Eight Princesses and a Magic Mirror

by Natasha Farrant

  No one mentioned the wolves, but they were all thinking of them.

  “As the hare runs fleet and the hawk flies true

  I will find my way to you.”

  Rose pulled the horse’s ears as she sang. She liked horses. They were not as quick as birds or as clever as foxes, but their solid strength was soothing, and after last night she needed to be soothed.

  For as long as she could remember, there had been only one dream. A forest, cool and dark, though bright with flowers where the light broke through. Loud with birdsong, alive with animals and—people.

  People who looked like her.

  They slept in trees, the people in her dreams. Foraged for nuts and berries, drank from streams, hunted with knives and arrows. They were tough and fierce, always running and climbing. Rose thought they must be at war, because though she never saw them fight, she often dreamed of them returning, bloody and battered, to the forest. But, oh, the wild freedom when at night, around their fires, they set aside their troubles and began to dance and sing! And the ease with which they moved among the treetops—leaping from branch to branch as if they were flying! Just thinking about it took Rose’s breath away.

  Sometimes, waking up was more than she could bear.

  Rose had not been entirely truthful with Eileen about why she wanted to sleep outside. It wasn’t that her dreams were scary. It was more that they were so big she felt they might tear down the walls.

  “Sometimes,” she whispered to the horse, “when I’m inside, I can’t breathe.”

  The horse tossed its head.

  “Poor dear,” she said. “You probably feel like that every time they put the bit in your mouth.”

  The horse sighed. Rose dropped a kiss on its nose. A group of girls passing began to chant.

  “Changeling, witch, goblin child

  Dirty, stupid, ugly, wild.”

  It was the song they had made up about her at school on the first day, the song that followed her everywhere. Rose bit her lip and ignored them.

  In yesterday’s dream, dancers had spun through flames to the sound of drums, while singers held hands in a circle around the blazing fires, singing of love and life and death. When Rose awoke, her pillow was wet with tears.

  “There’s a girl in my dreams,” she whispered to the horse. “She’s different from them, like I’m different here, all pink and white, with soft straight hair. She tries to keep up with them, but she slows them down, and I don’t think they like it. There’s a woman who cares for her who always seems sad. They’re looking for something, these two, all the time—they search every tree trunk, every stone, every inch of forest floor. Usually the others ignore them, but last night . . . ”

  Last night, some of the forest people had threatened the girl and the woman. Rose didn’t know what they had said. She only knew that even though the girl had cried and the woman had pleaded, the forest people had turned their backs on them. Afterward, the woman had held the girl and sang to her, the song that Rose was singing now.

  The song she always sang.

  “As the hare runs fleet and the hawk flies true . . . ”

  A gaggle of boys approached, waving sticks. Rose braced herself for their sneers, then frowned as they passed without comment. Something was wrong—the boys always laughed at her. She sat up, craning to listen—heard shouts, laughter, and something else . . .

  Rose swung her legs over the wall, floated to the ground, and ran across the square to the front of the crowd. A dog cowered in the middle of the tight circle, a one-eared stray bitch Rose knew well, the mother of six eight-week-old puppies. Her jaw was locked onto a shoulder of lamb stolen from a kitchen, and she was growling as the boys jabbed her with their sticks.

  “Let it go, thief!”

  The bitch whimpered as a blow caught her on the side of the head, but she did not let go.

  Rose cried out. The bitch, sensing an ally, dashed toward her and cowered against her legs. Rose reached down to pat her.

  “Get out of the way, freak,” growled Thom, the oldest boy.

  “I won’t!”

  “I’ll beat you if you don’t!”

  “Go on, then!”

  “Changeling, witch, goblin child

  Dirty, stupid, ugly, wild.”

  It happened very fast. One moment, the boys were circling Rose, jeering. The next, they were spinning out of control, faster and faster, until their feet were off the ground—as if they were flying, people said. Then, suddenly, they stopped and fell. Thom broke his collarbone, another boy broke his wrist, two others suffered concussions, and everyone said Rose had done it.

  The next day, Francis and Eileen received a visit from the mayor.

  “But how could Rose have done it?” cried Eileen.

  “One small girl against four strong lads!” agreed her husband. “It’s not possible!”

  And yet, the mayor said, the lads were injured and the girl was not.

  “There is a place in town,” he added.

  “What sort of place?” asked Eileen.

  “A school.”

  “But Rose goes to school here!”

  “A good place for girls like her,” the mayor plowed on. “Where they’ll teach Rose right from wrong and drive wild thoughts from her head. She’ll come back a changed girl.”

  Eileen thought of the only time she had taken Rose to town, how she had hated it—the clatter of metal cart wheels on stone streets, blinkered horses, and every tree or patch of grass hemmed by walls or railings.

  “But we don’t want her changed,” she whispered. “We love her as she is.”

  “They are calling her a witch,” said the mayor.

  “Dirty, ugly, stupid, wild . . . ”

  In her head, Eileen heard the howl of wolves. She knew what people did to witches.

  Rose watched them come for her from the window of her parents’ bedroom, on the morning of her birthday, as farmhands drove cattle back to the fields from milking and the school bell rang. The mayor and the women from the town school came in a cart; villagers followed on foot. The women from town wore black and looked like crows.

  Her parents were waiting by the gate. Francis had his arm around Eileen. Rose felt her eyes prickle.

  The cart stopped. The mayor glanced up as he climbed down. Rose dropped out of sight and curled into a ball on the floor behind the curtain.

  “Rose!” Francis, trying to sound brave. “Rose, love, it’s time!”

  Rose ran her fingers along a gap in the floorboards and wished that she could hide there.

  “Rose, come down!”

  There was something lodged between the boards, something shiny. The gap was wide enough for her little finger. She hooked it through a scrap of ribbon and tugged.

  The something shiny was a mirror compact, gold and etched with flowers, quite out of place in the farmhouse. What was it doing there? Rose ran her fingers over it, then pressed the clasp on its side. . . .

  The ground lurched and she dropped the mirror. The window blew open and the world disappeared in a thick white mist. Rose scrambled to her feet and fought back a scream.

  The pink-and-white girl from her dreams was standing before her.

  For a few seconds, all either girl could do was stare. Then the girl from Rose’s dreams rushed forward to grasp her hands.

  “It’s you! Oh, it is you! But how did you do it?”

  Rose swallowed. “Do what?”

  “How did you open the portal?”

  “I . . . looked in a mirror?”

  “A mirror! Clever Aisling! Oh, I’m so happy to see you!”

  Despite her astonishment, Rose felt a glow of pleasure. She couldn’t remember anyone apart from her parents ever being happy to see her. Except . . .

  “My name’s not Aisling.”

  “Why, what do they call you here? Rose? That’s a terrible name for you! Though perfect for me! Oh, now you look confused. I’ll explain, but quickly! We—you and I—we were born at the same time, exactly twe
lve years ago. Me here, you in the forest realm. But there was a war in the forest, so the midwife who delivered you hid you here, to keep you safe, because you’re a princess . . . ”

  “A princess?”

  “ . . . and they wanted to kidnap you. Oh, there’s no time for this! The midwife who hid you was killed before she could explain how her portal worked, but the point is portals only last twelve years and today . . . ”

  “Today is our birthday,” Rose said slowly. “Before the strike of twelve . . . ”

  “Before the closing of the gate . . . You know the song! Your mother sings it all the time.”

  “The woman in my dream is my mother?”

  “She’s never stopped searching for you. Aisling, you will go back, won’t you? The forest people, they’re good people, but I slow them down and after the portal closes, some of them want to leave me in the forest, and there are wolves . . . ”

  Something was happening. The white mist was thinning, the room coming back into focus. Outside the door, Aisling (she was Aisling, she knew it) heard footsteps.

  “There are wolves here too,” she said. “Human wolves, and human crows. Are you afraid?”

  “No!” said Rose (she was Rose, just as Aisling was Aisling). “Are you afraid of the war?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Aisling.

  “Love, it’s time!” Eileen was on the landing. For a wild moment, all Aisling wanted was to run into her arms. But then, outside, the village children took up their chant. . . .

  “Changeling, witch, goblin child . . . ”

  “Aisling!” Rose was fading with the mist. “The mirror! We’re running out of time. The mirror is the portal. Pick it up and bring it here—let’s hold it together. . . . ”

  The girls clasped their fingers around the mirror and held their breath.

  Nothing happened.

  “Close your eyes!” urged Rose. “Wish!”

  The chanting grew louder, the door handle turned, and suddenly . . .

  Aisling knew what she must do.

  She let go of Rose’s hand, let go of the mirror. As the door opened, she jumped onto the sill. As Eileen, Francis, and the mayor entered the room, she spread her arms . . .

  . . . and flew.

  The mirror glowed. The ground lurched, the world filled with mist. Eileen, bursting into the room, wondered about earthquakes, but when the mist cleared and the ground leveled, she saw only order and loveliness. A robin sang in the old oak tree, and a ring of tiny white cyclamen grew at its foot, while outside in the lane children laughed on their way to school.

  “Happy birthday, love!” Eileen hugged her pink-and-white daughter close. “Twelve years old already! Where does the time go? Now hurry or you’ll be late for school!”

  The mayor returned to the village, the crows went back to town. The children forgot their wicked song about the white-green girl.

  Everyone forgot. Well, almost everyone.

  The real Rose kept the mirror always, all through her long and happy life. She liked to peep at it from time to time, to see how Aisling was getting on.

  Whenever she did, Aisling was always running or climbing or dancing.

  It was dark by the time Saoirse finished reading. She closed the book, placed it on the table beside her, and stared thoughtfully at the fire.

  “Well?” asked her grandmother. “What did you think?”

  “I didn’t like the way people treated them,” said Saoirse. “They were mean. It wasn’t Aisling or Rose’s fault they were different.”

  “The world is not kind to those it does not understand,” agreed her grandmother. “But they found a place where someone understood them, didn’t they?”

  “I know what you’re doing,” grumbled Saoirse. “Any minute now you’re going to say I’m not strange, I’m different. But the point is, I am not a changeling. I can’t go and live in the forest. There is nowhere for me to go but this castle.”

  “But there is.” Her grandmother tapped the book on the table between them. “Don’t you see? You have been there already.”

  It was only much later, as she reached for the book again in bed, that the old queen’s meaning became clear to Saoirse. She was looking forward to reading the next story, as she imagined looking forward to seeing a friend. And the book was a friend, she decided. Hadn’t she run through the forest with Aisling who was Rose, and climbed trees and sung to horses with Rose who was Aisling? Their hearts had beaten in time, her lips had silently mouthed their songs. She had never felt so completely understood as when she was reading their story.

  “Maybe,” she whispered to herself, “that is what stories do.” And then, louder, “The princess who reads stories. That is what I will be. No, not just the princess who reads. The princess who collects stories, and listens to stories, and tells stories. I will be the Story Princess.”

  Saoirse opened the book and began to read. She never even noticed when something small and shiny slipped from between the pages and fell with a quiet thud through a gap in the floorboards. . . .

  THE

  PRINCESSES

  IN EXILE

  There were sleighs and horses and a sliver of moon shining on the snow, and it was like scores of other nights, Princesses Sonya, Anya, Petra, and Tatiana cuddled together under blankets. Except tonight there were no bells or laughter, no silk dresses or satin slippers or hot chocolate in silver flasks to drink with spicy cakes. Tonight, no one spoke a word. The princesses wore boots and thick coats and carried water in stone bottles with black bread wrapped in handkerchiefs.

  Somewhere in the shadows there were soldiers.

  The sisters were running away from war, to a place called the City of Lights, there to find an old duchess cousin they had never met. Deep in the secret pocket of her dress, Sonya carried a gold pocket mirror.

  “The duchess and I found it together years ago, frozen in a snowdrift,” Mama had told the girls. “She is kind and good. Show it to her and she will help you.”

  The duchess lived in a grand house on a chic boulevard. There would be dancing again, and parties, and such food! Pastries that melted in the mouth, Mama said, sauces angels must surely eat in heaven, and the bread! Crusty, with a soft white crumb like clouds.

  “But I want to stay with you,” six-year-old Tatiana had whimpered, while ten-year-old Petra and twelve-year-old Anya and fifteen-year-old Sonya tried to look brave. “I’m not afraid of soldiers. When Petra reads to me, people never run away. Not if they’re the heroes.”

  Mama, who had somehow gathered all four of her daughters in her arms, kissed Tatiana’s curls. “Darling Tati, Papa and I will join you by the end of summer for your birthday, I promise.”

  Petra, who was getting another cold, wheezed, “I suppose it will be an adventure.”

  “Exactly! Well done, Petra, dear. A splendid adventure, just like a book!”

  Splendid! Anya reminded herself now.

  SPLENDID.

  In the city left behind there had been a palace with rooms painted white and gold and a garden perfect for snowball fights that Anya always won. There had been tea and cream-filled honey cake, stitching with Mama while Papa told stories.

  But that was in another life.

  Now there was only this sleigh speeding toward a lonely country station, and Tatiana must not wriggle, and Petra must not sneeze, and Sonya must not cry over the beloved grand piano that for obvious reasons could not come too, and Anya must not scream with rage. They must be quiet as mice because if they were caught, they would be ARRESTED or thrown into the snow and left to FREEZE TO DEATH and this was all part of their splendid adventure.

  The sleigh stopped long enough for them to clamber out, then took off again into the night.

  The princesses were alone.

  Through the night and the next day, and another night and another day, the train steamed and puffed. Through forests and snow-covered plains, over rivers and under mountains, past bare winter fields, until the countryside gave way to hou
ses and at last, dirty, exhausted, and starving, they stumbled off the train and into the City of Lights.

  There was barely enough money for a cab. Anya stuck her head out of the window as they rattled through the crowded streets. Why was it called the City of Lights? Everything was gray—the buildings, the roads, even the people. She thought of home, of sparkling snow, blue skies, the bright colors of the onion domes.

  She tried not to think about the soldiers.

  The cab rounded a corner into a noisy square, with a dry fountain in the middle and leafless trees all around. Suddenly, a flash caught Anya’s eye. She craned to look, glimpsed the name of the square, a haze of pink and blue flowers and something else, a scent, floating over the stink of the street. Anya closed her eyes, and magic happened.

  She was in the white-and-gold drawing room at home, with Papa reading and Mama sewing and tea laid out on the table. . . .

  They turned another corner and rumbled on. The scent faded, and so did Papa and Mama.

  At last the cab turned into a wide, dusty avenue and stopped before a set of carriage gates. The princesses climbed out and stood on the pavement. The gates were rusty, the paint on the side door was flaking, and the bell rope was frayed.

  “Splendid!” said Petra.

  In another life, the duchess’s house had sparkled. Servants had polished wood and glass and silver, cooks bustled in the kitchen, gardeners tended honeysuckle and roses, guests danced in the ballroom. But war had come, a war that was over—unlike the one back home—but that had left its mark. Now all of the duchess’s silver and most of her furniture were sold, dust lay thick, weeds choked the garden. The only food cooked in the kitchen was soup—endless soup!—made from boiled onions and cabbage stalks and potatoes, and the only guests were refugees. Some moved on after a few weeks. Others, like old Prince Vasily, who walked with two sticks, or the Countess Kaplinska, who was always crying, or Baroness Maranova, who never got out of bed, stayed.