by Diane Zahler
“Oh, my dear, whatever happened?” she cried worriedly. “Are you all right?”
I blushed. “I’m fine,” I said. “It was the knocker—it startled me.”
She frowned at the frog on the door, and it stuck its long tongue out at her. “You should be more careful,” she scolded it. “And more respectful!” Its tongue flicked out again, and I started to laugh.
“Is that an illusion too?” I asked, standing and brushing myself off.
“No, that’s an enchantment. It’s a real frog, turned into a door knocker. It hopped into my house when it rained the other night, so instead of putting it back out, I just—well, you see.”
“Poor thing,” I said, forgiving it for scaring me.
Babette gave me a look. “I suppose so,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m sure it would rather be on the bank of a pond somewhere. I’ll let it go.” She murmured some words, and the frog, green now instead of wood brown, dropped to the top step. A little dazed, it took a moment to collect its wits, then hopped quickly down the stairs and off into the grass.
“You’re welcome!” I called after it, and then followed Babette inside. Today she offered peach tea and lovely little cookies with walnuts, flavored with cardamom and butter and rolled in powdered sugar.
“I make these,” I told her, my voice muffled with sugar.
“Do you, dear? A princess who can cook? That’s not usual.” She bustled around the kitchen as we spoke, arranging things, tidying up. I had begun to notice that she was rarely still. Even when she sat, her fingers were always moving items on the table, playing with her hair, stroking a cat that appeared from another room and wound itself around our ankles. Her constant movements made me more aware of myself when I moved, and I resolved to sit very still when I sat, just to see if I could.
“I’m not a usual princess,” I pointed out. “I live with the maids, downstairs. My father doesn’t speak to me.”
“Living with the maids can be very useful for a princess, I would think,” Babette said.
“Why is that?”
“Well, don’t you agree that a ruler should understand her people? And how better to understand them than to live among them?”
I hadn’t thought about that. “That’s true,” I acknowledged. “But I’m never going to be a ruler. I have twelve sisters ahead of me in the succession.”
“You may marry a ruler,” Babette reminded me. “And even if you don’t, your knowledge can help your sister when she rules.”
“I could tell her all about the servants!” I said eagerly. “I already do tell them a lot, but not the important things. How the servants feel about working. How they feel about the king. What they want to do or to be. Would those things be useful to Aurelia?”
Babette nodded. “They would indeed,” she said. “A ruler who knows what her subjects want—and cares about it—would be a good ruler, in my opinion. Or a better one, at any rate.” Then she changed the subject. “And where, my dear, is your friend Breckin?”
“He’s supposed to meet me here,” I said. “Perhaps he couldn’t get away.” I was sorry to miss Breckin, but it was nice to have Babette to myself. There were questions I wanted answered that I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask in front of Breckin.
I took another cookie and chewed thoughtfully. Then I said, “When we were here before, you said we should come to you ‘if anything strange or frightening should happen.’ What did you mean by that? What do you think will happen?”
Babette sipped her tea, then picked up her needlework and began to embroider a pillow cover. “Oh, I don’t really know, child,” she said. “When I saw you coming that day, I just had a feeling…. Most likely, I was all wrong. It’s been a long time since I looked into a divining bowl, and I had a terrible time reading it.”
“A divining bowl?” It sounded fascinating, and a little frightening.
“It’s just water in a bowl, no more. The words you say over it are what gives it power.”
“Oh, please, show me!” I pleaded. It sounded very exciting.
Babette frowned, an expression that looked very uncomfortable on her face. It pulled her wrinkles in the wrong directions, used as they were to smiling. “I don’t know, Zita,” she said slowly. “I don’t think…”
“Please!” I begged. I knew well how to wheedle, having practiced for years on Cook. And Cook was a far harder nut to crack than Babette, who seemed inclined to please me.
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” she acceded. “Just for a minute, though!”
“Yes, just for a minute!” I agreed, delighted. I scrambled around, collecting the items she bade me: a copper bowl, a pitcher of well water, a midnight blue cloth embroidered with silver stars, a tiny silver pot of what looked like dust, tucked away deep in a cupboard. Babette laid the cloth on the table, placed the bowl atop it, and poured water in to fill it halfway. She spoke words I could not quite hear, moving her hands gracefully over the bowl. As she finished, she picked up a pinch of the dust and scattered it over the water. Then she bowed her head, looking into the bowl, and I looked with her, my heart beating wildly.
We saw nothing at first, and I was preparing to voice my disappointment. Then, suddenly, the surface of the water shuddered. Slowly, as I watched in amazement, I saw a tiny facsimile of the palace build itself over the water, as if the bowl held our lake. It rose up, three-dimensional, with all the familiar curlicues and crenellations, until it towered high above the bowl. The vision shimmered in the air for a moment, and then collapsed back into the water soundlessly.
“Oh!” I gasped. Babette chuckled.
“That, my dear, was only illusion,” she said. “That was for fun. Now we’ll look inside your home. What would you like to see?”
“Let me see my sisters’ room,” I suggested. Again we bent over the water and Babette spoke; again she sprinkled the dust across the water. A shape began to shine in the water, and then it faded. Babette spoke once more, sprinkled more dust. Again a shape formed—was it a room? Did I see windows? Before I could tell for sure, it was gone.
“How very strange,” Babette murmured. “I’m usually quite good at this. Of course, I’ve done it very seldom in these two score years, but still…one doesn’t forget.” She tried over and over, with the same result.
“There must be a guard against it,” she said, sounding bewildered.
“A guard?” I asked. “You mean someone to prevent you?”
“Not someone—something. A magic that is keeping me from looking.”
I was shocked. “There’s no magic in the palace! It’s the law—there can’t be.”
“And yet,” Babette mused, “there is.”
Speechless, I stared at her. The idea that there could be magic all around me, and I had never noticed—it just didn’t seem possible. Whose magic? What was it there for? Was it good magic or bad?
“I don’t know, child,” Babette said, answering my unspoken thoughts in her uncanny way. “I will have to look into it.”
“Will you go there?” I asked. I didn’t think she should; what if my father saw her? Surely he would know at a glance that she was a witch.
“No, that wouldn’t be wise,” she agreed. “I will do what I can from here. But you must let me know…”
“If anything strange should happen,” I finished for her. “I know. I will. Am I in danger there?”
She pursed her lips. “I shouldn’t think so,” she said. “It doesn’t appear to be something new; it has the feel of old magic to it. If you haven’t been harmed before this, I can’t see why you would now.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Perhaps Babette was making the whole thing up—it sounded so unlikely. Then I had a thought. “If it’s old, maybe it was just left behind from before Father made the law,” I suggested.
“Perhaps,” Babette replied in a tone that sounded to me as if she had barely heard me.
“Well, can you show me something else? Can you show me where Breckin is?” I asked. “Maybe we can find out
why he didn’t come.”
“Yes. Let’s try again,” Babette agreed. I was feeling very doubtful by now, and I wanted a chance to see whether she could actually do magic at all. There was the frog, of course, but perhaps that was the simplest kind of spell, one nearly anyone could do. This would be harder, I was sure.
Babette did her motions and spoke her words, and the water shimmered as we peered into it. Then a picture began to form. It was not the stables, as I had expected, but a clearing in the woods. I could see the trees as plain as day, each bare branch and fallen acorn. There, sitting on a log and shivering, was Breckin. He was obviously lost.
“Oh dear,” Babette said, and I giggled.
“I guess he couldn’t picture the path,” I said smugly. Babette frowned at me, and I quickly said, “Should we go look for him?”
“You should,” Babette said pointedly. “It is getting late.” I nodded, feeling a little ashamed. I pulled on my shawl and stood to go.
“C-can I—,” I stammered. “May we come back?” I looked at the floor. I felt the weight of Babette’s disapproval, and I wasn’t sure I understood. What had I done wrong?
“You must always think of how others feel,” Babette told me. “Try to put yourself in Breckin’s place. How would you feel?”
I was embarrassed—and slightly offended. “I thought of the frog,” I reminded her. “I knew it did not want to be a door knocker.”
“You must think not only of frogs but of other people,” Babette said firmly. So I thought about Breckin, sitting alone in the forest. Perhaps he had been walking for hours. If it were me, I would be tired, hungry, thirsty. Afraid.
“I’ll find him,” I promised. “I’m sorry.”
Babette smiled. “Come visit again,” she said. “The days are short, and the cold makes me lonely.”
I kissed her, relieved, and hurried out of the cottage. When I got to the edge of the clearing where it sat, I looked back to see its ruined self and marveled at the illusion. Then I walked on, trying to envision the place where I had seen Breckin in the divining bowl. I had hoped that by picturing that place, I would be led to it, as had happened with Babette’s cottage. But it didn’t work, so I called Breckin’s name as loudly as I could and was soon rewarded with an answering cry. I stumbled through the underbrush and found him sitting on the log I had seen in the bowl, shivering and irritated.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
“I? I was at Babette’s house. Where were you?”
He scowled. “I kept trying to picture the path, and I couldn’t seem to hold it in my mind. I’d think I had it, and then I would walk into a tree. I fell into a stream. I got caught in brambles.” He looked at me. “You mean to say that you could do it?”
I shrugged, pleased. “It was easy.” Then I remembered what Babette had said to me about thinking of how others feel. “Well, not easy, exactly. But I think it gets easier when you practice. And next time, we’ll go together. That way, whichever of us can do it can lead the way.”
Breckin sighed and stood. “Well, at least I can get us out of the woods. You’d be lost in here trying to get back.”
I nodded, smiling to myself. Boys were so proud—you always had to let them think they were good at things. I’d noticed this with the various fire boys I’d played with over the years. They needed to think that they were the best at spinning tops or running races. If I won a contest, they would sulk, sometimes for days. And I rarely would let them win, so we were often at odds with each other. But Breckin was right, after all—I always did get lost in the forest. And I was glad to have him to help me find my way back. So glad, in fact, that when I reached out to pull him up from the log where he sat, I kept my hand in his. We stood for a moment, palm to palm. I blushed, and I could see my blush reflected in Breckin’s red cheeks. We did not let go, but swung our hands between us as we started back.
As we walked, I told him about what had happened at the cottage. He was impressed by my description of the divining bowl, and his eyes grew wide when I told him about what had happened when Babette tried to look into the palace.
“There’s magic there?” he said. “Why? Whose magic?”
“We couldn’t tell,” I told him. “You seem to have the ability to sense magic. Why didn’t you know about it?”
“Well,” he said hesitantly, “I’ve…I’ve never actually been in the palace, except for the time you doctored my scrape.” He looked a little embarrassed.
“Really!” I exclaimed. “Never? Not even for a meal?” Most of the servants took their meals together in the kitchen, though I ate as Cook and I worked, so I rarely joined them. But now that I thought on it, I didn’t recall ever seeing Breckin at the long, scarred wooden table where everyone sat down to their evening food—or anywhere else inside the palace.
“I eat in the stables,” he said. “The horses seem to like it when I do—unless it’s venison. They get nervous when I eat that.”
I was wondering why that would be when we emerged from the trees. The setting sun tinged the stone of the palace with pink and lavender, and it looked like one of Cook’s fanciest cakes, beribboned with icing.
“We’d better separate,” I said, and at last he let go of my hand. It had become a little damp and numb, but I did not mind. I cradled it as if it were a thing separate and special as we set off in different directions, me to the palace, Breckin back to the stables. As soon as he was out of sight, I realized that we had not set a time and place to meet again, and I thought about following him to do so. But I feared being seen—that would surely mean an end to any friendship I might have with him. So I decided to bide my time, sure that we could cross paths soon.
That Sunday, my sisters seemed tired and listless. I thought perhaps it was because the cold weather was setting in and they were trapped inside more and more. They still rode when the sun shone, but the cold prevented them from boating, picking apples and berries, and engaging in the other outdoor activities that they enjoyed in the warmer months. Akila complained of a headache, and Asenka said that her legs hurt her. None of them seemed inclined to do my hair or try out their pink powder on my cheeks, nor did they want me to put on dresses from their great closet.
“I just want to sleep,” Amina moaned, and the others nodded. Were they getting sick? I was worried and laid my hand on Amina’s head as I had seen Nurse do when Aurelia had scarlet fever and Allegra had measles. But her forehead was cool and dry, though her eyes were a little swollen.
“You’ve been reading too much,” I scolded her. “I’ll read to you tonight for a change.” I took up the nearest book and began reading the story of the Goose Girl, who held conversations with the head of her dead horse. It was a gruesome tale, but its nastiness wasn’t enough to keep my sisters awake. Before long, their gentle snores made me look up from a gilt-edged illustration of the horse’s head, mounted on a wall, and I saw that all twelve of them were sound asleep. Disappointed, I put the book away and waited for Nurse to come in with our nightly snack of hot chocolate.
“Why, they’re all tired out!” Nurse said in surprise when she entered. “I hope the poor darlings aren’t spoiling for a cold.” She clucked around, tucking in covers and smoothing blond locks as I sipped my chocolate.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “They aren’t sniffling, and none of them seems to have a fever.”
“That’s good,” Nurse said. “Perhaps it’s just the tiredness of a long, dull day then, poor dearies. Hours at church in the morning, supper with your father, no visitors whatever. Bored to sleep, I’ll wager.” She shook her head mournfully.
I yawned, feeling their tiredness suddenly myself. “Me too,” I said to Nurse, and she chuckled.
“Scoot into bed then, my pet,” she told me, and I crawled in beside Akila. Nurse blew out the lamps and shut the door as she went out, and I knew no more.
The next day I was full of energy from my early night. I had left my sisters at dawn and snuck downstairs as I usually did, and I
did not see them until midafternoon, when they were at a deportment lesson in the dining room and I was told by Cook to bring tea to Master Beolagh.
“He’ll not be with us much longer,” Chiara, who had come down for her own tea, pointed out. “He couldn’t make the princesses speak, that one. He’s no good at all!” Her eyes gleamed with pleasure at the thought of his dismissal.
When I entered the room with the tea tray, my sisters, oddly, showed no sign that they knew me or had any interest in the tea. They were seated around the long table, slumped in tired and very unladylike positions, and Master Beolagh, too silly to know that his job was in peril, was visibly annoyed with them.
“Tea, ladies,” he said pointedly, which was a signal for Aurelia to pour, as she was the eldest. Aurelia stared down at her hands clasped in her lap and gave no sign of having heard.
“Princess Aurelia!” Master Beolagh shouted, clapping his hands. The sudden noise in the silent room startled everyone, and the cups rattled as I trembled. I set the tray on the table and backed quietly away, but I was not yet at the door when Master Beolagh said, “I don’t know what is wrong with you ladies today. Your comportment is dull and lifeless, and your manners are lacking entirely! Don’t you recall the lesson on boredom from my book Deportment for Princesses? I quote: ‘If you are bored at a social occasion’—and surely you ladies must be bored, or else why would you be so entirely lackluster?—‘you must disguise your dullness and appear as interested as if you were experiencing the most fascinating of people at the most fascinating of events.’ I do not see that happening here, ladies. Your dullness is not in the least disguised!”
I could barely keep from laughing, and I looked to catch Adena’s eye and share a smile with her. But Adena, too, stared at her lap, and her face was drawn and tired. The concern that I had felt the day before came back stronger than ever. I hurried out the door and went looking for Nurse.
I found her in the princesses’ bedroom, straightening up their combs and brushes. “Nurse,” I said without preamble, “are my sisters ill?”