate of lamb just served.

  “Chenonceau has a history, indeed,” Madame begins. “It was built as a fortified manor, but Thomas Bohier bought it, and Katherine Briconnet, his wife, transformed it into a lovely country castle.”

  “But I thought this was once one of the king’s properties,” Mrs. Jones probes.

  Madame nods. “Indeed, King Francis the first loved the château so much that he forced the Bohier family to pay back taxes. As he knew, they couldn’t pay such exorbitant fees, so Chenonceau became his, much to his delight.”

  “How terrible!” Bella says. “It’s like he stole it from them.”

  “Oh là là,” Madame says. “But then, who could resist such a beautiful place?”

  “So it’s still owned by royalty?” I say.

  “Non.” Madame carefully slices a portion of her lamb and forks it with such grace that I cringe at my own peasant-like ways of stabbing my potatoes and slurping my soup. “It is owned by Monsieur Monteque, who bought it not so long ago. I do not listen to gossip, but rumor has it the previous owners lost it gambling.”

  “That’s true.” Mr. Jones points his fork at Madame. “You shouldn’t listen to rumors.”

  “Where is the owner now?” Mrs. Jones asks.

  “Monsieur is currently
away on business.”

  “If I owned a castle,” Bella says, waving her dinner roll like a scepter, “I’d never leave.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like the draftiness of a castle,” Mr. Jones says quite pointedly at Madame. He’s talking about last night. I shiver.

  “Non.” Madame shoots a glare his way. “He cannot live here all of the time. Guests like you pay for the upkeep of such a place.”

  “I wonder how much Girls’ World is paying for this little contest of theirs,” Mom says. “Monsieur is sure to be making a large sum from this publicity.”

  “Oh, I bet they are paying him a lot of money,” Bella says. “Cheryl showed me our dresses for the ball. They’re designed by Chanel and completely divine.”

  “Forget the ball.” Madame sits up in her chair. She slaps down her napkin and grits her teeth, losing all her pretense of civility. “How many times must I make this clear? There will be no ball.”

  “I don’t understand what the problem with a ball is,” Mom says.

  “If you will excuse me.” Madame pushes back her chair and strides out of the room in a flurry of black skirts.

  After the servers whisk away the dinner plates, the cook parades in and plants lime sherbet in glass bowls in front of each of us so firmly that it’s a miracle the glass doesn’t break. The cook is still wearing her tall chef hat, though it now sags significantly to the side and her large white apron is smeared with food.

  “Does Madame always get so aggravated?” Mrs. Jones asks the cook.

  A hard, grim line forms on the cook’s mouth. “You are brave, sleeping here zese nights.”

  “Brave?” I say.

  “Dark zings are afoot in Chenonceau,” she says. “Anozer of our servants went meessing last night. Be wary. All of you.”

  “We heard something about that, but assumed it was just a hoax.” Mom sits straighter in her chair. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Don’t say I did not warn you.” Then the cook bustles out of the dining room without a backward glance.

  “My!” Mrs. Jones says breathlessly, fanning herself. But oddly, her face is literally beaming. “That was exciting. Was it not?”

  “Yeah, that was pretty cool.” Chet nods and then turns to his dad. “Maybe this place isn’t so bad.”

  But I, on the other hand, can’t agree. The cook is right. There are dark secrets tucked away in the cobwebbed corners of this castle. And I, apparently, am one of them.

  Sleuthing 101: The first task of fact-finding is to talk to

  anyone who was a witness to the scene of the crime.

  SUNDAY (DIMANCHE), JUNE 13TH, 10:45 P.M.

  “When are you going to turn that light out?” Bella complains from the other side of the bed, buried under a pile of covers.

  While rummaging through the desk, I found an unused journal. Dust still caked its cover, so I figured Monsieur wouldn’t mind me making notes in it. I decide to use it to record my latest findings like a true detective.

  Mrs. Jones was hiding in the bushes.

  She wore a hat and sunglasses as a disguise.

  Lied about binoculars.

  Hairnet

  Suspicious books: Manuel de l’immobilier (which I found out translates to: The Handbook to Real Estate) and The World’s Scariest Ghost Stories

  Costume makeup

  I toss the journal aside and flip onto my stomach, staring at my suitcase, where my pen is tucked away safely inside. I can’t help wondering if I used my special pen, would it give me the answers. A part of me wishes to jump off the bed and dig for the pen. But there’s another part that’s scared. Scared of the consequences. Why does writing have to be so wrong? It’s not fair.

  “What exactly did you see in the library when I was on the ladder?”

  “Not again!” Bella groans.

  I don’t blame her for being annoyed. Since it rained all day and horseback riding was postponed to Wednesday, Madame gave us a very boring speech on French etiquette. Thankfully, that only lasted an hour. The rest of the day we spent trying out each door to see if the key Chet discovered fit any of them, and I rehashed my experience after flying off the ladder. Chet and Bella even climbed the ladder, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. I’m beginning to wonder if I did hit my head and imagined it all.

  “It was like a burst of white light and then you came rolling across the floor,” Bella says. “Maybe Chet is right. Maybe it was a short circuit of electricity that caused the lights to get bright like that.”

  But what she said didn’t make sense, because for me, it felt as if I had been gone for a long time.

  “And then all that stuff the cook was saying with people going missing and darker things being afoot.” I fidget with the bedspread. “What do you think she meant?”

  “She’s a loon. Go to sleep. I’m still jet-lagged and cranky.”

  “Fine,” I huff, clicking off the light, only to stare into the dark canopy above.

  It doesn’t take Bella long before she’s snoring away. My fingers ache. My pulse quickens. I slip out of bed, ever so quietly, and pad over to my suitcase. With shaking hands, I slip the pen out of its hiding place and hold it up to the moonlight, studying its gleam. I wait, squeeze it tight, and imagine that familiar rush of power streaming out of it.

  But nothing happens.

  I sigh and hunch over the pen. I wait for it to shine bright like it did before. But it keeps its silence. Maybe I did something wrong. Maybe it only works a certain number of times, like a genie released from its bottle. Who knows? I had hoped it would give me answers tonight.

  Back in bed, I clutch the pen tightly in my hand, still not ready to return it to its hiding place. Shadows waltz across the walls as clouds weave in and out with the full moon. Outside, the wind howls and the river crashes against the castle walls. I tuck the covers up to my chin as if they would protect me. It’s a long time before I finally fall asleep.

  * * *

  I wake with a jerk. At first I’m unsure what roused me, until I hear that stupid grandfather clock downstairs clanging away. Someone really needs to get that thing fixed. Beside me, Bella’s body is flung out across the bed, all legs and arms. She’s still snoring.

  “This is why I don’t do sleepovers anymore with you, Bella.” I grunt. “The snoring.”

  Bella responds with a gurgling snort.

  “At least you’re sleeping well.” I smile down at her while my stomach growls. “Well, Snow White, dream happily.”

  Haunting music drifts into our room. I sit up with a start, now fully awake. Every instinct in my body tells me to curl up under the covers and drift back into the haven of sleep. But I can’t. After everything that has happened, my curiosity is at an all-time full alert. The clock reads 2:26 a.m. It’s way too late to be prowling, but I’ve always believed it’s best to face things head-on.

  Like a header in soccer.

  Careful not to wake Snow White, I slide out of bed and tiptoe across the floor, which is creaking and groaning with each step. After I tuck my pen back into its hiding place, I duck out into the hall. A shaft of light radiates from the stairway.

  My hands clutch my pajama pants as I creep down the stairs. The cook’s words haunt my thoughts: Dark zings are afoot in Chenonceau.

  Is this what the cook had been talking about? Or maybe someone is just hanging out, relaxing to music at two in the morning.

  Light spills out of the drawing room. Inside, the furniture is pushed against the walls and a crackling fire glows in the fireplace. The wood-beamed ceiling, along with the flower arrangements scattered about the room, gives the space a woodsy feel. But it’s the old-fashioned piano against the far wall that catches my attention. Is that a clavichord?

  The keys press down, creating the haunting melody that woke me. No one is playing it.

  Do those things have AutoPlay?

  A silvery figure dances past me, twirling in circles. I gasp as I recognize the dancing ghost. It’s Gabrielle! The music grows
louder, and as it does, laughter and chatter fill my ears. One by one, more ghosts cram into the room until the whole place is packed with dancers. Iridescent colors swirl amid their ghostlike paleness as if they’re caught between the now and the past.

  The firelight prickles, tugging at me. I grasp the doorframe to keep myself grounded. It’s happening again!

  But I can’t resist its pull, and my body jerks into the room. The moment I enter, the colors solidify and the people about me no longer look like ghosts. Their skin takes on a warm glow, and the colors around me shine in rich patterns.

  Gabrielle spies me. Her face breaks into a grin and she waves excitedly. But then her brow furrows when her eyes trail down my body, taking in my tank top and flannel pants.

  She half dances, half runs to where I’m standing. Her golden gown sewn with gems and ribbons sparkles in the candlelight. A tiara perches on her head. She truly looks like a princess.

  “Whatever art thou wearing?” Gabrielle says, aghast. “Thou lookest undeniably dreadful!”

  “Yeah, it appears I underdressed. But you look gorgeous!”

  Then Madame appears by the clavichord, holding a snowy white flower. Her face is as pale as death and her black skirts stand out in contrast to the ribbons of color streaming about the room. She beelines directly for Gabrielle.

  Something is off. I try to warn Gabrielle, but my words jam in my throat. Madame sweeps to Gabrielle’s side in seconds. With a flick of her wrist, Madame holds the flower out to Gabrielle.

  “Take a whiff,” Madame’s voice is deep and airy.

  “No!” I squeak.

  But Gabrielle has already taken the flower. She smells it, and a wistful smile spreads over her face. But then the smile falters and she drops the flower. The petals scatter across the floor. Gabrielle slowly turns and, as if in a trance, begins to follow Madame through the crowd. A wrenching tug in my stomach tells me what’s going to happen next.