Keys to the Castle by Donna Ball

tourist to the maid. But she vowed to sneak down later and get some photographs—for Dixie, of course.
    They reached the second floor, and turned down a wide hallway with a high medallioned ceiling and a faded, rather threadbare blue tapestry carpet that ran the length of the gleaming marble floor. It was a hallway in the sense that it was a corridor flanked on either side by rooms, but it was unlike any hall Sara had ever seen in America. It easily could have accommodated several apartments, complete with furniture, in its breadth and depth, and even though their footsteps were muffled by the carpet, every movement echoed. There were deep alcoves and high windows, elaborately carved wood moldings and panels, but almost no furnishings, which Sara thought was odd for a place as luxurious—and large—as this. At the far end, the corridor branched right and left, presumably leading to the separate wings, but before they got that far the maid stopped, and opened a door. Sara followed her inside.
    â€œOh . . . my . . . goodness,” she said softly.
    It was like a picture out of a coffee-table book entitled World’s Most Luxurious Suites . The most prominent feature was the bed, raised on a dais and adorned with a puffy white silk comforter, blue silk pillows trimmed in gold fringe, and gold silk curtains, lined in blue, that dropped from a ceiling coronet and were pulled back in graceful drapes on either side of the tall, slim headposts. There was a marble fireplace with elaborately carved flowers, butterflies, and scrollwork, and a fire burned cheerily in the grate.
    A blue velvet settee and matching Queen Anne chair were drawn up before the fire, and between them was a small, elegant table, on which was arranged a tiered dish of chocolate-dipped fruit. Beside the settee was a silver ice bucket on a stand, which held a bottle of champagne and a flute glass. In the center of the room a marble-topped table sported another enormous vase of flowers, this time lilacs and white roses. The room was filled with their fragrance.
    She hardly knew where to look, it was all so overwhelming. Surely this was not all meant for her. How much must a room like this cost per night, anyway?
    â€œUm . . .” She turned to the maid, who had already made it clear she did not speak English, but Sara wasn’t sure what she would have said even if she could have made herself understood. Do you have a smaller castle? Maybe there’s a more affordable room in the gardener’s shed?
    The maid opened a door and stood aside, her smile inviting Sara to look inside. Almost tiptoeing, Sara ventured to the door. She caught her breath at what she saw.
    The bathroom was approximately the size of her bedroom in Dixie’s basement. The ceiling was frescoed with cherubs and clouds, and trimmed with intricately carved moldings that were painted white and brushed with gold leaf. The room had its own fireplace, in which another fire danced and sparked. A plush white robe was draped over a velvet-cushioned stool, and an elaborately scrolled dressing table was topped by a baroque gold-framed mirror. A careful arrangement of lotions, oils, and toiletries was displayed in cut-glass bottles atop the table. But the centerpiece was a sunken marble bathtub as big as a child’s swimming pool. A teardrop chandelier was centered over it, reflecting prisms of light off the aqua water that filled it and the gleaming marble steps that led into it. As Sara watched, slack-jawed, the maid opened one of the jars on the dressing table, and sprinkled a handful of red rose petals over the steaming water.
    Sara pulled the French phrase book from her purse, frantically flipped a few pages, and finally came up with the words she wanted. “Pour moi?” She pointed at her chest. For me?
    â€œ Oui , madame.” The maid proceeded to rattle off a litany of French, to which Sara merely smiled and nodded dumbly, feeling as dazed as she no doubt