A Branch of Silver, a Branch of Gold

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Heloise,” Heloise said. “Heloise . . . Oakwoman.” Then she repeated it more firmly. “Heloise Oakwoman. Yes.”

  He wasn’t taken in. She could see it on his face. No one was called “Oakwoman.” No one ever would be. She waited for him to contradict her, to call her out on a lie.

  But Benedict thought, No. She has an honest sort of look. And really, maybe she is an Oakwoman. Just because someone else gave her a different name doesn’t mean this name isn’t true.

  Aloud he said, “Very well, Heloise Oakwoman. I do have a mirror. I’ll show it to you if you wish.”

  SIXTEEN

  At first Heloise tried to convince Benedict to let her take the mirror with her up to the Flaxman cottage. Grandmem had told her to look into the glass somewhere Evette had been. It only made sense to look for her at home.

  Benedict stoutly refused.

  “It’s not as though I’m going to steal it!” Heloise protested, fists planted on her bony hips. “You know I live in south-end, and you could easily hunt me down if I tried.”

  “Makes no difference,” Benedict replied. “You’re not taking my mirror out of this house. It’s too valuable.”

  Once Heloise actually saw the mirror, she dared not protest further. In fact, when Benedict drew it out the depths of his armoire and slipped it from its cloth covering, Heloise was hard-pressed to keep all her teeth in her mouth, so heavily did her jaw drop.

  It was . . . well, it was glorious! A polished ebony frame of rampant lions whose claws supported the glass and whose tails made up the handle, their eyes set with small gleaming sapphires.

  Heloise had heard of lions before, but she had never been able to picture them. Her father had told her they were like big cats, but the beasts holding that mirror didn’t look like any cats she had ever seen. Their masses of mane coiled and gleamed, and their snarling faces looked ready to devour dragons. Indeed, they were as mystical and magical in Heloise’s eyes as any dragon ever could be.

  She put out her hands to take it, but Benedict snatched it away. “No, no,” he said. “This has been in the family for generations and, well, you might drop it.”

  Offensive though this was, Heloise couldn’t argue. “All right,” she said slowly, her eyes fixed upon one of the lions’ carved faces, which seemed to be watching her, “Evette has visited the weaver room several times. We could take it there.”

  “That’s at the bottom of the Tower,” Benedict said, “all the way on the other side of the house.”

  “I suppose you should lead the way then.”

  Benedict hesitated, waffling between amusement and irritation. Honestly, though, what could he do? Summon the guards? The girl was just a child, after all, and wild though her stories might be, he rather thought he’d like to see where they led. “Very well,” he said, not quite reluctantly. “But you’ve got to be quiet.”

  Centrecœur was eerily silent that morning; as silent as midnight, when all the household slept. Indeed, after the long Le Sacre there were few wakeful souls to be found in all Canneberges estate. Even the beasts of the field and the starlings in the treetops tended to sleep through the first day of spring, though they had not participated in the summoning dance the night before. It was as though a soporific spell had settled like a blanket over all the estate.

  Heloise felt the effects herself even as she followed soft-footed behind Benedict, out of the chapel that had become his private chamber and into the long gallery beyond. Though really, she thought, her fatigue needn’t be attributed to any spell; she had spent the whole night previous up and running about, half mad with terror and fury. Was it any wonder she now felt such a tug of sleep on her eyelids?

  But Heloise shook off the drowsiness as best she could. After all, spell or no spell, she had just broken into the marquis’s house, right into the son-and-heir’s own bedroom. While Master Benedict was being remarkably gracious about the whole thing, one never could tell where the fickle minds of the gentry might turn next.

  The gibbet wasn’t entirely out of the question.

  This thought brought Heloise solidly back into wakefulness. She fixed her gaze between Benedict’s shoulders as she followed him, watching warily for any sudden moves.

  So they progressed through the lower gallery of Centrecœur and met no one on their way. Once or twice, Benedict heard footsteps coming and motioned to Heloise to duck behind a suit of armor or heavy curtains or, once, simply behind him. But it came to nothing. Heloise, peering out from whatever hiding place they currently occupied, glimpsed nothing but shadows on the wall, which always turned at the last and entered a side room or passed up a flight of stairs before drawing too near. It was like being in a house full of ghosts.

  Heloise found Centrecœur overwhelming enough as it was. All her life she had dreamed of what wonders might be found beyond the high stone walls and the marvelous glass windows. Her imagination had been limited due to an equally limited range of experience. To her, the height of elegance and beauty had been Evette’s embroidered cranberry blossoms on the edges of gowns and shirts; she could not have conceived of the great, heavily-embroidered tapestries lining the walls of this passage, tapestries wrought by foreign hands in foreign designs that dazzled the eye. Luxurious floors, in Heloise’s experience, had meant fresh rushes scattered about; she could not have dreamed of the age-polished stone floors on which she now trod, not to mention the softer-than-grass Corrilondian rugs which startled her so much the first time she stepped on one of them that she gave a yelp and shot straight up a full foot in the air.

  “Hush, you fool!” Benedict hissed, whirling about and giving her a stern eye. He had just enough of his red-blooded ancestor in him that he looked quite intimidating for a moment. But the Bellamy side took over next, and he followed up with a hasty, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. But you really must be quiet! They’re not all asleep, you know. Doctor Dupont is lurking about here somewhere. If he were to hear you . . . well, I don’t know how I’d explain you, you know?”

  Heloise nodded. “Are we nearly there?” she asked meekly.

  “Yes.” Benedict looked around uneasily. He was jumpy with nerves, for here in the east wing, not far from the scullery and the servants’ quarters, they were far more likely to meet a poor soul who must attend to some task before catching up on lost sleep. He held the mirror close to his chest, hiding the glass so that it cast no telltale gleams.

  But all was still as they slipped into the narrow passage leading to the Tower and the weaver room. There were no windows here, and the passage was unlit, so it felt almost as though they stepped out of morning back into night when they made the turn. Heloise shivered and had to keep herself from reaching out and taking hold of Benedict’s sleeve, suddenly afraid of losing him.

  At the end of the passage was a stairway. Heloise could scarcely see it, so dark and gloomy were the shadows here. But what she saw told her it was very narrow, scarcely wide enough for Benedict to climb, and he was not particularly broad for a lad his age. She, skinny as she was, could probably slip up it if necessary . . . but it was so narrow and dark that she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to. She had the uneasy suspicion that once she’d taken a few turns of the stair it would suddenly close in before or behind, trapping her forever in stone.

  “Here we are,” said Benedict, and she thought his voice trembled. This heartened her; it was his house, and even he was nervous while standing in this dark space. “I should have brought a candle. But this door here—it’s the door to the weaver room.”

  Heloise saw now that beside the opening of the stairwell was, indeed, a small wooden door. “Is it locked?”

  “I’m not sure.” Benedict tested the latch. The door swung open almost immediately at his touch, as though it had been waiting for them. They cast each other quick glances, neither able to read the other’s expression in the gloom. Then, Benedict leading the way, they stepped into the room.

  It was muc
h brighter inside, for there were windows, narrow but full of morning light. This light fell onto the tall looms on which great bolts of bright red, cranberry-dyed linen were displayed in various stages of completion. Canneberges employed a goodly number of weavers to create the linen which was its primary export.

  But the weavers were asleep after the long Le Sacre the night before. The room was empty save for the great weaving looms, which seemed like giant’s instruments to Heloise, used as she was to her mother’s much smaller, humbler handlooms on which the rough cloth for their clothing was woven.

  Benedict led the way to the center of the round tower chamber and stood in the midst of the looms. He turned to Heloise then, holding the mirror tightly in both hands. She couldn’t see him very well, for the light did not fall on his face, but she thought she could feel the blush radiating from him. He was embarrassed. Embarrassed to be here in this quarter of the house on this strange errand. She couldn’t really blame him. But she also didn’t have time to worry about it.

  “Here,” she said, reaching out both hands. “Let me have the mirror.”

  He shook his head. “No, you can look into it. But I’ll hold it.”

  “That’s nonsense! How am I supposed to look into it properly like that?”

  Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Properly? Last I checked, there’s nothing proper about any of this. Or you either, for that matter.” Then he blinked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I mean, I meant it, but I—”

  “Fine!” Heloise folded her arms. “I forgive you, or not, or whatever you like! Just let me see the mirror.”

  His fingers tightened on the tail-twined handle. “Very well. I’ll turn it, and you can have a look. But don’t try to take it from me, or I’ll . . . I’ll call the guard.”

  Heloise huffed but nodded. So Benedict turned the glass about, holding it out toward her face. Light from a near window gleamed on its surface, making the world inside the glass look much brighter than that in which Heloise stood.

  She stared into her own face. She stared some more.

  She had never before seen herself so clearly! Her Meme’s glass had been nothing like this, warped and spotted as it was. She had always thought it miraculous, but by comparison . . . Oh, Lumé above, there could be no comparison! This surface was so smooth, so pure.

  “My forehead!” Heloise gasped, and then instantly wished she could take it back.

  “What about your forehead?” Benedict asked.

  “Well, you know. It’s not fat,” she muttered, then took a step closer and peered intently, trying not to see Benedict’s confused reaction. “Iubdan’s beard,” she said then. “I’m so . . . so . . .”

  “Dirty?” Benedict suggested.

  She scowled up at him briefly but couldn’t for long keep her eyes off the mirror itself. How marvelous it was to see herself as clearly as though she looked into the face of a friend. Of a sister.

  Before she could stop herself the thought flashed through her mind: Is this what Hélène would have looked like?

  Hélène had shared Heloise’s masses of curly hair. Hélène had shared her pale eyes. But Hélène’s nose was not that nose; Hélène’s nose had been small and soft. It had been a child’s nose, not a young woman’s nose like this one in the glass. Would Hélène’s nose have lengthened like this? Would it have had the same little bump, the same listing to the left?

  Heloise felt tears pricking her eyes. Then she frowned. Inexperienced though she was, she knew how mirrors should work. The reflection on the other side of the glass had no tears. In fact, it looked rather scornful.

  “Beast,” Heloise whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?” Benedict asked, drawing the mirror back. As he did so, he turned the glass just a fraction to one side.

  Heloise gasped. Before she could stop herself, she leaped forward, catching his hands in hers, drawing the mirror back close to her face. She turned it again, and there! There!

  “Evette!”

  Dropping her hold on the glass, Heloise spun around and stared into the gloomy passage beyond the weaver-room door. It was just as dark as it had been a moment ago and apparently empty. Empty . . .

  “You know, I’m fairly certain I’ve said this already, but you really must keep your voice down,” said Benedict.

  Heloise startled at his voice and spun back to look up at him. “Did you see her?” she asked, her voice nearly catching in her throat.

  “See whom?” He held the mirror back against his chest now, as though afraid it would fall and shatter at any moment.

  Heloise put out her hand. “Give it back! Give it!”

  In retrospect Benedict knew he should never have put up with such language from this peasant imp. But at the time—with her great eyes blazing up at him and her wild hair standing out from her head like the rays of a weird sun—it seemed like a good idea to comply. He turned the mirror around and only muttered a small “Easy!” when she grabbed his hands again and hauled it toward her face. She turned it this way, turned it that way.

  “Evette,” she whispered, and a shudder passed through her body.

  For there in the glass, standing in the dark passage beyond the reflected Heloise’s shoulder, was her sister. Evette. Wearing the same gown she’d worn to Le Sacre, the same cap tied tightly under her chin.

  All around her shone a blue-silver light. Like moonlight.

  She was looking away, looking at the narrow opening of the stairwell, her head tilted as though listening to the voice of someone calling to her. She didn’t look frightened or worried or . . . or anything.

  She looked empty.

  Evette turned slowly, her eyes still fixed upon the stairwell even as her face moved toward Heloise. Heloise, clutching the glass, staring over her reflected-self’s shoulder, felt her heart racing. “Evette . . . Evette . . .” she whispered, suddenly uncertain she wanted her sister to hear her.

  Evette’s eyes flicked to meet hers. Only for an instant.

  But in that instant Heloise saw her changed. She saw her wearing a fantastic gown of starlight, her hair long and golden down her back, her face radiantly beautiful and pale as the dead. Pale as Hélène’s face down in that dark grave.

  Heloise gasped again and blinked. But when her eyes opened, Evette was no longer looking at her. She wore her peasant garb and gazed up the narrow stair. Then she moved, one step at a time, each foot slowly rising, touching at the toe and settling flat, like a horse going through its paces.

  “Wait!” Heloise cried and put out a hand, reaching.

  Only both of her hands remained clutching the mirror frame. It was her reflected self who reached out, moving at the urge of her beating heart.

  This so startled Heloise that she dropped hold of the mirror and backed away. She looked over her shoulder, though she knew Evette would not be there. She wasn’t. The passage was empty of all save shadows.

  But in the mirror . . . in the mirror . . .

  “She’s in the mirror world,” Heloise said. “She’s behind the glass.”

  Benedict, observing all, his face twisted into an expression somewhere between concern and consternation, said, “What in Lumé’s name are you talking about?”

  Benedict stood in the sunlight-filled scullery beyond the passage leading to the Tower. His ears rang with a garbled explanation of completely fantastical nonsense, none of which he could make himself believe. Though the scullery was empty save for himself and the girl, someone was bound to come this way at any moment. What would he do then? How would he explain his presence here, standing like a fool with an ebony-framed mirror in both hands and a barefoot peasant girl seated at his feet?

  Heloise sat with her back to the wall. She wasn’t crying. She was absolutely, definitely not crying. There may be tears in her eyes, but she wouldn’t allow them to get the best of her, and she would rather turn blue holding her breath than let it out in what might be a sob. But she couldn’t do anything else; she could only sit there not crying, for this alone too
k all the control she could muster.

  What is this nonsense? said the voice in her head. Get up, child! What do you think the young lord will think of you, carrying on so?

  Do you expect your sister to rescue herself?

  Evette . . . Evette in that gorgeous gown . . . Evette who didn’t look like Evette at all, but who was Evette nevertheless . . .

  Heloise let out her breath and drew it in again. “It’s not my fault,” she whispered, though it came out as a choking gasp.

  “See here, please, can’t you take yourself back home and, I don’t know, maybe have a proper weep?” Benedict suggested, his voice earnest though not very comforting. “There’s no point in your sitting just here, and the household will start waking up soon now. They never sleep much past noon after Le Sacre Night. And, great Lumé above us, the apothecary is just down the hall! Do you want Doctor Dupont to come out and see you?”

  Heloise held her breath again. She held it so long her ears burned. But when she let it out slowly in little puffs, she was able to reclaim some shreds of her dignity. She wiped a hand across her nose and pushed curls from her eyes so that she could glare up at Benedict. She didn’t really mean to glare at him just then, but her face settled naturally into that expression.

  He took a step back. “What?”

  “I’ve got to look again,” she said. “In the mirror.”

  “Because . . . you saw your sister inside.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because she’s in the mirror world but not this one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because of this Family of Night?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re mad.”

  Heloise scrambled to her feet and braced herself against Benedict’s disbelief. “See here,” she said, “I don’t need you to believe me. I don’t! I just need you to let me use your mirror again. Because whether or not you believe me, I’m going to rescue my sister. I’ve got to! You can’t expect me to go back home and forget about her, not when I’ve seen her!”