The Magic Mirror

by Susan Hill Long

  “This needlework is driving me mad,” Margaret fumed one afternoon. The chamber had grown stuffy, and her mood was pricked with annoyance.

  “If a bit of colored thread’s enough to drive you mad, then you’re made of weaker stuff than I believed,” Petra said crossly.

  Margaret plopped her linen to her lap. “I swear it’s some kind of torture,” she muttered.

  “Ha, torture, you say,” said Petra, but in a tone that did not suggest alliance. A strange light burned in her eyes, and her skin appeared damp, perhaps with fever. Margaret put her palm to Petra’s forehead, and Petra jerked away.

  “You seem…ill at ease,” Margaret said. “Are you well?”

  “I’m very well,” Petra snapped. “You’ve soured me on embroidery, is all.” Abruptly, she stood. “Come”—Walter leaped to her side—“I want to show you something,” she said, and turned away without waiting for Margaret to answer.

  Margaret followed Petra out of the room and down the hall, the sounds of Emma’s protestations fading behind them, Margaret’s crutch thudding dully upon each stone stair as down they went, and down, and down again, past the weapons room, past the watchman, until they were underneath the working quarters of the palace. Margaret’s sleeve brushed against slimed stone, and she pulled her elbows in. Walter snuffled the musty rushes strewn across the floor. Scuttling and scrabbling sounded from dark corners. And the smell. This was no place for the living.

  “Why have you brought me here?” she asked Petra.

  Torchlight crossed Petra’s damp cheeks and brow, and for a moment Margaret felt caught in her fierce gaze. What was it in Petra’s eyes? Fear and…challenge? Then Petra shrugged, and her eyes dulled. “Father used to bring me here,” she said, turning to move ahead. The torches set high in the stone cast but sputtering light alongside a grid of iron bars. “When I…misbehaved.”

  Margaret heard moaning from inside the first in the line of cells. Shuddering, she hurried along, glancing left and right and behind, until she bumped up against Petra.

  “Look there,” Petra whispered.

  An old woman sat propped against the wall in the second cell. Gray hair a filthy cloud. Colorless clothing—rags, more like. Legs scaly sticks, like a chicken’s. Bare, roughened feet. And the toes…

  Suddenly the crone tipped her head and fixed Margaret with a stare. Margaret jumped. Small, dark eyes peered from a face like a shrunken apple. Her gaze—keen for one so wretched—passed slowly over Margaret, from her crutch to her face and back again. Margaret stepped back, pressing her velvet scrap to her nose. The dank air moved; the torch flared. Alert, the prisoner peered more closely still, and then, as if pulled by a string Margaret unwittingly controlled, rose nimbly to her feet.

  Petra grabbed Margaret’s arm. “Come away,” she gasped, but Margaret, in the grip of the old woman’s stare, didn’t move, nor did the crone turn at Petra’s voice. She squinted at Margaret, her gray head tipped to one side, fingers touching parted lips through which came a sharp hiss of breath.

  Margaret blinked. The poor woman, surely unaccustomed to visitors—how she gawped! The prisoner’s fevered curiosity drew Margaret as forcefully as the unfortunate filth repelled her. But those eyes…She didn’t look mad so much as…haunted.

  Again Petra urged, “Come away!”

  “Stay!” cawed the old woman, reaching a hand through the bars toward Margaret, and then, in a whisper: “Is it you?” Now her hands flew to her cheeks.

  “Yes, it’s my sister!” Petra blurted. “See? She’s not dead at all. She’s come back!”

  The old woman glanced at Petra, then back to Margaret. “By the saints and holy martyrs,” she whispered, still staring at Margaret, “I’ve a feeling…”

  “Madwoman!” Petra barked. Then she turned and ran away in a swish of silk.

  Margaret looked once more at the old woman—those searching eyes, the clawlike hands that clutched the iron bars—then turned and followed Petra as quickly as her crutch allowed.

  “What was that about?” Margaret asked when later, breathless from the climb, she joined Petra in the great hall. “What has the poor woman done?”

  “She’s mad, that’s all,” said Petra, looking pointedly at Margaret. “She’s a madwoman, and she…she frightens me.”

  “If she frightens you so, then why did you take me to see her?” Margaret gave a shudder.

  “I…I don’t know.” Petra wound her hands around each other. She wanted to keep her true nature—was she mad like the crone, as Father said?—a secret from Maggie, but at the same time and just as strongly, she wanted her sister to know her. Know her and yet still love her.

  “I didn’t like it,” said Margaret. “That pathetic creature! That miserable place!”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I am.” Petra reached out her hands. “Forgive me.”

  Margaret smiled tenderly. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said.

  Petra felt sudden tears, and squeezed them back.

  “But why—” Margaret began.

  “There you are,” said Emma, bustling into the hall.

  Petra dabbed her eyes, then smiled. “Embroidery awaits,” she said.

  The castle was growing quiet after supper that night, as the sisters played a game of checkers on the feather bed.

  “Stop! Walter!” Petra screamed in mock anger as the dog put his front paws on the bed and scattered the checkers. “I’ll take away your handsome ribbons, and then won’t you be sorry.”

  Margaret snorted. “Handsome! Humbling, more like.” She rubbed the dog’s velvety ears. “Poor beribboned Wal—”

  The door burst open, and Geoffrey strode into the chamber. Both girls stood at attention, Walter at Petra’s side.

  “Margaret,” Geoffrey began, “you will not wed Lord de Vere.”

  Margaret thought to clap and shout with joy and relief, but something in her stepfather’s tone made her know he would say more. Petra scooped up handfuls of checkers and tossed them high, dancing about the room. But Margaret waited.

  Geoffrey smoothed the front of his red tunic and cleared his throat, twice. “It has been decided that I, and not de Vere, shall wed Margaret.”

  Petra froze mid-jig.

  “My—my lord?” Margaret stammered.

  Petra stomped a slippered foot. “Father! You make no sense. Margaret is your daughter!”

  “No, Petra,” Geoffrey said smoothly, “Margaret is your half-sister, but no such relation to me.”

  The silence stretched long. Margaret’s stomach roiled. The joyful discovery of a sister, the past days spent in happy company, the soft bed and rich meat and white bread—all of it deception, just as good oats atop the vendor’s sack hide a spoiled and rotten bulk.

  Petra paced around the room, sputtering and flapping her arms in distress.

  “No,” said Margaret in a quiet voice.

  Petra stopped, and stood still. Geoffrey stared at Margaret.

  “Excuse me?” he said coldly.

  Margaret swallowed the lump of bile at the back of her throat.

  “I don’t want to be queen. I’ll leave.”

  “Leave? Forsake your duty? Never see your sister again?”

  Margaret blinked. “Never…?”

  “I can assure you, your banishment would be quick and permanent.”

  Margaret breathed deeply, squared her shoulders, and looked straight into Geoffrey’s eyes. “Better yet, I will be queen without a king,” she said.

  Strange, she thought, that Lord Geoffrey’s eyes—had she really looked into them before?—were cold and flat. And yet the wild-eyed man? Though seen only in glass, his eyes were clear and deep and full of life as the flowing river. She didn’t like Lord Geoffrey. She didn’t trust his eyes.

  Geoffrey held her gaze a moment, then barked a laugh. “Do you have advisers?”

  “I could find them,” she reckoned.

  “An army?”

  “I’m sure I could”—she swallowed with some difficulty—“
gather one.”

  “Is that so. And your own guards and staff? Hmm? Do you know your allies and enemies? Do you know how to protect your kingdom, your people?”

  With each demand, Margaret crumpled more inside, but she wouldn’t show it. She glared at her stepfather, narrowing her eyes against the onslaught of doubt and entrapment.

  “I thought not.” Geoffrey smiled, unfeelingly. “We will wed ten days hence, as was planned for the wedding to de Vere,” he said. He turned to Petra. “And you shall wed de Vere, later this summer.” Without further explanation he turned and left the chamber.

  For a few long moments Petra and Margaret did not speak. The torches on the walls spat and flared. Walter whined.

  “I’ll not pretend I am not shocked, Margaret, for I am,” said Petra. “Shocked!”

  Margaret fell to the bed. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Whatever she had imagined when she’d longed for a family, it was not this. How selfish she’d been to run away, how stupid! If only she’d never taken that magic mirror in her hand!

  “Shall we try to see some good in the match?” said Petra. “True,” she said, pacing the room, “he is old, and till a moment ago you considered him a father, but…” She threw her hands up and then came to the bed and put her arms around Margaret. “I know it’s dreadful, but…think of me! Now I am stuck once more with the Toad!” Petra touched Margaret’s cheek. “Please laugh, Maggie. Please smile.”

  Margaret thought of all the turns at which she might have gone back, the ways in the road she had not taken, every choice that had brought her to this terrible place where she had no more choices. She buried her face in Petra’s shoulder, and wept.

  Was there nothing to be done about it? Petra wondered, after poor Maggie had fallen into a fitful sleep. She would go and speak to Father, beg release from betrothal to the Toad, and plead the case of her sister. Neither of them had any choice: marriage was not a matter of the heart but of the purse. But there were limits, surely, to what a girl must endure. Thought and feeling boiling in her stomach, Petronilla stuffed her feet into her shoes, then stormed down the dim-lit hall to her father’s chamber.

  When Petra came to the door, loud voices issued from within.

  “…fine fat purse, my Lord Geoffrey, but not enough. My price is fair, considering.” Hmph. Price for what? Had the Toad arrived early to renegotiate? The man’s voice was deep and loud and rumbled unpleasantly like millstones.

  And now her father’s voice: “Considering you failed to do the job for which I paid you, you should have come to return my coin, not demand more.”

  What job? What coin?

  “What matters is, all of Knightsbridge is in raptures that her little ladyship’s come back. And I know what I know.” He laughed, a sound that chilled Petronilla. There was mumbling, and she pressed her ear closer.

  “You paid a king’s ransom so that I would kill her off,” the man went on. “That I did not do the job will hardly put me in a bad light.” Now Petra’s blood ran cold. “I know what I know,” he said again, his voice carrying a threat.

  She covered her mouth with both hands and measured her breaths to keep a steady head. Could it be true? Her father had paid…to have Margaret killed? Which meant…he knew she’d survived the fall? Now the stranger spoke again.

  “…couple of my trusty mates knows of our little arrangement, so don’t go whipping out the knife you’ve hidden in your hose. Truly, Lord Geoff, I am handy with a falchion myself, and have had much practice slitting a throat.” Silence. Mumbling. Then: “Many thanks, friend.”

  Heavy steps approached the door, and Petra slid behind a tapestry that lined the dark hall. The door opened, closed. She held her breath and waited for the footsteps to pass; then she slipped out again and opened the door. The fire in the great hearth burned; darting flames reflected her father in the many mirrors about the room, as if it were a small chamber of hell and he the Devil himself.

  For a moment they stared at one another.

  “I know, Father,” Petra whispered. “I know all!” she said more forcefully. Lord Geoffrey crossed the room in two strides and grabbed her arm, saying, “Shhhh, shhhh, you don’t know what you’re saying; you don’t know anything.” Then his face crumpled, and he let go her arm and Petra fell to her knees.

  Petra narrowed her eyes at her father, and he turned from her and crossed the room to the trestle table, and with shaking hand he poured a draught of ale.

  Petra went on in a low voice made hard by betrayal. “You let me believe I killed my own sister,” she said. She shook her head so violently her hair came loose from its coils. “And all the time it was you!”

  “What fresh madness is this?” Geoffrey said. “You’re possessed by a fit.” He drained the cup of ale and then stepped toward her, and reached a hand to help her from the floor, but Petra turned away.

  “I heard, Father. I was outside the door, and I heard that man! The horrible man who calls you friend.” She pushed herself to her feet. “But you are the horrible man!” she cried. “Everything I thought was true is false. Everything—everyone—I thought was good is bad.” She pointed at him, and her hand trembled. “You are bad! And I,” she said, her voice breaking, hand upon her chest, “I am not bad! I did not kill my sister. I never did it!”

  Geoffrey took her arm, but she shook him off with an angry turn of her shoulder. “And my rabbit?” she said. “My dogs?” She began to weep. “I never killed them, either! Did I?” She pounded her chest with a fist.

  “Petra, calm yourself. Let me call for Emma.” He turned and made for the door, but Petra ran to him and clutched at his robes.

  “No!” Petra cried. “I will tell my sister everything. You’ll be tossed out. You have no claim here. The manor lands are mine, through my mother,” she said, “and never yours!”

  Geoffrey began to speak in sweet tones as he reached for Petra, but she stood tall and straight, and her voice came strong over his. “You are no longer my father. My mother could not have loved you, for you are evil and wicked and horrid and I will…I will have you locked in the dungeon!”

  Geoffrey drew back, and his head snapped to the side as if Petra had struck him in the face. There was a pause in which only the sound of Geoffrey’s coarse breathing could be heard. His tormented image shone back from countless mirrors on the walls.

  “She did love me, and I her,” he said, his voice an anguished groan.

  “You are not capable of love, of being a father. You’re an imposter!”

  And then an animal smile stretched Geoffrey’s lips across his teeth, and he slowly shook his head. “Poor Petra,” he whispered. “So sad. It pains me to see your mind so broken. In parte insana, poor dear.” He crossed the room and plucked a small vial from a cupboard.

  “I won’t drink it!” Petra backed toward the door, but Geoffrey caught her by the lacing of her sleeve. The silk gave with an angry rip, but he held on. She began to scream and kick and claw at his face, scraping three jagged lines down his cheek.

  Holding her fast, he spoke low in her ear. “I will not be locked in the dungeon. And I am not the imposter.” Then he turned his bleeding cheek and yelled for the guards.

  Minka and Bilious had traveled and searched over all of Rowne—east and north and west and south, and then round the compass again. Minka’s temper was short, and Bilious had strayed so far from his route that he feared he’d lost his good custom forever; each had begun to fear that their zigs and zags across the country were for naught and that Margaret had met with misfortune, and they uttered their prayers with more vigor than ever.

  One morning on the road heading west again, their cart was overtaken by a party traveling at a clip Old Penelope could never match.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?” Bilious called to the driver of the cart, a bent and skinny fellow whose kneecaps poked from holes in his hose. Minka fanned away the dust kicked up from the road as the cart passed.

  “Haven’t you heard?” replied the dr
iver, over his shoulder. “There’s to be a royal wedding in Knightsbridge, come St. Petronilla’s Day.”

  Minka counted on her fingers. “That’s but five days hence,” she said. “Go faster, Bilious!”

  “You’d best hurry along,” called the knobby-kneed driver, as he pulled farther ahead, “if you’re to arrive in time with that old nag!”

  Urchin snorted.

  “It isn’t me he means,” said Minka, puffing up.

  “I should say not,” said Bilious, with a wink at Urchin. “Besides, we’re but a day away from Knightsbridge.”

  Before long they came upon a village and pulled to a stop to sup and rest Penelope. Urchin, dressed in her grain sack with a clean blanket wrapped around her like a cape, began to cavort about, hopping and leaping left and right and back and forth.

  Bilious glanced up from the pan of sausages grilling on the fire. He broke off a bit and fed it to Pip, who nibbled it eagerly.

  “Got a flair for the dramatic, that one,” Bilious said.

  Minka grunted her agreement.

  Before long, a crowd of ten or twelve had gathered to watch Urchin’s odd dance, some pointing and nodding, others laughing. After a while, she stopped jigging about and stood still, chin raised, posture straight as a candle. She pulled the blanket tight around her, and looked down her nose at the people.

  Minka elbowed Bilious. “What is she up to?”

  Bilious shrugged and speared a sausage in reply.

  “Loyal subjects,” Urchin began in a loud voice that carried like a crow’s caw, “I, Your Royal Highness Queen Urchin, do you the honor of greeting you!”

  She tipped her head slightly and circled her hand from the wrist. “Ladies and lords, I need hardly say how distinguishable I am, how very popular I am, and I can only say I will die afore I yield to, to…to the enemy!” She raised a fist in the air. “Yes, every last one of my knights”—she gestured to Bilious, who, mouth full of grilled sausage, cheerfully waved his spoon in the air—“will take to their fine mounts”—she swept an arm toward Old Penelope, who passed wind as if on cue—“to defend the hills, the rivers, the cities, the villages and allllll the people in them, to fight off…the evil, ugly, enemy horde.” Here she pointed at Minka, who growled, seemingly accommodatingly. “The ugly horde,” Urchin repeated, “that even now rumbles at our gates!”