The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen

by Delia Sherman

  “No glass slippers,” I said. “I might need to run.”

  The next night, I was standing in Central Park Central between Astris and Mr. Rat, listening to the Lady hand out prizes for the scavenger hunt. The winner was the silver earring, with a pocket mirror (un-magical) and a shiny quarter as runners-up. The winners got to keep what they found, plus their choice of what everybody else had collected.

  It was a beautiful night. The trees were beginning to turn, the ground beneath them scattered with the first of a dragon’s hoard of gold and ruby leaves. The moon was gigantic in a sky so clear and black I could see stars. Jack and his chilly relatives had touched the wind with the promise of frost. Astris had given me a new dress made with wool from the Sheep’s Meadow flock. I was as happy as a rat in a garbage bag.

  And then Astris started chittering. “He’s here again. The Mermaid’s Voice!”

  I looked past a flock of fauns to the Lady’s granite throne, where the Lady, crowned with leaves, was glaring at the shiny-vested mortal who had threatened the Park on the last full moon. I remembered Airboy had said that the changeling’s name was Oxygen, and he wasn’t really ready to be a Voice. Now that I’d been around mortals, I could tell he wasn’t grown up yet—maybe Stonewall’s age. He was nervous.

  “Hail, Green Lady of Central Park,” he said. “Have you considered the Queen’s offer?”

  The Lady laughed angrily. “You call that an offer? Sounded a lot like a threat to me. Yeah, I’m thinking about it, and I’m not done yet. Get lost, Fish Boy.”

  “That’s the Lady,” Astris said, voice sad, whiskers admiring. “Proud as the rocks underfoot and twice as hard.”

  In other words, the Queen was a pigheaded idiot. And I seemed to be the only one who thought it was a problem.

  When Oxygen was gone, Astris grabbed Mr. Rat and plunged into the dancing. I ran up to the Castle and climbed into bed, where I shut out the stars with the curtains and the music with my pillow.

  Chapter 13

  RULE 208: STUDENTS MUST GIVE THEIR FELLOW MORTALS AID IF ASKED, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, ADVICE, HELPFUL FACTS, CUPS OF TEA, AND USEFUL TALISMANS AND ARTICLES OF CLOTHING SUCH AS CLOAKS, BOOTS, WOOLLY HATS, AND UMBRELLAS.

  Miss Van Loon’s Big Book of Rules

  I told Astris about Lincoln Center the next morning.

  Her whiskers quivered like butterfly wings. “How very exciting,” she said. “You’ll wear the silver dress, of course, and I’ll see if I can fix up Satchel a bit. You’ll be needing a carriage. And a cloak. Oh, and a ticket.” Her pink nose wrinkled. “I can’t magic up a ticket.”

  “It’s all set,” I said. “This Lincoln Center changeling said he’d fix it up for me.”

  The whiskers went into overdrive. “A mortal boy has invited you to the ballet? Oh, dear. Is this a Date?” I could hear the capital letter in her voice. “The Fairy Nurse told me about Dates. Is he going to make you pay him with a kiss?”

  I went hot, then cold, then hot again. “It’s not a date,” I managed at last. “It’s a quest. Sheesh, Astris. He’s a friend. I wish I hadn’t said anything. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s probably against Rule Three.”

  The whiskers went still. “Rule Three’s very convenient, isn’t it?” Astris fixed me with a ruby eye. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, pet? Oh, dear me. A Quest and a Date. Whatever next?”

  When I came down the stairs in the Dress Silver as the Moon, Astris, Mr. Rat, all the mice wintering in the basement, and some of the bolder ghosts were waiting in the kitchen to see me off. Astris had spent the afternoon with the dress and a bottle of polish. It was pale gray now, and patches of it glittered in the lamplight like stars in a cloudy sky.

  “Ooh,” said the ghosts, who were easily impressed.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night,” murmured Mr. Rat, who liked poetry.

  Astris handed me Satchel, spelled down to half its size and decorated with a silver bow. “You look very nice, pet,” she said. “Remember to pay the horse and the driver—Satchel will give you some cheese. Try not to get the cloak wet. And remember that the carriage won’t last past midnight.” She looked at my sneakered feet. “Oh, dear. Are you sure you don’t want me to change those into glass slippers for you?”

  “They’re fine,” I said. “I’ll remember about the carriage. You’re a peach, Astris.”

  She patted my skirt fondly and said she’d see me at midnight.

  Pumpkins are thin on the ground in Central Park, so Astris had provided me with an apple cart. It had a shiny red body and round, bright green wheels and white velvet upholstery. Astris had recruited one of our mice and a (non-talking) rat and turned them into a cabbie and a dun-colored cab horse, both with buck teeth. The cabbie tucked my silver skirts inside the door, jumped into the driver’s seat, squeaked at the horse, and we were off.

  In no time at all, we were through the Park and stuck in traffic in Columbus Circle. I saw horseless carriages and chariots pulled by everything from frogs to gigantic dogs, plus coaches made from every kind of fruit I could think of, including a pomegranate. There was even an old-fashioned witch’s sulky hitched to a pair of fire-breathing goats.

  Then my rat-horse leapt into a gap between two carriages and the apple cart lurched forward, throwing me back against the white velvet seat.

  Eventually, we pulled up to Lincoln Center and stopped. Everything—the plaza, the fountain, the three theaters—glittered with fairy lights and jeweled torches, as bright as Broadway but a lot more elegant. It was all I could do to wait for the cabbie to open the door and help me unpack myself from the apple cart. I did, however, remember to give him the cheese before I picked up my silver skirts and marched up the golden steps to the Plaza.

  The crowd in the Plaza was dressed to kill. I saw lots of fur—both self-grown and borrowed—and velvet cloaks and lace and fairy dust. Folk with fingers or necks had decorated them lavishly with jewels. Many wore top hats, and not just the vampires, either. I was glad to see my dress fit right in.

  Since Danskin had said he’d meet me in the lobby, I stationed myself by a door, where I’d be easy to find. A stream of elves, kitsune, afrits, air spirits of a hundred different nations poured past me. No Danskin.

  Maybe I was early. I waited. The stream slowed to a trickle. Still no Danskin.

  When I realized he wasn’t coming, I was furious. Also, without a ticket or any way of buying one: Satchel didn’t do gold.

  Well, I’d just jump in and hope for the best.

  By now, there was almost nobody in the lobby except a group of East Side fairies and the guardian spirit taking tickets by the stairs. The fairies headed for the stairs in a clump. I slid in behind them.

  A muscular arm in a dark blue jacket barred my way. “Ticket, please.”

  “Oh, dear.” I looked up at the uniformed guardian. “Didn’t Prince Hyacinthe give you my ticket just now? Maybe you dropped it. Will you check?”

  The guardian spirit didn’t take his eyes off me. They were a cold, clear blue, like sunlight through thick ice. “One person, one ticket,” he said. “If you have no ticket, you go away.”

  His hair was ice white, hanging in two long braids over the shoulders of his jacket. I guessed he was from Finland or Norway.

  I opened my mouth to explain about Danskin and the promised tickets, shut it when I realized he probably wouldn’t believe me, not after the lie about “Prince Hyacinthe.”

  “I have to see the ballet. I’m on a quest. See?” I pulled the quest pass from the neck of my dress. “Here’s my pass.”

  The guardian bent to examine the medal. “Nice metal-work. Pure gold. Very pretty. Not a ticket, though.”

  “A quest pass is like a ticket,” I said. “It gets you into places the quest leads you to. Like the Ballet Theater. It’s very important.”

  The guardian chuckled. “You are funny person. Very entertaining. You might should go to Broadway. But not to ballet. Here is high art, not low joking.”

 
; “This isn’t a joke. You’re a guardian spirit, right?”

  He proudly tugged his jacket straight. “Ovenvartija,” he said. “Door Warden in the Old Country. I come over with my family. Family go west, I stay New York. Now I am Usher at Ballet. Is good job.”

  “Well, Usher . . .”

  “Fred,” he corrected me.

  “Fred?”

  “New country, new job, new name.” He leaned down a little. “We talk about you see ballet with no ticket, better you talk to Fred.”

  “Okay then. Fred. I really have to see this ballet.”

  The ice-blue eyes narrowed. “You such big fan, why I never see you before?”

  “I’m not a fan.” Fred frowned. “I told you, I’m on a quest. My Neighborhood is in danger and I’m the only one who can save it.”

  “Swan Lake is ballet,” Fred pointed out. “Ballet is beautiful only. I think you are telling mortal thing. What you call it? When story is not true?”

  “You mean a lie. And no, I’m not. I really do need to see Swan Lake. I’m looking for a swan maiden, you see, and—”

  “Swan Lake has plenty swan maidens.” Fred thought for a moment. “Is impossible, what you ask. My job is to make sure nobody sees ballet who does not pay.”

  I pulled the strip of silver moon-cloth out of my hair. “This is silver. Also magic. Will it do?”

  Fred made it disappear into his pocket. “Come. I hear overture begin.”

  He led me up a wide flight of marble stairs to a glass and marble hall you could have fit all of Belvedere Castle into with room to spare. He headed for another, narrower stair, which led to another and another and another. I climbed grimly, thankful I’d held out for my sneakers, getting slower and slower. Fred grabbed a handful of my cloak, dragged me up the last flight of steps, across a carpeted hall, and through a bronze door into a darkness full of beautiful, swoony music.

  We stood inside the door while I got my breath back and my eyes adjusted to the dark. We were up by the ceiling of a gigantic cavern filled with rows and rows of well-dressed Folk. About ten miles below was a dazzling stage. On it, a bunch of dancers, tiny as mice, moved in patterns like the figures of a fairy reel, but much more complicated.

  I didn’t see any swans.

  Fred guided me to a velvet-covered rail. “Stand here,” he whispered, and slipped away.

  Figuring the swans would show up later, I settled down to watch. I knew the dancers had to be Folk—ballet was high art, after all—but they seemed to be pretending to be mortals. Nobody flew, although they jumped around a lot, and there was lots of bowing and touching each other, which isn’t usual Folk behavior at all. They were mostly dressed like peasants, too, except for a few elves in tights and velvet jackets that didn’t even cover their butts.

  One elf, in blue tights and a tiny gold crown, was clearly a handsome prince. After watching everyone dance for a while, he picked up a little golden bow and ran offstage. I guessed he was going hunting. I hoped it was for swans.

  At that point, the curtain went down. Everybody got up and wandered around, but I stayed where I was, in case somebody wanted to see my ticket. I wasn’t going to risk getting thrown out before the swans showed up.

  Finally, everybody came back, the lights dimmed, and the curtain rose again on a fake-looking forest. The handsome prince came on and leapt around the stage, waving his little golden bow in a way the Pooka would have said was very dangerous. Luckily, he didn’t have an arrow.

  Suddenly, the music rippled, and a large white swan flew onstage and circled the prince, who dropped the bow. The swan touched down lightly and swept off her swan-skin in a dramatic, feathery swirl to reveal her maiden-self in a floaty white dress. She stood perfectly still while, one by one, the rest of the flock followed her, until maybe two dozen swan maidens were posing gracefully around the startled prince.

  There was a little pause, the music changed, and another swan flew onstage. She was too far away to see clearly, but I knew right away she was a princess because of her little gold crown. She had a short, stiff skirt sticking out around her waist like a sparkly wheel. When she lifted her arms, the music soared and twirled and leapt, pulling the swan princess and her court of maidens along with it.

  I forgot my feet. I even forgot my quest. I was enchanted.

  In the next scene, the handsome prince was throwing a party. An evil wizard in a shiny black cape showed up uninvited with a princess in tow, this one a black swan. She didn’t look a thing like the swan princess the prince had danced with in the forest, but the prince couldn’t tell the difference. I thought he was pretty stupid, never to have heard of glamours. After a lot of fuss and dancing, it all ended sadly, with the white swan dying and the prince jumping into a lake. I knew it was silly, but I still cried.

  After the curtain closed for the last time, the two swan princesses, the handsome prince, and the evil wizard came out in front of the curtain and bowed. I wiped my eyes and clapped until my palms stung.

  “Come,” someone said in my ear. I jumped. I’d forgotten Fred. “We go backstage now.”

  There was no marble or red carpet backstage, just twisty passages full of gnomes, brownies, and household spirits of many lands running around holding clothes and ballet shoes and little toy bows and wooden cups and pretend food from the party scene. Fred herded me to a corridor that looked identical to all the others, only some of the doors had stars on them.

  “Chorus,” he said, pointing. “Principals there: Odette, Odile, Prince, Evil Wizard.” He gave me a doubtful look. “You know swans?”

  There were swans in the Park—non-magical ones. Pretty from a distance. I’d tried to make friends once, when I was little. It hadn’t gone well. “Kind of.”

  He looked doubtful. “After performance, they are difficult. Artistic temperament.” He hesitated. “You are true hero, young mortal, even if you are not blonde.”

  I told him he was very kind. I didn’t even need to count to ten. Maybe my temper was getting less volatile.

  At the dressing room door, I listened. Women’s voices, laughter, a couple of honks. It didn’t sound dangerous. I wasn’t sure what Fred meant by artistic temperament, but how bad could it be? It’s not like the swan maidens could eat me or anything: swans don’t have teeth. I knocked. Nobody said to go away, so I opened the door.

  Two dozen swan maidens in various stages of transformation turned their beady black eyes on me and hissed.

  “Stranger!”

  “Danger!”

  “Go away, go away, go away!”

  I took a deep breath and started babbling. I don’t even remember exactly what I said. The dancing was magical, the maidens were beautiful, graceful, terrifying. I’d never imagined anything could be that wonderdul, and I just wanted to thank them. Nice things. It helped that I meant every word.

  Admiration usually softens Folk up, but the swan maidens must have been too artistically temperamental to even hear me. The more maidenlike ones darted their heads at me on necks longer and more supple than was comfortable to look at. Fully feathered swans beat their powerful wings, whipping the heavy silver skirts of my dress against my legs.

  “Shaddup!” a voice screeched behind me. “What’s with you ladies? Her Grand High Swanness must have quiet after a performance. You want her in here?”

  A silence fell over the dressing room, in which I could hear the soft rustle of settling feathers. The swans dipped their heads sheepishly.

  I turned around.

  My rescuer was a mortal girl, her hands on her hips, her hair twisted up and skewered with a long white feather. I thought she was definitely older than Tiffany.

  “What’re you staring at?” she demanded. “And why are you here?”

  I curtsied hastily. “I’m on a quest.”

  “Oh, you’re Danskin’s questing girl. Don’t tell me he stood you up.”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  The girl glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, boy,” she said. “Don’t you kno
w not to turn your back on an angry swan?”

  At that point, I found out that a Dress Silver as the Moon is good for more than impressing Folk at Full Moon Gatherings. The swan’s bite hurt me, but not nearly as much as getting a beakful of silver cloth hurt the swan. I heard a squawk, then the sound of webbed feet shuffling away.

  The girl laughed. “I guess you’re not as soft as you look. So you’re on a quest, huh? What’re you looking for? A swan cloak? A used ballet slipper?”

  I pulled myself together. “A mirror.” I made a circle with my hands. “About yea big. Silver rim, no stand. I heard that a dwarf gave it to a swan maiden. Have you seen it?”

  If it had been quiet when the girl had yelled at the swan maidens, it was even quieter now. The girl smiled. “Snowbell. You’re talking about Snowbell.”

  “Who’s Snowbell?”

  The girl got a sly look on her face. She looked like a pixie, sharp-faced and skinny, with big eyes and a pointy chin and soft brown hair. “Come and see.”

  Snowbell, it turned out, was the swan princess—the white swan, Odette. She was sitting in a large, untidy nest in a dressing room crowded with water lilies, irises, and reeds growing in painted china tubs. Her swan skin was spread over a couple of chairs to air out, and she had a fluffy pink jacket draped over her shoulders. She looked crabby.

  “Where have you been, Minx?” she complained as my rescuer opened the door. “I’ve been calling and calling. I can’t reach my . . . What on earth is that?”

  The girl Minx began to take the pins out of Snowbell’s hair. “It’s a mortal, madame,” she said, her voice soft and soothing as honey on a sore throat.

  “Why did you bring her here?” Snowbell snapped. “You know I need to be alone.”

  “I thought she might amuse you, madame.” Minx softened her voice even more. “Your dancing made her cry.”

  “Is this true?”