Palace of Mirrors

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  I silently shove the quilt aside and stand up and listen again—still nothing. I tiptoe over to the door. I’m in awe of my own daring. It’s one thing to fling chess pieces across a board without regard for their safety, quite something else to take chances with my own life. For Harper’s sake, I tell myself firmly. I ease the new door latch off its peg, take a deep breath, and step outside.

  7

  It’s a moonless night, the darkness as thick around me as cotton batting. I find this comforting. Even if someone is watching Nanny’s cottage, waiting for the right moment to attack, they wouldn’t be able to see me slip out the door. And really, I argue with myself, if my enemies know where I live, I’m safer outside the cottage than in.

  The darkness is not so comforting when I stumble forward, vines slithering against my ankles, brambles snagging my dress. My bare feet discover the hollowed-out path between the trees, so I inch forward, feeling my way with my toes. If I touch packed dirt, that’s good and I take another step; if I touch grass or leaves or brambles, I’m off the path and I have to try again. That’s all I let myself think about: Dirt or grass? Dirt or leaves? So I’m stunned when my toes plunge into water, squish down into mud. It doesn’t make sense—there’s no water anywhere near the path to the village. My mind reels; for a moment it seems possible that the world becomes an entirely different place at night, water flowing in the daytime’s dry paths, lakes and forests trading places. I’m picturing a sort of musical-chairs game of mischievous geographical features. Then logic returns, and I remember where I’ve seen mud puddles before.

  Oh. Then, Oh, no.

  In the disorienting darkness I’ve started down the path to the pond instead of the path to the village. I’ve just stepped into one of the same mud puddles that I splashed through this morning when I was with Harper, right before I saw the shadow. I freeze in fear, but the whole night is a shadow now; I’m in no greater danger here than anywhere else. When the fear ebbs, I’m just weary: It’s taken me so long to get this far, and now I’m going to have to edge my way back to the cottage, through the trees along the proper path, and then all the way to the village. Or . . . maybe it’d be quicker to keep going toward the pond and then—if I manage not to fall into the water—turn and go to the village from there. I can picture a triangle in my head, the points formed by the pond and the village and Nanny’s cottage. And because of all of Sir Stephen’s lessons about hypotenuses and the Pythagorean theorem, I’m pretty sure that I’ve chosen the longer distance. But I’ll pretend I don’t know any geometry if it means that I don’t have to turn around and go back.

  Because if I go back, I’m afraid my courage will give out, and I’ll creep back into Nanny’s cottage, crawl back into bed, pull the quilt over my head, and just let someone else make all the decisions about my fate. And then maybe Harper will never know . . .

  “Harper, you had better appreciate this,” I mutter under my breath, stepping forward through the mud.

  I’m not worried about being heard, because the night is already such a noisy place, what with crickets sawing away and bullfrogs calling from the pond. And mosquitoes buzzing—soon I’m working out a ratio of two steps forward to every mosquito I slap away. I almost begin hoping that my enemies are lurking somewhere along this path, because if they are, they’re being eaten alive.

  Finally, I reach the pond and turn toward the village, and the mosquitoes thin out a bit. Then I see a bit of light glowing in the distance—it’s the village watchman, swinging his lamp.

  “Three o’clock of the morning,” he calls, his plaintive voice just loud enough to reach my ears. “All’s well. All’s well.”

  I don’t really know the village watchman—given his job, I’m guessing he probably sleeps during the day, which is the only time I’ve ever been in the village before. But I feel a slight moment of kinship: the night watchman and me, both out on important missions while the whole rest of the world sleeps. Still, I’m careful to stay back until he walks on. Then I follow on tiptoe, using the light dying behind him to guide my way.

  I hesitate when I get to Harper’s. I haven’t thought this out clearly. How am I supposed to tell Harper my whole long, convoluted story—dating back to my very birth—without waking his mother? Like Nanny and me, the Suttons have only one room in their cottage; Harper and his mam are probably even more crowded in their sleeping space, because they have to make room for the harp and music stand. For that matter, how am I supposed to get past the harp and the music stand in the dark, without knocking them over and setting off such a clatter that I wake the whole village? I stand there deliberating long enough that the gleam of the watchman’s lamp comes back into sight. I calculate: When he’s close enough that his light will illuminate the Suttons’ cottage—but not so close that he’d see an open door and investigate—I’ll push the door back, get a quick glance, memorize the lay of the cottage, dash in, shut the door, whisper Harper awake, and then, when I’m sure the watchman’s past, bring Harper back outside to tell him my story.

  It’s a lot to do very quickly, but I don’t have time for another plan. The light’s coming closer. And closer . . .

  Now!

  I try to shove the door open, but it’s blocked by something bulky. Er—no. Something wearing a white nightshirt. Someone. Harper.

  By the time I finally realize that it’s Harper himself blocking the doorway, he’s already got his mouth open, ready to scream. Quickly, at the last possible moment before he stops drawing air in and starts sending out his loudest bellow, I reach down and clamp my hand over his mouth.

  “Shh! It’s me, Cecilia. Don’t wake your mam. I have to tell you something,” I whisper into his ear.

  He’s still flailing about, uncomprehending. The watchman’s light is getting brighter behind me. I have only a few seconds left.

  “It’s Eelsy!” I hiss a little louder. Harper stops flailing and nods. I take my hand off his mouth, grab his hand, and pull him out the door, then yank the door shut with my other hand. “The watchman’s coming! This way!”

  I jerk Harper around the corner of his cottage, but the light reaches even there. I’m debating the pros and cons of diving into the bushes at the edge of the woods—the dangers of bumps and scratches versus the value of a good hiding place—when Harper tugs on my hand.

  “No, this way! Into the cowshed!”

  I decide his idea’s better than mine. Seconds later we’re inside the shed, crouching in clumps of straw—rather strong-smelling straw.

  “Ugh! Don’t you ever clean out this place?” I demand of Harper.

  “Never have time,” he says. “Harp practice, remember?”

  I try to forget that it’s not just mud squishing between my toes now. Poor Glissando.

  “Anyhow,” I say, “what were you doing, sleeping right on top of the door, practically?”

  At the same time Harper asks me, “What are you doing, waking me up in the middle of the night?”

  We’re both silent for a moment, then Harper answers first.

  “It’s what soldiers do. Like guard duty. It’s so I could protect my mam, if I had to.”

  In the dark I can hear the huskiness in Harper’s voice, the mix of embarrassment and pride. I don’t say, “That is so silly, Harper,” even though it is. I just say, “Oh.”

  “Your turn,” Harper prods. From his tone of voice I can’t tell if he’s still mad at me or not. I panic at the thought of telling my whole story in the darkness, without once being able to see his face, to judge his reaction.

  “Do you think it’s safe to light a candle in here?” I ask. “I mean, that the watchman won’t notice . . . ?”

  “I guess so,” Harper says. “And you know, that’s one good thing about the straw being kind of wet and mushy. There’s no danger that we’d start a fire.”

  I sense, rather than see, that he’s standing up, rummaging around on a shelf nearby. Then a tiny flame leaps to life at the top of a candle. Glissando moos softly in surprised protes
t, then seems to fall back to sleep, settling into a position that makes it easy for me to lean against her side. Harper sits down too, his hand cupped around the flame.

  “Well?” he says.

  The candle doesn’t help much. I can’t see Harper’s freckles very well. I can’t see his sticking-out ears. What I can see—his nightshirt—seems odd. Harper isn’t a nightshirt type of person. He belongs in the daylight, in pants with ripped knees, with his fishing pole over his shoulder.

  I remind myself that this may be my last chance to tell Harper the truth. I gulp.

  “I came to apologize,” I begin.

  “For what?” Harper asks.

  Boys! I think.

  “For insulting you this morning,” I say. “On our way to the pond. When you said you’d protect me and I made fun of you. About your harp.”

  “Oh. That,” Harper says, and I can hear the edge in his voice again.

  “And for not waiting for you when it was time to get Dancer and Grease from the pasture,” I add. “I knew it just made you madder, but I had my reasons. I did. I’m sorry.”

  I lower my head, humbly, contritely. And also, so that I don’t have to look Harper straight in the eye.

  “That’s all?” Harper says. “You woke me up in the middle of the night just to tell me that?”

  I could say yes, I realize. I could let Harper think I was just conscience-stricken and a little crazy, and now that I’ve sought forgiveness, I could trot right back to my bed and sleep peacefully the rest of the night. But I think of the dark path home, of the effort I made coming down here, of the danger lying in wait for me. I don’t want to lie to Harper anymore.

  “No,” I say.

  “Listen, Eels,” Harper says, with a harsh laugh. “People have been making fun of me and my harp all my life. I’m used to it.”

  “But I haven’t,” I say. “Have I ever said so much as one word to—”

  “You did this morning,” he says sulkily.

  “And that was the only time, right? I’m sorry. Like I said, I had my reasons.” I draw in a shaky breath. “That’s what I came to tell you. My reasons.”

  “Okay.” Harper shrugs. “What are they?”

  I shift positions, turning to face him. I’m still practically reclining on the cow, which isn’t exactly the best location for announcing, “I’m the true princess.” I decide to start with background.

  “Remember, years ago, how the king and queen were murdered?” I say. My voice shakes a little bit. I always feel a little bit weird about this part of my story. “Murdered” is such a brutal word. But calling my parents “the king and queen” makes them sound remote and distant, like all my other long-dead royal ancestors. I don’t have a single memory of my parents, so I don’t really miss them. My earliest memories are of Nanny and Sir Stephen—Nanny and Sir Stephen and Harper.

  I swallow hard.

  “And remember how the assassins couldn’t find the baby princess? So she was saved from being murdered too?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Harper says. “Princess Desmia.”

  “No,” I say. “Not Princess Desmia.”

  I wait, because there’s a chance that Harper might jump up and say, Aha! I knew it all along! It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the real princess, right? I could tell—it’s so obvious! Because I know I’m supposed to be in hiding, but shouldn’t there be something about me that’s so completely royal and regal and, well, special that people could figure out everything if they tried very hard?

  Harper just sits there with a blank, slightly confused expression on his face.

  “Desmia’s a fake,” I say. “A decoy. They just tell people she’s the princess so the real princess will be safe. In case the assassins come back.”

  Now Harper’s eyes narrow into a concerned squint.

  “Uh, Eels?” he says. “You should be real careful about who you say that to. I mean, not that I would tell on you, but I think that’s, uh, treason or something. You’re not allowed to say anything bad about the princess.”

  I realize I’ve forgotten to swear Harper to secrecy, to make him promise that he won’t ever tell anybody else what I’m telling him. I guess I don’t have to. I already know I can trust him.

  “Harper, listen. I know this might be a little . . . surprising. But I’m telling you the truth. Desmia isn’t the true princess. I am.”

  Harper’s expression doesn’t change. He still looks concerned and confused. He blinks a few times, befuddled. Then his face clears. He groans and slaps his hand against his forehead.

  “Eelsy! I can’t believe it! My mam put you up to this, didn’t she? Don’t tell me you’re going to start nagging me to go to that music competition too. All that talk about how those people in the capital are no better than us . . . I have to admit, this one’s pretty creative. You could be a princess as easily as Princess Desmia, and I could be the royal harpist as easily as . . . as my father went off to war and became cannon fodder.” His voice sounds strangled.

  “Harper—”

  “I didn’t think you were on her side, though. Good one, turning my own friend against me.” He laughs, bitterly. “But it’s not going to work. Hear that?” He throws his head back like he’s planning to scream at the top of his lungs, loud enough for his mother to hear him inside the cottage. “It’s not—”

  For the second time tonight, I cram my hand over his mouth, cutting off his scream before it starts.

  “Stop it!” I command him. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your mother or any music competition. This is the truth. I’m the real princess.”

  Harper’s eyes grow to huge shadowed disks. He looks stunned enough that I think I’m safe pulling my hand back.

  He shakes his head.

  “Eelsy, this is crazy. How could I ever believe that?”

  I blink back sudden tears. I didn’t expect this question.

  “I’m your friend,” I say. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “But you do play tricks on me sometimes,” he says suspiciously.

  “Hey! You play more tricks on me than I play on you! Remember that time you gave me that candy made out of onions?”

  “Yeah, but you’re the one who put starch in your hair, to make it stick out straight, and told me you’d been struck by lightning.”

  I’d been particularly proud of that prank, but I’d almost ruined it because I couldn’t stop giggling.

  “Well,” I admit, “if you’d been smart enough to ask, ‘Cecilia, is that the honest truth, swear to God, cross your heart, hope to die?’ I would have confessed.”

  Harper runs his hand through his hair, making it look even messier than usual.

  “Eelsy, you’re sitting in manure! Princesses don’t sit in manure!”

  “They do if they’re in hiding, pretending to be peasants,” I say. My voice cracks on the word “pretending.” “Being a princess isn’t just about sitting in a castle looking pretty.”

  Harper squints at me.

  “Cecilia, is this the honest truth, swear to God, cross your heart, hope to die?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Except I’m hoping not to die, and that’s why I was so scared this morning that I was mean to you, and I really am in danger, and I really do need someone to protect me, and if we were in the same cottage, I would be glad if you were sleeping beside the door, making sure we were safe . . .”

  Harper looks down and gulps so hard that I can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. (When did Harper get grown-up enough that his Adam’s apple sticks out?)

  “I don’t understand,” he says. “If you’re the princess, why would they hide you here?”

  “It’s out of the way,” I say. “They thought it’d be safe. No one would recognize me.”

  Our village is so remote that no one would come here who’s ever been face to face with royalty. No one would ever see me and say, “My goodness, that child is the spitting image of our poor deceased queen.” (Am I? This is something Sir Stephen won’t discuss wi
th me.) I’ve seen my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s profiles on coins, and I’ve studied the coins and compared them to my own image in the pond. But the coins show my grandfather and great-grandfather as old men, with beards and grizzled eyebrows and sagging jowls. And I’m just as happy not to look like that.

  Harper seems to be considering my story with great seriousness. His eyes narrow again.

  “But if you were just a baby . . .” He tilts his head suspiciously. “Did they change your name? And Desmia’s? So they didn’t have to say, ‘Oops, sorry everyone, the princess’s name is actually Desmia, not Cecilia. Don’t pay any attention to this little switch, it doesn’t mean a thing—’ ”

  “I hadn’t been christened yet, when my parents were murdered,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Remember, it’s the custom with the royal family that they don’t announce a baby’s name until the christening day.”

  This is a part of the story that’s always bothered me. I ache a little every time I think about the fact that my parents never got to hold me up in front of the entire kingdom and God himself and announce, “This is our dear, dear child, our baby Cecilia, whom we love beyond endurance. . . .” Sir Stephen says I was barely seen publicly at all before the murderers came. So that saved me from having to live my life under a complete alias, the impostor taking even my name. But somehow, even though I never would have remembered the moment myself, I wish that my parents had lived long enough for my christening ceremony, long enough to show me off to the world, to claim me as their own.

  “But where did Desmia come from?” Harper said. “You can’t just pick up a spare baby in the marketplace—‘Hey, just need a loaner for a while. We’ll bring her back when we’re done.’” He makes a disgusted face.

  “Desmia was just an ordinary orphan. She had no family, no one to care what happened to her,” I say softly. Maybe it’s the word “orphan,” but I can’t look straight at Harper while I say this.

  “So because she’s an orphan and nobody cared, it’s okay to just let her die?” Harper asks in a harsh voice.