The Magic Mirror

by Susan Hill Long

  “There was something else,” Margaret said. “In the mirror, I could see out of a window in the man’s chamber. I saw the cathedral, and the rose window in the distance. That is how I thought to come here. What village lies to the west of the cathedral?”

  Petra’s brow knotted. “There is no village beyond the west wall, only Knightsbridge Wood, and none go there, for it’s riddled with outlaws and ruffians and thieves and ghosts. Not even a road dares pass through it.”

  “But I swear I saw the rose window from that direction,” Margaret mused.

  “Perhaps the magic mirror doesn’t show everything true.”

  Margaret pulled at her lower lip. She had to conclude that she didn’t know how the magic worked, or whether the visions it showed were true scenes or dreamlike enactments. Why hold closer to the tales shown there than to the truth in front of her?

  Petra squinted at Margaret and tipped her head slightly. “Nothing of our childhood in the mirror, then,” Petra said, taking Margaret’s hand. “We were little lambs, I suppose, too young to remember.”

  “You’ll begin now to make memories,” said Bertram.

  The two girls grinned, and when Petra opened her arms, Margaret gratefully stepped into her embrace.

  “Do you play,” Petronilla asked Bertram, with a nod at his bagpipes, “or merely carry the pipes here and there like a coddled pet?”

  Bertram’s shoulders sagged. “I play,” he said, and glanced apologetically at Margaret.

  They walked the city end to end, and in their gladness everything seemed brighter, laughter louder, smells sweeter. They passed by the baker’s stall and heard his wife calling out, “Petronilla pies! Hot pies!”

  Bertram and Margaret exchanged a look, and Petra pressed them for the reason.

  “Well, er, those two seemed to think…” Bertram scratched his head. “But then, they’ve never even met you; let’s just—”

  “What is it they said?” Petra demanded, her voice rising.

  “Well, they said, begging your pardon, they seemed to suggest that Your Royal Highness is, um…a bit…touched….” Bertram tapped his temple.

  Petra’s face reddened. “They call me the Princess of Hearts,” she whispered. “I think they fear I have no heart.” Then she smiled. “But never mind,” she said breezily. “Nothing matters now that we’ve discovered each other.”

  They walked along Cloth Street, and Margaret talked of Minka and of Hugo the woolmonger.

  “Our lives are not so different, then. You a hunch and me a toad,” Petra said over her shoulder as they worked their way through a narrow slot alongside a passing horse and cart. “They say Lord de Vere is an idiot. Father chose him so that he could hold on to his power, even I can see that.” She turned around and ran smack into the broad chest of a liveried guard.

  “Mind your step!” he said gruffly, pushing her aside without so much as a glance.

  Petra dropped her head and shrank within her cloak. Margaret and Bertram, sensing her alarm, melted into the crowd. Moments later they met up again.

  Petra pulled them both near. “The man with the gut like a barrel is my father’s trusted guard.” To their surprise, she giggled. “I wonder what he’s up to, in Father’s absence. Indulging in port wine and sweetmeats, no doubt. I’ve a mind to make sport and follow him!”

  Petra ran off after the guard, dragging the hem of her cloak in the mud, and Margaret and Bertram hurried to keep her in sight.

  But when they came upon him and hid behind a nearby stall, the guard was not seeking port or sweetmeats or any such luxuries. Instead he stepped to a stall where a woman was selling small and exotic animals. Strange furry piglets, colorful birds in cages, kittens and pups and scale-plated reptiles.

  “I am in need of a new pet for the Princess Petronilla,” said the guard to the merchant.

  Margaret remembered the rabbit nibbling bits of vegetable in the pretty hutch in Petra’s chamber. “A thoughtful gift!” she whispered in Petra’s ear.

  But Petra had gone pale, all trace of good humor drained from her face. She stood hunched, clutching her hands, and making small, mewling noises. She reached into her purse as she’d done before, and withdrew a little vial.

  “I…I have stayed away too long,” she said to Margaret in a low voice. “I should never have—”

  “Petra, what—”

  “Shhh,” Petra hissed. “Please. I dare not….It’s not safe.” She backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Margaret and Bertram stood dumbly by the stall, where, unnoticed, they overheard the guard’s request.

  “A pup. A good and loyal pet for the Princess of Hearts.”

  The merchant glanced at the little brown spotted dog and bit her lip. Then, peering up from under her cap, she said, “Begging your pardon, but I’ve heard that she, that her pets, that is…Might she prefer”—her gaze cast about the stall—“a turtle? A lizard? Something, er, not so soft and gentle?”

  “Not at all. The Princess Petronilla loves her pets,” said the guard. “She loves them to bits.”

  The merchant winced, held the pup to her cheek, then handed him over to the guard, fear in her eyes. “Good health to the Princess Petronilla,” she said, voice hoarse. Then she bobbed her head and turned away.

  Margaret watched the guard depart with the wriggling puppy and wondered what the merchant was afraid of.

  And what Petronilla was afraid of.

  Twice the next day, Margaret and Bertram went to the castle and waited, but the princess did not come out, and they did not try to gain entrance. Margaret wanted desperately to see her newfound sister again, but Petronilla’s strange turn of mood and abrupt departure from the pet stall confused and disturbed her. What of the dark insinuations of the guard, and the strange behavior of the pet merchant? What was in the little bottle in Petra’s purse? That night in the chamber, hidden under Petra’s bed, she’d overheard Lord Geoffrey speak of elixirs and press a reluctant Petra to drink. Margaret heard again Petra’s worrying comment: It is not safe.

  On the second day, Petra appeared outside the cathedral. Margaret threw her arms around her sister, then stood back. “Are you well? I have so many questions, I need to—”

  Petronilla held up a hand. “I know, and I’m sorry. Please.” She looked beseechingly at Margaret. “I’m feeling better now. Let us put aside our worries and questions for today and enjoy each other’s company.”

  Bertram spoke up then. “If you’ve something Maggie must know, then you—”

  “Leave it!” Her voice was regal, and final. Bertram looked to Margaret and lifted an eyebrow. What say you? he seemed to ask, and I will follow your lead.

  Margaret chewed on her lip. If only she had the magic mirror, she might see some ripple of her sister’s nature and discover what troubled her. But she had no magic, and so she would have to rely on her own senses. She would have to be patient and get to know her sister’s true heart in good time.

  “Oh, I am happy to see you again,” Margaret said.

  “I know!” Petra said joyfully. “And I you!”

  “What about me?” said Bertram, arms open wide.

  “And you, of course, Master Bagpipes.”

  With Lord Geoffrey gone, the household servants were lax, and Petra found it a simple matter to leave the castle. She wondered that she’d never wanted to escape her confines before this time. She loved the bustle of the city, and the new friendship of Margaret and Bertram. They, in turn, had never been fed so royally nor had their needs so fully met. They spent their days playing with Petra’s new pup, Walter—sneaked from the castle in a wriggling purse—and their nights in the lady chapel of the cathedral.

  “What’s he like, Lord Geoffrey?” Margaret asked one day as she strolled with Petra and Bertram through the market. Petra, as always in disguise, shook her head within her hood. “Tall, proud, and utterly without humor.” She pointed a finger in the air. “Example,” she said. “At Christmas ofttimes the household roles are rever
sed, for sport. A telling jest, I’d say, and one year Miriam the kitchen maid was set up to be the lord. Father didn’t like it one bit, and bade them all stop at once. He prefers the wheel of fortune with himself at the top.”

  Just then Petra spied a brightly colored tent. “Ooh, let us to the fortune-teller’s tent!” So one by one they went into the tent. When they compared their fortunes afterward, Petra declared the soothsayer a fraud, for the girls’ fortunes were well-nigh the same.

  “Say it again,” asked Bertram, fingering the holes of his bagpipes. The three had walked to a quiet spot just outside Isobel’s Gate and off the road, sparse of tree and travelers, for those approaching hurried on, eager to reach their destination.

  Petra rolled her eyes. “ ‘The truth shall set you free,’ ” she said, tossing a pebble. “It isn’t even a proper fortune. We’d have gained more by eating our halfpennies.”

  Margaret smiled and nodded, but her brow knotted, for her fortune had, in fact, not been the same. Not quite. You shall set the truth free, the seer had told her.

  “And what of you, Bertie?” Petra asked, interrupting Margaret’s thoughts. “What does your future hold?”

  “Bagpipes,” said Bertram, adjusting the pipes across his shoulder. “I am to practice with the faith of St. Patrick, and all will be well, I’m told.”

  “Oh, horrid vision,” said Margaret, covering her ears, yet smiling.

  Bertram chuckled good-naturedly, and set aside his bagpipes. He sat upon a stump and picked up Margaret’s crutch. He’d been continuing to whittle on it, evenings at the cathedral, carving intricate patterns of blossoms, vines, and water droplets.

  “Bertie,” Margaret said, “what is this mark here?” She pointed to a jagged line near the top. It seemed out of place, and not as pretty as the rest. She glanced at Bertram, afraid she had betrayed disappointment with the carving, but an expression so intense overcame his face that her smile slipped.

  Then Bertram sprang to his feet and pointed his knife at Margaret.

  “Bertie!” she cried, pulling back into Petra’s protective embrace.

  “Em!” he uttered, and drove the knifepoint into the tree stump. He held both hands out toward Margaret. “The letter M! And you, my Maggie, must learn to read and write!”

  Petra released Margaret, and clapped. “A worthy project! Let’s begin.” She smoothed a spot in the dirt, and Bertram yanked his knife from the stump and began to scratch out marks on the ground.

  “A is for apple, ale, apostle,” he intoned.

  Margaret scowled. “I don’t want to know letters. I want to know words! Poems! Songs!”

  “But the letters go together to make the words,” said Petra. “That’s where you must begin!”

  “All right,” Margaret said, her voice dejected. All she’d been taught in formal education had come from the parish priest: weekly lessons about the seven deadly sins.

  “A is for apple, then,” Bertram continued. “B is for barley, barrel, and bog. C for clodpole, cake, and cow. D for Saints Denis, Damien, and Dogfan.”

  “And dung.” Margaret sighed.

  “Oh, I wonder if I vexed my tutor so!” said Petra. “I expect I did. I suppose we might put a few letters together this minute for you. What is the word you most want to know?”

  Margaret thought a moment. How much her life and fortune had changed in so short a time, how happy it made her to know who she was. “Sister,” she said.

  Petra paused. “All right.” She spoke the letters aloud, and Bertram scratched them into the earth. “S-I-S-T-E-R. Sister.”

  Sister. She could see each letter. She could read the word. Margaret’s skin tingled with warmth, and a bubble high in her chest threatened to burst into laughter or tears. She leaned forward on her knees. S-I-S-T-E-R. Those were the letters that made the word that told who she was in the world. There it was for anybody to see, including herself!

  But poor Bertram, she remembered with a start. Was he thinking of Taggot? She looked at him, the thought of his sorrow dampening her gladness. But he wore a small smile, and was busily scratching his knifepoint into the ground.

  M-A-R-G-A-R-E-T

  G-I-R-L

  B-A-G-P-I-P-E

  B-E-R-T-R-A-M

  P-E-T-R-A

  H-A-P-P-Y

  She could not speak the words to name what she was feeling. A dung beetle crawled over the top of the letter I in G-I-R-L, and crossed it into a T. She watched the beetle pattern the dirt, and then all at once its hard-glossed shell split apart, and it lifted high on quick wings. Margaret turned her face to the sky, watching the beetle go, and she gripped her elbows to hug herself. Even the lowly beetle was overcome, surely, when first its shell hinged and took wing. Surely even the beetle felt wonder.

  Later, when Margaret and Bertram walked back to their lodgings in the church, Margaret saw everything with new interest. They walked slowly, stopping often, and as she pointed at all and sundry—the city wall, the statue of the old king, a squealing pig, a boy and a bucket, bushel and pole and ale—patiently, tenderly, Bertram’s fingertip drew each word in the palm of her hand. And so the thrill of knowing was not limited to new words but encompassed new feelings, as well.

  In the evening, at the cathedral, Margaret sat shoulder to shoulder with Brother Henry, and he ran his finger beneath the lines of verses in his holy manuscript. They sat where the light was best, and when the light failed, Henry lit a candle. The vellum glowed gold, with pictures inked in jeweled hues. Henry turned pages to select passages from here and there. He spoke softly and carefully, and Margaret mouthed the words. She felt dizzy with it, and every psalm and chapter seemed meant for her this night.

  “ ‘Just as water mirrors your face,’ ” Henry read, “ ‘so your face mirrors your heart.’ ”

  And: “ ‘For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.’ ”

  And then: “ ‘Behold, all things are become new.’ ” Margaret stole a glance at Bertram and caught him looking at her. Both of them flushed hot and looked down and away.

  And: “ ‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ ”

  And when the candle was spent and Henry urged her to sleep, still Margaret lay awake on her pallet, staring wide-eyed into the dark of the lady chapel, as letter by letter, over and over, she traced the words on her skin. Truth. Mirror. Heart. Behold. It was like-enough to magic that she shivered.

  Two more days, and countless more words, but the magic didn’t last.

  After spending more than a week in Knightsbridge, the pilgrim party was moving on to Holywell, there to visit St. Winifred’s Well.

  “Please come, Maggie,” Bertram said. “Come with us—we’re not far now, three days’ travel, and you could ride the horse! Henry’s borrowed a fat pony called Gertrude.”

  Margaret’s fingers tightened around her crutch. “I can’t, Bertie,” she said. “I can’t, but…but do you have to go?” Bertram began to speak, but she didn’t hear him. “You could stay in Knightsbridge a time, and find work at the abbey, or in the field—”

  “Maggie—”

  “Bertie!” She didn’t know why she shouted and stamped her foot, and then she felt foolish. But why? Why was he going away? “I know we haven’t known each other long, but I—well, I’ve grown used to…” She shrugged. “Your face, I suppose, and even your piping.” She glanced at Bertram. “But I suppose if you must go, then you must go.” She frowned and dug her heel into the dirt.

  Bertram smiled. “It’s Brother Henry must go, and so must I follow. I’m bound to him in servitude. But I’ve grown”—he swallowed—“used to you, too, Maggie. I’ve grown very used to you.”

  Margaret moved her finger over the carvings Bertram had made upon her crutch, felt the letter M cut deep.

  “Mayhap we’ll meet again. I hope so.” Bertie pretended a casual manner. “When next I pass this way, you’ll likely have wed the Toad, and you won’t even see me from wa
y up in your castle window.”

  Margaret swallowed at the tightness in her throat.

  “Petra speaks as if it would be so. She eagerly awaits her father so that he can announce my return; I dread his arrival, as I fear he’ll prove me an imposter.”

  “But…”

  “Either way, I must know. I must stay. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Bertram, his voice quiet. “Of course.”

  “I would see you, Bertie. From the height of a castle tower or from down in a ditch. And I will miss you,” she said. “Thank you for my beautiful crutch.” Again she ran her fingertips over the carvings, the leaves and apple blossoms, the small droplets that spiraled round the stick.

  “It’s the rain, what I’ve carved.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, smiling. Oh, Bertie.

  “You like the rain,” he said.

  Margaret nodded. “That I do.” Don’t go.

  “I won’t forget what you told me that day, about hearing Taggot’s name on the rain.” Bertram nodded gravely. “It’s a comfort, and I thank you for it.”

  Margaret wanted to thank him for freeing her from John Book’s camp. For finding a way inside the castle and Petra’s chamber. For teaching her the letters. For being her friend. But all at once she could not trust her voice to speak.

  Without thinking, she took up his hand and held it to her cheek. In the next moment she turned Bertram’s hand and kissed the palm of it; then, realizing what she’d done, she spun round and ran—clump-slide, clump-slide—as fast as her legs would go, and never dared look back.

  If she had done, she’d have seen Bertram staring after her, slack-jawed, and holding her kiss in his hand.

  Petronilla spotted the flags of her father’s contingent, and so she ran down the stone steps of the tower, across the castle yard, and out to the gate, and she would have thrown herself in her father’s arms, but he did not dismount.