Palace of Mirrors

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Desmia.

  Forgetting the music—fiasco or phenomenon, whichever it was—I weave my way toward her. This is my lucky day: She’s sitting in the front row. Still clutching the back of my dress, I lower myself into a curtsy. Rising, I scoot forward, so that my face comes up only inches from her right ear.

  “I am the true princess,” I whisper. “I have come to relieve you of your dangerous duty.”

  Desmia squints at me for a moment, and at first I think that I have spoken too fast; she seems not to have understood a single word I’ve said. But then her eyes widen, her rosebud mouth forms into an O of surprise.

  “Meet me in the antechamber,” she whispers back. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I nod, and then I feel Harper’s hand on my back. Bless him—he’s clutching the ripped part of my dress together for me, under the pretense of chivalrously guiding me out of the room.

  We step through a lavishly padded door into another hallway that’s just as mirror-filled as the first one. This hallway has pillars as well, so every other step blocks out my view of the mirrors. It’s funny to see how our faces change between steps: At first we both just look stunned, as if we’re surprised we’ve escaped the music competition alive. Harper has sweat dripping off his brow, and his hair is sticking out in all directions. By the next glimpse we both have huge grins on our faces, relief making us giddy. And then, two steps on, anxiety and anticipation have taken over our expressions again. I’m thinking about how Desmia will be coming out to meet us, and what I should say and do then.

  I don’t know what Harper could possibly be thinking, to look so grim.

  “It worked!” I whisper to him. “I told her!”

  “Good,” he replies in a clipped voice.

  “She’s meeting us in this hall, I guess,” I say. Surely that was what she meant by “antechamber,” wasn’t it? I crane my neck, looking around, as if I expect to see a huge sign someplace labeling the room. This motion pulls at the back of my dress, and I feel a few more stitches give way.

  “Uh, Harper?” I say. “How bad is it back there?” Now I’m trying to look over my shoulder, but I can’t see the rip.

  Harper bends down, his hands hesitantly touching my waist.

  “I think if I just pull off the sash . . .,” he says, and I feel another tearing behind me. He stands to face me, and holds up the mangled, fraying remains of the yellow ribbon I’d been so proud of. “There. You’ve still got a rip in the dress, but it’s not that big. At least now it’s not going to get any worse.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “That’s a relief.”

  Harper stuffs the ruined sash in his pocket.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says roughly. “Soon you’ll be getting a new dress. All the dresses you want. New dresses, new home, new life . . .”

  “Sure,” I say, and smile at him. But he’s looking past me, over my shoulder.

  I turn around, and Desmia is right there.

  15

  Desmia is stepping through the same door from the theater that we used. Her cheeks are flushed just as rosy pink as her dress—she’s excited, I think. Thrilled that I’ve come to rescue her. Her dark eyes are still wide and startled-looking—of course. She never expected me to just show up like this. Even though she’s rushing toward us, her skirt sways with a graceful elegance that I could never emulate. The dress worries me anyhow. It’s silk, I think, and gleams as much as the mirrors around us, beauty beyond beauty. You’d have to be so careful, wearing a dress like that. Maybe you wouldn’t even be able to breathe. And I didn’t do very well even with regular clothes. . . . I sneak another glance in the mirror, at my ripped dress with its grass stains and dirt smears and fig juice spills. I don’t look so ridiculous without the sash, but I still look like a ragamuffin. I look even worse in contrast to Desmia.

  But I am the true princess, I remind myself.

  “Desmia—,” I begin.

  “Shh,” she shushes me, her finger to her lips. “We can’t talk here.”

  A man I hadn’t noticed before comes up behind us, and clears his throat in a way that makes me feel scolded.

  “A-hem. Contestants should not be bothering the princess,” he says.

  The brass buttons on his coat are so large and polished to such a gloss that I can see our reflection in them—mine, Harper’s, and beautiful Desmia’s.

  “You’re dismissed, Fulston,” Desmia says imperiously. “I shall see these competitors out myself.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the man says. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  He bows low and backs away, and I nearly giggle, because that is exactly how servants act in The Royal Guide to Palace Decorum, Chapter 3: “It Takes a Village to Run a Palace.” He all but fades into the shadows, opening and closing the door back into the theater so quickly and quietly that it’s almost as if he was never there.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, Desmia beckons to us.

  “This way,” she says.

  She slides around behind one of the pillars, gently touches the frame of one of the mirrors, and—amazing!—the mirror swings out like a door. Behind the mirror, stairs ascend into darkness.

  “A secret passageway?” Harper whispers, in awe.

  I’m awed too. But I’m also thinking that I should have known about this. With everything else Sir Stephen had me memorize, why didn’t he have me study a map of the palace? Knowing about secret passageways in my own home seems a lot more useful to me than knowing the exports of countries three mountain ranges away.

  “Where does . . .,” Harper starts to ask, but Desmia has her finger pressed against her lips again, silencing him. She gazes anxiously from side to side, then removes a lamp from its ornate holder between the mirrors.

  “You can’t talk in here at all, understand?” she says. “People can hear everything from the rooms around the passageway, and they’re not supposed to know it exists.”

  My head is bursting with questions. Like, Why would the princess—or someone pretending to be the princess—have to skulk around in secret passageways in her own palace? Who is she hiding from? What “people” is she so worried about? What would happen if they did hear us? But I bite my lip and follow her into the darkness.

  Desmia moves swiftly up the stairs, and Harper and I have to rush to keep up with her, to keep up with the light. This isn’t easy in clumsily sewn felt shoes, since the stone stairs are slippery and uneven. After a few steps and a near stumble I see Harper shrug and pull the shoes from his feet. “I’d make an awful noise, tripping,” he whispers apologetically in my ear. “I’ll put them back on as soon as we get to the top.”

  I decide his logic is sound, and so I do the same. I hope Desmia doesn’t notice.

  She glances back at us every few paces, but it doesn’t seem like she’s trying to make sure that we’re keeping up. Now that we’re in this dim, narrow stairway, I can’t see her face, can’t read her expression at all. But it’s starting to feel like she’s trying to run away from us. Like she’s afraid of us.

  I want to act graciously toward Desmia. I have the words of my old playacted ceremony from the cow pasture running through my head: I, Princess Cecilia Aurora Serindia Marie, do hereby proclaim my gratitude to the commoner Desmia. . . . It is a fortunate ruler who has such loyal subjects. . . . Dealing with Desmia will be my first deed as the newly revealed true princess; I want everything to go exactly right. But I can’t help but feel annoyed that she’s being so inconsiderate, keeping the light so far ahead, not even acting like she cares that we’re falling behind.

  Fine, be that way, I think. I can run fast too.

  I speed up, paying less attention to the slapping of my bare feet against the stone steps. If I’m too loud, it’s not my fault—it’s hers. But then Desmia speeds up as well. By the time we finally reach a door that’s dozens and dozens of steps above the ground floor, all three of us are panting. Desmia opens the door a crack and peeks cautiously out. Harper and I both try surreptitiousl
y to cram our felt shoes back on our feet, but I’ve got the second one only halfway on when Desmia shoves the door all the way open, revealing a spacious, airy room, with an entire wall covered in a colorful tapestry, and imposing gilded furniture scattered at tasteful intervals. There’s not a soul in sight, so I risk whispering, “Can we talk yet?”

  Desmia shakes her head.

  “Not until we’re somewhere we’re sure no one will hear us,” she says.

  She turns her back on us once more, her hair bouncing gracefully on her shoulders, and she leads us through a labyrinth of rooms. I see a huge, veiled bed just around one corner—off to the left, as we’re turning to the right—and it occurs to me that these must be her bedchambers.

  No, my bedchambers, I remind myself. My head feels woozy; my stomach’s gone twitchy with nerves. Everything I’ve been reading about and dreaming about—it’s real! Take slow, regal breaths, I think. Just off the top of my head I can remember six times in my country’s history when a princess or even a queen toppled delicately into a swoon. But I don’t think fainting would be the wisest course of action for me right now.

  It would help if I could take slow, regal steps along with my slow, regal breaths, but Desmia is hurrying even faster now.

  “Come,” she calls back to us, and Harper, at least, races ahead.

  We’ve reached another stone staircase now. This one isn’t hidden, but it loops back upon itself so I can’t see where it leads. No, wait, now I do—it spirals up into a tower.

  “We can talk at the top,” Desmia murmurs, from her position on a higher step.

  I want a few moments to gawk. I’ve just come to the first window in the tower wall. Down below I can see the courtyard where Harper and I stood yesterday, watching Desmia. It’s so early that only a few people scurry across the stones; from this distance they seem as remote as ants. Beyond the courtyard I can peer down on the roofs of the city and the graceful city walls, and then far out to the rolling hills of the countryside.

  “Move along!” a harsh voice cries out. “Bawk!”

  I jump so high in my astonishment that I’m lucky I don’t fall out the window. I gaze around frantically for the source of the voice. It was so loud, right in my ear, but Harper and Desmia are now far above me, and anyhow neither of them has a voice like that—no one I’ve ever met has a voice like that. . . . Ah.

  Right beside the window, in a little alcove I didn’t notice before because I was too amazed by the scenery, there’s a wire contraption. If I didn’t know any better, I would say it was a sculpture, or maybe some odd, heretofore unknown plant: From a slim metal pole it rises from the floor and bursts, at eye level, into twists and turns of wire that flare out like petals and then all meet again at the top, high above my head.

  It’s a birdcage.

  I know, because I’ve seen pictures in books. Which king was it who was known as the Bird King because of his vast aviaries? Somebody the Fifth. Alphonse? No, maybe Aldons, the same one who—

  “Bawk! Move along!”

  This time I don’t jump, because I see the bird, finally. I don’t know how I missed it before. It’s bright green and bright yellow and bright red, and swinging on a little stick on chains in the middle of the cage. Even though I’ve read about talking parrots, even though I saw the bird’s beak move when I heard the words, this still seems too incredible to believe.

  “Cecilia?” It’s Harper, calling out to me from above. Worried.

  “Coming,” I call back softly. Then I dare to add, “Did you see the talking bird?”

  “Three of them, so far,” Harper says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.

  I rush on up the stairs—twisting, turning—and he’s right. There’s one alcove after another, each one with a more elaborate birdcage containing a more brilliantly colored bird.

  “Bawk! Watch it!” one cries.

  “Bawk! Be careful!” calls another.

  Every few steps there’s a new bird. We’ve set them off—or their brothers and sisters’ calls have set them off—because they’re all squawking now. I can’t make out individual words anymore; it’s just one huge cacophony of screeching and shrieking and squealing.

  Was this why Desmia thought nobody could hear us up here? Did she think to wonder about whether we’d be able to hear each other?

  She’s looking back at us, Harper and me. She’s still a few steps ahead, almost around the bend in the spiral stairs.

  “Hurry,” she says.

  At least that’s what I think she says. I’m mostly just reading her lips.

  We rush up around another few turns, and the squawks and screeches die down behind us. The stairway is narrowing; there’s no more room for birdcages.

  And then I turn a corner, and the floor is flat ahead of me—we’ve reached the end of the stairs. Through a wooden door I see a row of windows letting in glorious sunlight after the dimness of the past stretch of stairs.

  “Desmia?” I say, because she seems to have disappeared.

  “After you,” she says. She’s standing over by the edge of the door—an area that seems shadowed in contrast to the sunlit room beyond. She lifts her hand, gracefully indicating that Harper and I should step into the room first.

  I think about this. Everything I’ve learned from Sir Stephen suddenly seems jumbled in my mind. What’s the rule—does royalty always enter a room first? Or last? Is Desmia honoring me, acknowledging my true identity? Or has she forgotten that now she won’t have to pretend anymore, claiming royal privileges she doesn’t deserve?

  Harper, not one to be plagued with etiquette questions, simply steps into the room. I glance at Desmia to see if she approves or disapproves—if, maybe, she would be annoyed that Harper’s gone ahead of me, breaking the rules. But Desmia’s face, in the shadows, is a mask I can’t interpret.

  I step into the room too. I want to race over to the window and peer out, to see how much farther away the ground seems, how much smaller the people look, now that we’re at the top of the tower. But I remind myself of my royal role. I have duties and obligations now. This is what I was born to, what I was raised for, what I walked so far to do. I turn back toward Desmia, my old playacting words on my tongue, ready to be spoken for real: I hereby proclaim my gratitude . . .

  Perhaps I should save those words until Desmia is kneeling before me?

  Desmia is not kneeling. Desmia is not getting ready to kneel. Desmia is slamming the door behind us, turning a key in a lock, sliding a bar across the door.

  Desmia is on the other side of the door.

  I freeze. My mind can’t seem to grasp what’s just happened.

  Desmia puts her face against a tiny window—a tiny window crisscrossed by smaller bars.

  “You are not the true princess,” she snarls through the bars. “I am.”

  16

  No!”

  I fling myself at the door, shoving against it. The bar and the lock hold firm. I wrap my hands around the window bars and jerk on them, uselessly.

  “Desmia, you don’t understand,” I say. “I came to save you! Didn’t anybody ever tell you the truth?”

  She’s backing away from the door, toward the stairs. She lifts her head, regally, looking down her nose at me.

  “They told me to beware of pretenders to the throne,” she says. “They told me that I have enemies, that I must always be on guard—”

  “No, no, that’s not the truth,” I say, shoving against the door again. It doesn’t budge. “I mean, there are enemies, yes, but you and me, we’re on the same side. They’re enemies to us both. You are the pretender, but you’re doing it to help me, the true princess, and—”

  “Who’s wearing silk?” she asks, her words practically a hiss. “Who’s wearing rags?”

  “Desmia, this is ridiculous,” I say. I try to think if Sir Stephen taught me anything about how to handle subordinates who are insubordinate, but all my royal textbooks were sketchy when it came to talking about sedition. I don’t think “Off with
their heads!” would go over very well right now.

  I try a more diplomatic approach.

  “Go ask your royal adviser, or the leader of the knights, or someone who would remember my parents, the king and queen,” I say. “Surely someone can tell you the truth. Someone can tell you that your life is in danger as long as you’re pretending to be the princess, that it’s in your best interest to—”

  “Are you threatening me?” Desmia gasps.

  “No, no, it’s not like that. You’re not in danger from me. I’m here to rescue you, to relieve you of—”

  But Desmia is gone. She’s already whirled around, dashed down the stairs. I can hear the birds again, far below: “Watch it! Be careful! Bawk!”

  “Desmia, wait!” I scream. “Come back! I am the true princess! I’m not lying to you! I am the princess!”

  I go a little crazy, I think, because suddenly I’m battering my shoulder against the door and shaking the bars and clawing my fingernails at the crack between the wooden door and the stone wall. And the whole time I’m screaming out, “I am the true princess! I am. Listen to me! I’m the princess!”

  Then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Harper’s. I’ve forgotten that he’s here with me, that he’s locked in too.

  “I’m the princess!” I sob to him. Somehow my shoulder is down near the bottom of the door now, my face only inches from the floor. I’ve sagged down to the hard stones, practically rock bottom. “I am!” I whimper.

  “Eelsy,” Harper says, leaning over me. “What if you’re not?”

  17

  I can only stare at Harper. My cheek hits something hard—the stone floor. I’ve completely collapsed now. I am prostrate on the floor.

  “You . . . you think I’m lying?” I whimper. “Then why did you come with me? Why did you act like you thought I was telling the truth?”

  Harper’s looming above me. I can hardly bear to look up at him. The tears in my eyes blur him into somebody else. Somebody who doesn’t believe me. Somebody who’d rather believe a stranger in a silk dress.