“What is it you wish for, Word Weaver?” the face within the mirror says, and a hint of a smile pulls on those lips.
This isn’t happening. A talking mirror?
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” I whisper, completely desperate to try anything. “Take me back to where I belong.”
The light sizzles again, and the round face disappears, revealing a foggy path. The mist parts, showing Bella and Chet riding their horses, calling out my name.
The wolf whips its head, growling in anger. Then it bounds down the hallway toward me. I have about two seconds to save myself.
I don’t hesitate. I leap across the hall toward the mirror. I push my arms straight forward so that my body flies parallel to the ground. I’m either going to crack my head open or fly through the mirror to my friends.
Claws scrape across my leg.
But the mirror sucks me inside, wrapping me in mist and magic.
Experimental Medical Practices: The best form of
getting rid of delusions is to get knocked on the
side of the head. If that doesn’t work, then we at
Experimental Medical Practices believe the
situation must be hopeless.
The pounding of horses’ hooves wakes me up. I blink against the harsh light as Chet leans down at my side.
“Keira!” Bella splashes through the mud toward me and then wraps me in her arms. “Oh, wow! Are you hurt?”
“No.” I moan. “I just got the wind knocked out of me.”
“You’ve got a bad scratch on your leg and it’s bleeding,” Chet says. I bet it is, I think. That horrible wolf raked its claws through me. “Can you stand? Any broken bones?”
Sludgy water drips down my face, but I don’t care. I’m so happy to be alive. I wobble on my feet, while Chet and Bella support my arms. “I flew on Pegasus and entered a magical mirror to escape wolves that were trying to kill me. That’s where I got the scrap from.”
“Uh-oh.” Bella scrunches up her face like she’s worried for my sanity. “She really did hit her head.”
But not Chet. He whistles softly. “You flew on Pegasus? I’m so jealous.”
“I need to get back to the castle ASAP,” I say. “There’s something I need to see.”
* * *
Back at the castle, Cheryl applies antiseptic and Band-Aids to my scrape. My fingers jiggle as each second feels like eternity. The moment she’s finished, I bolt down the hall and bound up the stairs to our room, ignoring the pain from the scratch on my leg. I throw open my suitcase and toss my clothes onto the floor until I find it.
The pen.
It shimmers in my hand, and a spark of electricity skitters across my skin. I suppose deep down I had known the truth of the pen, but I hadn’t wanted to admit it. It’s more than a good luck pen. It’s a magical pen.
Bella and Chet stumble into the room, panting slightly. They stare at me like I’ve lost it. I can’t imagine how I must look to them. Mud-strewn, wild hair from riding Pegasus, bandaged. Clothes are scattered about the floor, and I’m there sitting in the center of it all.
“Close the door,” I say.
Bella hesitates, but Chet quickly follows orders.
“You need to promise to never tell anyone about this.” My voice shakes. Maybe it’s because I know that, once I voice the pen’s true nature, it will make everything more real. “Chet, even your dad. Okay?”
“I’m most definitely in.” Chet bounces on his toes like he’s ready to climb the canopy bed.
I hold the pen up. Its silvery sheen glistens in the sunlight.
“A pen? That’s what this is all about?” Bella sighs, relief flooding her features. “For a second, I thought you were going to tell us something terrible happened.”
The lump in my throat grows. “Something terrible has happened. This pen isn’t just an ordinary pen. It’s magical.”
“Magical?” Chet plops down to sit in front of me, scrutinizing the pen. “How does it work? Is it like a genie lamp that grants wishes or turns pumpkins into coaches?”
“Not quite. I think it brings the stories I write to life. Because the fairy tale I wrote seems to be coming alive for me.”
“Sweet! Can I try it out?” Chet reaches for the pen, but I snatch it away, tucking it against my muddy shirt.
I don’t want to lend him the pen, but then, maybe this would be a good test to see if it does have magical powers. So with shaky fingers, I hand over the journal and pen. Testing my theory may actually be the best first step.
“Now write something,” I say. “See if it comes true.”
“I’m going to write about how I’m the first eleven-year-old to climb Everest,” Chet says. Then he presses the pen’s tip to the page and starts writing. I hold my breath.
But nothing happens.
“Hey.” Chet holds the pen in the air, scrutinizing it. “This thing doesn’t work. I think it needs more ink.”
“It hasn’t been working for me either, lately. I don’t know why.” I grab the pen from him and scribble in the corner. Glittery blue ink pours from the tip, spilling onto the paper. Sparkles spin into the air, curling around us as if it’s teasing us.
“Sugar and spice.” Bella gasps. “What was that? How did you do that sparkly thing?”
“It’s the pen,” I say in a whisper. “I’m telling you. It’s got magical powers. When I write something, it comes true. But ever since I wrote the fairy tale, I keep trying to write, yet it’s like I’ve got writer’s block. I don’t know what to write. Here, let me try to write something.”
The pen bursts to life and ink begins to flow.
A magical rope swings from the top turret of the castle.
But I don’t write any further, because Chet exclaims, “Hot fire! This is wild stuff.” Chet’s on his feet again, pacing back and forth before me. “I’ve got an idea for a story! Write about the three of us as pirates. I want to have a ship all to myself and a shiny sword with a hilt packed full of gems.”
“Pirates?”
“Definitely not pirates.” Bella scrunches up her face like she’s tasted sour candy. “Write a story about me becoming a famous designer!”
“And make it a fun story,” Chet continues. He picks up the fire poker and slashes the air with it. Then he jumps up on the bed, swinging around the bedpost, brandishing the poker like he’s fighting off a horde of scoundrels.
Hearing them speak, my fingers twitch and the pen warms in my hand. The aching need to write with the pen overwhelms me, but suddenly fear mingles with that desperation. What if I write about a horrible monster like that wolf? What if something goes wrong and a murdering stepsister forms out of the words I create? “Guys,” I say weakly. “Please stop. I don’t think I should write any more stories.”
“I can’t decide where I want my designs to appear in,” Bella says, completely ignoring my worries.
“Or maybe I should climb K2 because technically that’s the harder peak to climb.”
My hand shakes and sweat pours down my face. Bella’s and Chet’s voices fade away. The pen is sapphire. It’s an ocean, full of frothing waves and the deepest indigo depths. Its cerulean skies stretch beyond into an unknown land of mystery and intrigue.
A wind cuts across my face, slashing my hair against my cheeks and spraying sea salt on my lips. I taste the salt, and the sound of steel clashing against steel vibrates through my being. My balance is off, so I steady myself on the shifting boat.
There’s a sword in my hand and before me is Chet, grinning that devilish grin of his. A sea serpent rises up from the depths. Its emerald scales glint in the sun’s rays and its giant eye blinks at us as if we’d be a lovely lunch.
A scream escapes from me. But apparently, Chet isn’t daunted. Unlike me, he lets out a loud whoop, darting his sword into the air.
I see it all. I feel it. I’m living it.
So I write like one possessed. The words spill out of my pen and I can’t form my letters fast enough. I’m
caught in a maelstrom of words, spinning and churning, and it’s wildly intoxicating.
Until hands grab me. Someone rips the pen from my hand. The magic’s presence scatters and my heart dives into utter despair.
Sleuthing 101: Any good spy can beat a lie detector
test. You just have to convince yourself you’re right!
“Give it back!” I scream, clawing at the air. “I need it. The story isn’t finished!”
And then the world shifts. I’m no longer gazing out on endless sea or monsters. Chet and Bella are hunkered before me, worried expressions on their faces.
I hold up my hand. “Where’s my sword?” I whisper.
“Did you write it?” Chet’s eyes are ablaze, full of fire and thrill.
“Keira!” Bella shakes me. “You’ve got to pull yourself together. Your mom is coming!”
“Keira! Bella!” It’s Mom calling to us from down the hall.
“Oh no.” What have I done? I’m so dazed after being ripped out of my writing world that it’s hard to orient myself.
Bella kicks my journal under the bed and tucks the pen in the folds of the bedspread just as Mom steps into the room.
“Hey, girls,” she says. “Oh, and hello, Chet. How was horseback riding?”
“Great.” I plaster on a fake smile. “How was your museum trip? Did you learn lots of new facts about France?”
But Mom isn’t fooled. Her brow furrows, first over the clothes scattered about, and then her eyes widen as she takes in my muddy clothes. “Are you bleeding? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. Bella’s eyebrows rise in a yeah, right expression while Chet coughs, staring at the golden tapestry. “Okay, so maybe I’m not. I fell off the horse, landed in a mud puddle, and hit my head.”
“She thinks she flew on Pegasus,” Bella adds. “And was chased by wolves. She’s not feeling so well, Mrs. Harding.”
I flash a glare at Bella.
“Pegasus? Wolves?” Mom draws closer, her frown deepening by the second. Her eyes flick to the lump in the bedspread. “Are you hiding something, girls?”
Neither of us says a word, but my heart is pounding so loud I’m sure everyone can hear it.
“Let me see it.”
I hold my breath as I withdraw the pen. The heat has vanished along with the glow of the magic, but just as before, the desperation to clutch it tightly against my chest pulls at me. The pen sparkles as if it is saying hello to my mom.
Mom’s eyes grow wide and she gasps. I cringe, waiting for her wrath. But at the same time, there’s a sense of relief that I don’t need to lie to her anymore.
“It’s the pen from Dad’s dresser,” I lament. “You were right. I wrote the fairy tale for the contest with it.”
“Oh, Keira.” Mom’s whole body trembles as she staggers to sit on the bed. “Put that thing away! You must get it out of my sight.”
“What’s so bad about a pen?” Bella asks as I tuck the pen back into the zipper pouch of my suitcase.
“Can I try writing with it again?” Chet says. “Maybe this time it will work for me.”
“No!” Mom jerks to standing, holding out both hands as if to stop a storm. “Bella, Chet. You need to leave now. And close the door behind you.”
After the door closes, Mom makes a tent with her hands, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “Maybe I’m overreacting,” she mutters to herself. “It’s just a fairy tale, right?”
“Mom”—I brace myself for the horrible truth I know is coming—“does this pen have powers?”
“Yes, it does.” Mom releases a long, agonized breath. “Great powers. But only if it’s used by a Word Weaver.”
I gasp. “That’s what the wolf called me.”
“Wolf?”
“Yes, it’s complicated. But I think I entered my fairy tale. And there’s a wolf in my fairy tale. He said something about me being a Word Weaver.”
“You talked with a character from your story?” Mom shoots up from the bed a second time and clenches my shoulders.
“Yeah, is that bad?”
“Yes, very. It’s completely against the rules of the Word Weavers. Once we write a story, we are not allowed to enter the tale or alter it. If we do, the story will retaliate and has the right to exterminate us or lock us within that story as captives forever.”
“Us?”
“Yes. Us.” She draws me into a fierce hug, her body trembling. “I didn’t want to ever bring you into this. Your grandma felt the tradition should be carried on. That’s why she sent the pen to me. But I disagreed with her. Being Word Weavers, we are given a huge responsibility, too huge, if you ask me.” Mom releases me, sagging now onto the bed and hanging her head. “So I hid the pen and made a vow to never write another story again. It’s been nearly impossible to resist the temptation to write. That’s why I had to make all of those rules, get rid of the writing utensils, throw out books. It has been so hard. So very hard.”
“I don’t understand. What’s a Word Weaver?”
“Someone who can write with that pen and the story will come to life. No one else has that ability. We also have the extreme need to write stories. It’s basically torture for us to not write.”
It all makes sense. Why I have always been secretly obsessed with writing. And why Mom has been so against it. “Is that why you’re always writing lists and facts?”
“Yes.” Mom gives a hopeless laugh. “The need to write is so powerful. You are just now getting a glimpse of the compulsion to write that you must bear. But after making the horrible mistake of using the pen and writing my own story, I told myself I’d never write another story. Even if it wasn’t with the pen. I deal with the obsession by only writing facts.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“There are powerful people who wish to control Word Weavers for themselves,” Mom says. “Remember those men who broke into our house. They were after the pen. And maybe one of us. So I knew I needed to protect you. If someone were to ever come and ask you about it, you would know nothing. I have worked so hard to keep our secret. I have to admit that I hoped the Word Weaver gene had skipped you, or if you didn’t know about it, it wouldn’t control you as strongly as it had me.”
I cross my arms, looking out the window. “You said Grandma sent you the pen. She didn’t feel that way, did she?”
“No, which is why your grandma isn’t alive anymore.” Mom’s eyes harden and she gulps in a shuddered breath.
“They killed her?”
“Yes. No.” Mom shakes her head and begins picking up all the clothes from the floor and folding them into neat stacks. Tears stream from her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know what to believe anymore. The important thing is to not panic.” Mom puts a stack of clothes in the suitcase. “We must stay focused on the facts and go from there.”
“Okay,” I say weakly.
And in that moment, everything clarifies for me. Just like Mom, I suddenly need facts. Because without them, my world has tilted just enough so that nothing looks quite the same anymore. She needed the facts for their solidity, their grounding.
“Tell me exactly what you wrote. Maybe we can figure out a way to fix this.”
So I retell my whole fairy tale of the princess and stepsister.
“It began when the stepsister got jealous at her sister’s birthday party. The princess fell in love with the same prince as the stepsister fell in love with.” I finger the edge of my riding habit as I realize I’d experienced that moment of the story only the other day.
“Then people at the castle start disappearing,” I continue. “The stepsister was taking them into her tower, one by one, each Friday night at the stroke of midnight.”
“What happens at the end?” Mom asks.
“At the ball, the stepsister reveals herself as the one who has been kidnapping all of the servants of the castle. The stepsister tells the princess she did it so she could have the prince for herself. Then the princess would be alone forever.”
“What a horrible story!”
“I know.” I hang my head. “I got mad at you, and I don’t know why I wrote it. It was supposed to be a ghost story with a twist.”
“Some twist,” Mom huffs as she snaps the suitcase closed. “So this is what we are going to do. We’re going to leave here as soon as I can get a cab and a flight out of Paris.”
“We’re leaving? Do we have to? It’s not like this story can hurt us, right?”
“There are a lot of things at stake here, Keira. First, the fairy tale has already come to life. It will play out whether you want it to or not. Second, if we aren’t careful, we may get the attention of the same people who broke into our house. They want the pen. And your story may gain too much attention, if it hasn’t already.”
“But isn’t there something I can do? Like use the pen to rewrite the end or change the story? The princess says she needs my help. And what if that maid from last week didn’t quit but was really taken by the stepsister? I can’t live with the idea that I caused people to disappear, and especially not be trapped in that fairy tale realm!”
“I know it’s hard to deal with this, but it isn’t that simple.” Mom smooths down my hair and kisses my forehead. “I wish I knew how to fix things. Now, I’m going to make some calls. You stay here and don’t get yourself into trouble. Oh, and take this.” Mom hands me a laminated card. It reads: Ways to Deal with Stressful Situations.
“It always makes me feel better in times of distress,” Mom says. “Sometimes I just write the list over and over if the need to write with the pen becomes too great.”
Then she kisses me again and leaves.
I’m a Word Weaver. I bring stories to life, terrifying and magical ones. The power of who I am and what I can do is more than any twelve-year-old should have.
Fact: A portrait is an artwork that has been created to
represent a person. Mind you, it is not the actual person
or an apparition of that person.
The Princess and the Page Page 11