The dead dragon glared at Hattie from empty eye sockets. As she gripped her dust rag, the ladder wobbled alarmingly under her feet. She reached into the bony mouth, between a sea of teeth, and wiped the spiderwebs away.

The skull hung over the lobby of the Hotel Majestica, following the guests with its eerie gaze. It was so large she could have climbed inside with room to spare. Hattie threw a hasty glance at its fangs. It’s been dead a hundred years. It can’t bite you. Still, she dusted a little faster than usual.

Snatching her arm from the dragon’s mouth, she announced, “Done!”

Mrs. Galliforma, the hotel housekeeper, squinted up at the skull. A stout woman with a brown complexion, her hair was drawn into a no-nonsense bun. Hundreds of brass keys dangled from her waist. You always knew Mrs. G was on her way because of the jingling.

The housekeeper studied the dragon skull critically. “Very good.”

Hattie stepped down the ladder, hiding her smile. Mrs. G never complimented anybody. She must be in a good mood today. “I always feel like it’s going to come alive and grab me.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I don’t see why we can’t just use magic to dust it.”

“Magic,” Mrs. G said sternly, “is no substitute for good old-fashioned elbow grease. And none of the other girls are small enough to fit in its mouth.”

Hattie was used to odd jobs. Feed the pixies! Polish the wineglasses! Run this down to the lobby, will you? There was always something to do at the hotel. But Mrs. G wouldn’t let her become a real maid until she was fifteen. Hattie dreamed of the day she would finally put on that black dress and ruffled apron. She wanted to giggle in the maids’ dormitory at night and line up for uniform inspection in the morning.

To be part of something.

But thirteen was all about being stuck in between.

Mrs. G noticed her sulky look. “Don’t pout, my dear.”

She tucked a flyaway piece of hair behind Hattie’s ear. “We all must do our part. Our guests are here to see the rarest magical creatures in the world, not a dusty lobby.”

“But I do want to do my part!” Hattie said eagerly. “Look how good I am at dusting. Maybe I could help Maude on the third floor?”

Sixteen-year-old Maude was the youngest chambermaid. They were both orphans, but unlike Hattie, Maude thought it was glamorous. “Haven’t the foggiest idea who my parents were,” she’d say, sweeping her feather duster dramatically. “I could be anyone, you know—even a princess!”

Hattie usually stayed silent. There was no point in pretending she was anyone special. Both her parents had worked at Majestica, but she didn’t mind. The hotel was the most magical place in the world. Who would want to be anywhere else?

Mrs. G touched her cheek. “Maybe next year, my dear.”

Hattie bit her lip to keep a sigh from escaping. Well, it had been worth a try.

Mrs. G’s voice turned brisk. “Now, go fetch the dirty tablecloths down to the laundry. Lickety-split!” With a wave of her hand, the ladder’s legs snapped together and it whooshed into a closet.

As Hattie scuttled out of the lobby, she couldn’t help looking back at the dragon skull. Dusting it always made her feel a strange whisper of regret. Once it had been the king of the skies. Now it was nothing but a gruesome curiosity for the hotel guests to take photographs with. Dragons were rare in the world these days. Even Majestica only had one.

She saluted it respectfully. “Till next time, sir.”

Hattie wheeled her laundry cart into the breakfast room. The sun filtered through the glass ceiling onto the tables and potted plants below. An orange dragomander crawled up the inside of the window with sticky feet. When it saw Hattie, its mane stood up. Breathing a tiny poof of fire, it zoomed out of her reach.

The breakfast room was empty except for one table, where four people sat drinking tea. Hattie immediately recognized the man with the distinguished gray sideburns and polka-dot bow tie. Mr. Ridgewell owned the Hotel Majestica. Next to him sat a young man with ink-stained fingers. His sandy hair flopped roguishly to one side, and his eyes twinkled at Hattie in a way that made her blush. On his other side was a woman in a plaid jacket and spectacles, a book primly propped in front of her.

But most interesting to Hattie was a girl her own age, silk ribbon perched on her perfect brown ringlets. She kept sneaking grouchy looks at everyone else.

Hattie bobbed a curtsy. “Morning, Mr. R.”

“Why, good morning, Hattie.” He lifted his teacup toward her. “How are you today?”

She gave him a smile. “Very well, thanks . . . sir,” she added hastily.

A green pixie jumped on the table, a tray balanced on his fingertips. He was ten inches tall and had a wizened, grumpy face that made him look like an old man. With a bow, he set down a plate of chocolate pancakes.

“Oh, how cute!” the girl exclaimed.

She wouldn’t think so if she knew how hard pixies could bite. But Hattie held her tongue, remembering what Mrs. G always said—the guests must never see through the magic.

“It’s all so orderly.” The young man gazed up at the lush vines crawling across the skylight. “How do you keep these magical plants from taking over the place?”

“That’s all thanks to the Caretaker. My greatest invention, you know,” Mr. Ridgewell said. “Runs the entire park.” At the next table, Hattie concentrated on the salt and pepper shakers. Maude had taught her a spell to move small objects. But the shakers only gave a feeble wiggle. Hattie wrinkled her nose. She could light candles with magic, but that was about it.

She moved the salt and pepper by hand and tugged off the sticky tablecloth. The breakfast room had eight tables across and six tables down. Hattie tossed the tablecloth in her cart. Only forty-seven more to go.

“I understand your magical machine is a Majestica secret.” The young man lowered his voice. “So you don’t let anyone see it—not even your staff?”

Mr. Ridgewell sipped his tea. “That’s right.”

“Haven’t you ever thought about showing it to the public? It would make a big splash. Front page, for sure!” He made a grand gesture. “Picture the headline: Ridgewell’s Magical Invention Revealed at Last. By yours truly, Jasper Foxfire. Give the readers something new.”

Mr. Ridgewell waved his hand. “If it’s new you want, our gardener has built a brilliant maze—the pathways change every five minutes! I myself was lost inside for three hours. I completely missed lunch.”

Before the reporter could reply, there was a crash.

A wide-eyed creature with a striped tail appeared, knocking over the teapot. When he saw the strangers, he let out a screech. Hopping over the puddle of tea, he scrambled onto Hattie’s shoulder. He chittered angrily to himself, shaking out his wet feet.

Hattie sprang into action to stop the spilled tea from spreading. “I’m so sorry, sir!” she babbled, piling napkins on the table. “He didn’t mean— He was just—”

Mr. Foxfire inspected the animal. “Well, I’ve never seen anything like this fellow before.”

Hattie winced as his paws dug into her neck. “This is Jeffers, sir. He’s a leaping lemur.”

“A jumper, eh?” Mr. Foxfire tentatively touched her pet’s bushy tail.

Hattie shook her head. “Not a jumping lemur. A leaping lemur. Like this.”

She snapped her fingers, and with a pop Jeffers vanished. A second later, he reappeared on the ceiling chandelier.

“Marvelous!” Mr. Ridgewell clapped his hands. “Well done, Hattie. I see you’ve made some progress with him.”

Hattie’s cheeks warmed. Mr. Ridgewell didn’t always notice her. She would treasure his words of praise all week.

Nobody would have blamed him if he’d sent Hattie to an orphanage after her father died. But he had given her a home at the hotel. It was part of why she was so eager to do a good job. She wanted him to be proud of her.

Mr. Foxfire rummaged under the napkins for his notebook. “What a fascinating creature.” He began to write as he talked. “Is he rare? What’s his scientific name? Are there more of them here?”

Jeffers was Hattie’s pet by accident. Dowson, the gamekeeper, had purchased him two years ago for the park, but he’d soon found that magical fences were useless against a lemur who could pop in and out whenever he wanted. On one of his adventures, Jeffers had met Hattie and decided he liked her. And that was that.

“A bit of a troublemaker, that one,” Mr. Ridgewell said. “Supposed to be an attraction for the guests, but he was . . . hard to keep track of.”

“It’s true.” Hattie smiled. “Wherever you put him, he always gets loose. So now I take care of him. When he’s here, anyway.”

“Where do you suppose he goes,” Mr. Foxfire mused, “when he’s not here?”

Hattie had spent a lot of time thinking about this question and never came up with a good answer. Jeffers could teleport up to a hundred feet. He could leap through walls, but only if he knew what was on the other side. But where did he go? She still had no idea.

She shrugged. “In between, I guess.”

“Intriguing,” the reporter murmured. “In my days at the Orrery, I studied a bit of magical theory. I wonder what the professors would think of this little fellow.”

“Are you a magister?” Hattie asked. The Orrery was a famous magical university.

Mr. Foxfire flashed her a grin. “Oh, I dabble.”

He spun his fingers, and a sparkly green ball appeared. With a flick, he sent it floating up to the chandelier, where Jeffers began to bat it around. Hattie couldn’t help laughing.

“Uncle Clive,” the girl piped up, “I want a leaping lemur.” Hattie’s heart leaped into her throat. Jeffers reappeared on her shoulder, his cool black nose snuffling her hand. She clutched his paw. He was her best friend. Mr. Ridgewell wouldn’t take him away from her, would he?

“Sorry, my dear,” Mr. Ridgewell told the girl. “I’m afraid this is the only one at Majestica. They’re very rare.”

“They can’t be that rare,” she complained, “if you’re giv- ing them to servants. Oh, please, can I have one?”

The woman across the table lowered her book. “Evelyn, really.”

Evelyn narrowed her green eyes at Hattie, and the two of them sized each other up. What Hattie saw didn’t make her feel any better. The other girl’s dress was prettier. She didn’t have an apron or dust on her nose. In fact, her creamy skin looked as if it had never been touched by the sun, and her smooth hands looked like they’d never done a day of work.

Hattie swallowed. Now she understood how the creatures in the zoo felt when people stared at them. Jeffers curled his tail around her neck like a scarf. She would never let him go. Never.

“This is Hattie Swift,” Mr. Ridgewell explained. “Her father was the best gamekeeper I ever had, rest his soul. So you see, being good with animals runs in the family.”

Hattie’s father had been killed in a dragon accident when she was six. She didn’t even remember her mother, who had died when she was just a baby. Hattie had been raised by the hotel staff. Mrs. G had taught her to read. The maids had taught her how to play cards, though that was supposed to be a secret. And Morsewood, the gardener, had shown her the three most foolproof ways to escape a poisonous people-eater flower.

Mr. Ridgewell went on. “I’m sure the lemur is quite happy where he is.”

Relief trickled through Hattie. She found her voice. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

When in doubt, curtsy and leave. That was what Mrs. G always said. Heart thumping, she wheeled her cart to the next table before that awful Evelyn could say anything else.

The reporter seized his opportunity.

“Look here, you have to give me one little tidbit about the Caretaker,” he pleaded. “My boss said you promised us something new for the paper.”

“The maze is new!” Mr. Ridgewell said in a grouchy voice. “The petting zoo is new!”

“Yes, but—”

Mr. Ridgewell cut him off. “The Caretaker is out of the question, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Foxfire was awfully persistent. “If I’d built a machine that could control the lights, the trains—all of this? I wouldn’t keep it a secret. I’d want everyone to know that I was the greatest inventor in Ruava!”

“Maybe so,” Mr. Ridgewell said, “but then everyone would want a Caretaker. And we can’t have that, can we?”

“Why not?” Mr. Foxfire pressed him. “Just imagine— a whole factory churning out magical machines! You could modernize the world and become a wealthy man.”

Hattie didn’t like the greedy tone of his voice. If everyone had a Caretaker, then Majestica wouldn’t be special anymore. It would be just like everywhere else.

“He’s already a wealthy man,” Evelyn muttered around her pancakes.

Mr. Ridgewell smiled. “My niece is right.”

The reporter looked deflated, like a popped balloon. He tapped his pen in annoyance. He was getting nowhere.

Mr. Ridgewell pulled a gold watch from his pocket. “Look at the time! You’ll excuse me if I end the interview. The wilderness tour embarks soon, and I still have arrange- ments to make.”

“Do you mean to say you’re going on the tour, sir?” Mr. Foxfire had an eager glint in his eye. “Someone told me you never go out into the park anymore. Not since—” He gulped and went silent.

Hattie cringed, guessing what he’d been about to say. Everyone knew the hotel owner had lost his leg in a dragon attack years ago—the last time he went into the wilderness. Hattie gripped a tablecloth to her chest. Oh yes, she knew that dark story . . .

Her father had died saving Mr. Ridgewell’s life.

The others at the table politely tried not to look at the reporter, except Evelyn, who smirked at his discomfort.

But Mr. Ridgewell only said, “It’s my niece’s birthday. Of course I shall be going on the tour.” His wooden leg creaked as he got to his feet. “The hotel manager, Mr. Bailgrave, will answer the rest of your questions.”

Leaning on his cane, he left the breakfast room. The reporter trailed after him. Hattie exhaled. The awkward moment was over.

The woman at the table clapped her book shut. “Oh, Evelyn, when will you learn to mind your manners?”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Evelyn muttered.

“I am your chaperone. I’m here to make sure you act like a lady.”

“My mother never acted like a lady,” Evelyn said in a sour voice.

“And she came to a bad end.”

Hattie realized she was eavesdropping. Mrs. G would definitely not approve. She wheeled her cart around to start the third row of tables.

A flash of motion caught her eye.

Quick as a wink, Evelyn’s hand darted out. Hattie saw something white and powdery drop into the chaperone’s drink. Or at least she thought she did. It happened so fast, she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. The chaperone, who had returned to her book, did not notice.

Evelyn Ridgewell screwed her lips to one side. She gave Hattie an arrogant look, as if challenging her to say something. Hattie didn’t know what to say. Mr. Ridgewell’s niece wouldn’t really poison anyone . . . would she? While Hattie gathered the rest of the tablecloths, her conscience nagged her. Shouldn’t she tell someone? She could report it to Mrs. G, but then she would have to explain that she’d been spying on the guests. The housekeeper wouldn’t like that. Nor would she like it if Hattie caused a ruckus that turned out to be over nothing.

She glanced over her shoulder. The chaperone was sipping her cup of tea, while Evelyn pushed her pancakes around her plate, looking bored. It isn’t my business, Hattie told herself, shoving her guilt away. Anyway, she seems perfectly fine. Maybe I was wrong.

The wheels of the laundry cart squeaked as she pushed it into the lobby. The hotel was more crowded now. Guests clustered at the snack bar, while bellhops wheeled carts of luggage across the floor. Down at the lake, the eleven o’clock mermaid show had begun. Mermaids performed leaps and tricks in the water, to the music of a live band. People were gathering at the floor-length windows to watch. Hattie could barely hear the sweet sound of violins over the chaos. The hotel manager, Mr. Bailgrave, surveyed the lobby from the balcony, a teacup and saucer in his hand.

Majestica was like a big clock, and the staff were the intricate pieces inside that made it tick. They bustled around in an exhilarating dance—a dance the guests could only see half of. But Hattie knew how it all fit together. How it all worked. It was a different kind of magic than Mr. Ridgewell’s machine, but it was magic just the same.

“Hattie Swift!” Mrs. G said sharply. “You still haven’t taken those tablecloths down to the basement? Stop dawdling!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Hattie gasped. “At once, ma’am!”

The laundry was in the basement, where only the Majestica staff were allowed. As she hurried the cart toward the elevator, someone beckoned with a feather duster from across the lobby.

“Psst! Hattie!” It was Maude, Hattie’s maid friend. Her auburn curls were stuffed under a ruffled uniform cap.

“What?” Hattie asked curiously.

“Heads up—there’s a fellow asking questions! Says he’s a reporter.”

“Oh! I met him in the breakfast room.”

“Well, don’t talk to him, whatever you do!” Maude warned her. “Mrs. G is liable to skin you alive!”

Then she scurried off.

Sure enough, before Hattie could press the elevator but- ton, a voice came from a potted plant.

“Miss!” Mr. Foxfire’s head poked out between the palm fronds. “Hey, miss, wait a moment!”

Her pulse fluttered nervously. “Do you need something, sir?”

Hattie glanced doubtfully around the lobby. Mrs. G had disappeared into her office, but still . . . If you get caught, you can say goodbye to being promoted to chambermaid.

Mr. Foxfire popped out from behind the plant. “Say, why don’t I come down to the laundry with you? You can give me a little behind-the-scenes tour.” He gave her a friendly wink. “You look like a girl who really knows her way around this place.”

Something about his voice made Hattie wary. He was being almost too nice.

“Guests aren’t allowed down there,” she said cautiously.

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “Why not? It’s just a laun- dry, isn’t it?”

The back of Hattie’s neck tingled. She realized what he was trying to do. What Mr. Ridgewell had said about the Caretaker was true. No one—not even the hotel staff—was allowed to see the machine. But deep below the Hotel Majestica, Hattie knew there was a door.

A door no one ever, ever opened.

When she was little, Hattie used to sneak down the corridor, past the laundry and the lost luggage room, and gaze up at that secret door. That part of the basement had been built under the lake. The air smelled like wet dirt and something slightly animal—fish or maybe snakes. Drips of water collected on the stone walls. There was even condensation on the fancy gold plaque that read caretaker.

Only once had she dared to set her hand on the doorknob. The latch caught with a thunk. It was locked, just like every- one said. A soft whisper slithered through the empty corridor. The air began to hum ominously, and the doorknob went cold in her hand.

Hattie had never touched the Caretaker’s door again.

“Sorry, sir.” She tried to sound innocent, but her heart raced under her pinafore. “I don’t have time for a tour. Mrs. Galliforma will be mad as a hopper if I don’t get these chores done.”

Jeffers chittered in agreement from his bed in the dirty linens.

The reporter lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Caretaker’s down there, isn’t it? In the basement?”

“Who told you that?” Hattie pretended to be shocked. “Believe me, I’ve been down in the basement hundreds of times, and I’ve never seen anything.”

She wasn’t sure if he was going to buy her lie.

“But I bet you have an idea where it is. I’m a reporter for the Basillica Daily Star, you know!” Mr. Foxfire said in a wheedling voice. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have your name in the paper?”

That was absolutely the last thing Hattie wanted. “I—I have to go now.” She gripped the cart, her fingers suddenly sweaty. “It was nice to meet you.”

Mr. Foxfire’s lips parted in a devious grin. “Fine, Miss Swift. You go ahead and keep your secrets. I can tell you’re a loyal girl.”

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

Before he could say anything else, she spun her cart around and wheeled it across the lobby. Luckily, there were other elevators.