Palace of Mirrors

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  “I’m going to play on the street corners in Cortona and hope there are enough fools willing to toss me enough coins so we can buy shoes,” he says. “And then I’m going to sign up for the music competition. The Amazing Harper and Cecilia—the one and only two-person harp-playing team!”

  12

  I follow Harper back into the city. He finds one of the few corners not already occupied by soldiers, squats down, and settles his harp in his lap.

  “Harper,” I whisper, “do you want me to announce you or anything? I could say, I don’t know, maybe, ‘The amazing Harper—he looks like a beggar, but he plays like a prince!’”

  “No,” Harper says, glaring at me. “Don’t say anything!” He takes off his cap, tosses it to the ground in front of us. “For collecting money,” he says awkwardly.

  He launches into one of the lugubrious tunes I’ve heard many times coming from the Sutton cottage back home. I don’t think there are any words to this song, but if there were, they’d be something like, Dead, dead, just about everyone we love is dead; sorrow is everywhere, and all we can do is cry.

  People are edging away from Harper’s corner. One cheerful-looking fellow with a jaunty feather in his hat crosses the street just before he comes to us, and I’m sure it’s because of the music.

  I tug on Harper’s arm, causing him to drag his fingers across several strings at once. The harp gives out a waterfall of sound, a cheerful noise, like even the harp is glad to be done with that song of misery.

  “Eels! What are you doing?” Harper hisses.

  “Can’t you play something peppier?” I ask. “That song makes people want to lie down in the gutter and die, not give you money.”

  Harper frowns at me.

  “My mam says harps are made for slow, sonorous tunes,” he says. “She says peppy pieces aren’t . . . dignified enough for a harp.”

  Behind the dirt on his face he looks every bit as miserable as the music he was playing.

  “Well, then—aren’t there any happy slow songs?” I ask. “Can’t you play, I don’t know . . . a love song? Something to make people feel good?”

  “A love song,” Harper repeats numbly. He gapes at me. “You want me to play a love song?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “People like love songs. I know you’re not in love with anyone or anything, but you could imagine what it’s like and pretend, just while you’re playing . . .”

  “A love song,” Harper says again, as if he’s never heard of such a thing.

  A young woman behind us squeals, and calls out to a cluster of her friends looking into a millinery’s window on the next block, “Ooh—Mabella, Liandra, Suzerina! Come away from those hats and listen! This one’s going to play a love song!”

  Harper narrows his eyes at me.

  “Only if you leave,” he says brusquely. “Go find out what shoes cost or something. I’m not playing a love song while you’re standing here listening!”

  “Fine,” I say, glaring back. “I’ll be back in three hours.”

  I haven’t really been paying attention, so I’m not sure if the clock tower by the palace last chimed out one o’clock or two o’clock. But I’m not about to ask Harper which it was. Not now. I’ll just have to listen closely for the next chiming.

  I shove past three giggling women—Mabella, Liandra, and Suzerina, I suppose—already clustering around Harper before he plucks his first note. I don’t understand why this bothers me. I don’t understand why it suddenly seems like we were having a fight. Unaccountably, tears sting at my eyes, and I brush them away.

  Well, thanks a lot for your concern, Mr. Harper Sutton, I think. I guess you don’t think it matters if I go wandering around all by myself, where anybody could attack me. You really don’t think I’m anybody important, do you? Even if you don’t care about me at all, don’t you care for your kingdom? What part of “true princess” don’t you understand?

  Angrily, I stomp off down the street. I’m not sure how many blocks I walk before I remember to look for a cobbler’s shop. The signs in this area are written in such fancy script that I have to squint to figure out the words hidden in the curlicues. I resort to simply looking in the shop windows. Here are flowers in one window, then dresses, then men’s coats, then more dresses, then—aha!—shoes.

  I push my way into the shop past a heavy wooden door.

  “Yes?” a tidy young man says, as soon as I’m in the shop. “How might I help you?”

  He’s wearing a linen coat and pants, along with a white shirt so perfectly clean that it must be the first time he’s ever worn it. His hair is neatly tied back with a black ribbon, and he’s got shiny brass buckles on his shoes. Looking at him I remember every burr tangled in my hair, every patch on my skirt, every clump of dirt on my ankles. I bend my knees, so at least my skirt will cover my bare feet and dirty ankles. My fingers brush the nearest pair of shoes.

  “How much do these cost?” I ask.

  “Shoes in that style?” he asks. “Fifty gold coins.”

  I gasp. Maybe I don’t have enough confidence in Harper, but I can’t imagine that he’ll be able to play any love song well enough to earn a hundred gold coins.

  “And we have a backlog of requests, so any new orders will take at least three months,” he adds. “We’re starting to take orders for the winter season right now.”

  I gasp again. Winter is months and months away.

  “Do you know of any shop that’s cheaper and faster?” I ask weakly.

  I force myself to look up, and I see that this young man has a kind look in his eye. He glances around, as if to make sure no one else is listening, then leans in close and whispers, “Try the poor section of the city. You might be able to find some secondhand shoes that you could walk home in.”

  I blush, because I didn’t know that the city has a rich section and a poor section. (Back home in my village, there’s only one section—I guess because everyone’s poor there. We don’t even have a cobbler.) And I’m embarrassed that, despite my efforts to hide my bare feet, this man has very clearly seen that I need shoes now, that I can’t wait another day, let alone months. He probably even noticed exactly how many burrs I have in my hair.

  “Th-thank you,” I say.

  “Five blocks that way, and then turn right,” the man says with a wink.

  I turn and flee, out the door, down the street, as fast as I can go. The blush spreads across my whole face, much faster than I am running. How is it, I wonder, that he made me feel worse than when the palace guards made fun of me? That man was being nice! I rethink my plan to give away shoes and feasts when I’m properly on my throne. I’ll need to do something more subtle than charity, something that doesn’t make people feel bad for being poor. . . .

  Around me the streets are getting narrower; the windows in the shops are smaller and dirtier. The curlicues and fancy script have disappeared from all the signs; instead of CHARLES J. STEWART, ESQUIRE, CLOTHIER, these signs are more likely to read BREAD HERE, or CANDLES, POTS, or even the highly descriptive JUNK. Then, a little farther along, the signs don’t contain any words, just vaguely scrawled pictures. I stop in front of one of the picture signs, trying to figure out if it’s a shoe or a boat. A ragged boy behind me pokes me in the ribs.

  “Don’t you be thinking about stealing from him,” he whispers. “That one’s a fast runner, and he’ll catch you, sure.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about stealing,” I say indignantly. “I wouldn’t do that!”

  My words ring out too loudly in the filthy street. Up and down the block people seem to freeze for a moment: slatterns in doorways, drunkards sitting on the curb, idlers leaned against walls. Then it’s as if they’ve all decided to ignore me, to leave me to my own fate, and they go back to their own slumping, sagging, and despairing. Even the ragged boy shrugs.

  “Your loss,” he says.

  I shiver, and then, to prove I’m not afraid, I push open the door of the shoe—or boat—shop. Even inside I’m at first not su
re what it’s selling. A row of dark, dingy lumps line a single glass display case.

  “Are those shoes?” I ask, pressing my face against the glass.

  “Five gold coins apiece,” an old man says grumpily from behind the display case. “Take it or leave it.”

  My eyes are adjusting a bit to the dim shop. I can see well enough now to tell that the shoes are all in tatters. A few look like they were chewed by wild dogs, others like they’ve been vomited on and never cleaned. Wearing these shoes into the castle would be worse than going barefoot.

  “You’re kidding,” I tell the man. “Five gold pieces for those? That’s highway robbery!”

  He shrugs, watching me with narrowed eyes.

  “Cheapest prices in Cortona,” he says. “Like I said, take it or leave it.”

  I open my mouth—ready to lecture him about taking advantage of poor people, I think. But before I can say anything, I hear screaming outside.

  “No! Don’t take me! Please!”

  I rush to the door to look out. It’s the ragged boy who warned me about stealing. He’s struggling to free himself from three large, burly men.

  “I’m a messenger!” the boy yells. “Without me, my mam and my sisters won’t have any money! They’ll starve! Don’t—take—me—off—to—war!”

  “They’re taking him to the war?” I mutter. I start to push out the door, ready to scold the burly men. The ragged boy can’t be more than eight or ten. He’s not old enough to be a soldier. And if his mother and sisters would starve without him—

  Suddenly I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder with an iron grip.

  “Stay out of it,” the store owner growls. “It’s none of your business.”

  “But if they’re taking him off to war—that’s not right! He should have a choice!”

  I try to tear myself away, but he’s holding onto me too tightly, his hands now gripping both of my arms. Outside the door the boy is kicking one of the burly men, but it’s like a mouse fighting back against a hawk. The man simply wraps his huge hand around the boy’s ankles, and the three of them carry the boy around the corner.

  The store owner lets go of my arms.

  “I don’t know where you’re from, girl, but people don’t have choices in Cortona,” he says bitterly. “They’ve had press gangs wandering the streets for years—when they ran out of men to send off to war, they started taking the boys. When everyone’s dead, maybe they’ll stop then.”

  I was wrong about the words to that miserable song Harper was playing on the street corner. What the store owner just said—those would be the perfect words to that awful song.

  Harper . . .

  “They take . . . boys just . . . out on their own?” I say in a shaky voice. “Any boy on the street . . . alone?”

  “Aye,” the man says, shrugging. “They take whoever they want.”

  Instantly, I shove my shoulder against the door. I fly out of that shop, my feet barely touching the pavement. Everything passes in a blur. The streets broaden, words begin appearing on signs, then curlicues and fancy loops. It’d be a left turn this time, five blocks back to the fancy cobbler’s shop and then—how far to Harper’s corner? I barrel through the crowded streets, ramming into solid, well-fed bodies and women in lovely, frilly dresses, and I don’t even stop to apologize. I don’t look at any face long enough to focus my eyes; I’m just looking for freckles and dirt. And listening—I’m straining my ears to hear the first strains of harp music, off in the distance.

  Nothing.

  Maybe Harper’s just between songs, taking a break to collect all the gold coins people want to pay him. . . .

  I pass a shop window filled with hats, and something tickles my memory. Ooh—Mabella, Liandra, Suzerina! Come away from those hats and listen! This one’s going to play a love song! This is the millinery shop the three women were looking at when their friend called to them. So Harper will be on the very next corner. He will. He will. He—

  Isn’t.

  Harper is nowhere in sight.

  13

  Harper!” I scream, as if my voice has the power to conjure up people from thin air. I wish being the true princess meant having that power. I glance around frantically, because maybe Harper switched corners; maybe he thought he’d make more money on the other side of the street. The other corners are crowded with scurrying strangers. No matter how much I crane my neck or duck down low, I can’t catch any glimpse of a familiar freckled face or a carved wooden harp.

  “Oh, Harper,” I moan. My thoughts come in disjointed, panicky bursts. Got to get to Desmia NOW. . . . Stop the press gang that must have taken Harper. . . . As the true princess I ought to be able to do that, right? . . . Got to stop them before Harper gets to the battlefield. . . .

  I step out into the street, thinking that might help me see. I gaze far down the block. Maybe whoever took Harper isn’t far away; maybe if I can catch them I can just tell them that I’m the true princess and they’re not allowed to carry Harper off to war—I forbid it!

  Strong hands grab at me, jerking me back from the street. A flash of black mane whips past my eyes.

  “What are you doing?” someone yells. “Didn’t you see that horse about to trample you?”

  I turn around and focus my eyes on freckles and splotches of dirt and messy, sand-colored hair. It’s Harper. I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him close.

  “I thought they’d taken you away—I thought you were gone forever—I thought I’d never find you again . . .,” I babble.

  Harper pulls back a little, holding me far enough away that he can see my face. I think he’s trying to tell if I’ve gone totally crazy.

  “You really are an idiot,” he says, but there’s a trace of fondness in his voice that makes it seem like it’s not an insult. “You said you’d be back in three hours, and it’s barely been two.”

  I’m a little embarrassed. Three hours? Two? I’d completely forgotten about listening for the clocks and keeping track of time.

  “But you were sitting right there playing music,” I say. “You didn’t tell me you were going anywhere else.”

  Harper lets go of me. He looks down, kicks at the harp he’s holding at his side.

  “I wasn’t making much money,” he says. “So I thought I’d just go sign us up for the competition before you got back. And then I found out why I wasn’t making any money. There are musicians all over the place. All of them playing better than me.” He sighs. “I’m a failure at my own fate.”

  “No, no—I bet it’s just a matter of economics,” I say comfortingly. “The laws of supply and demand. Because of the music competition, there are probably hundreds of musicians in Cortona, all of them trying to get some last-minute practice. The city’s full of music, so nobody wants to pay for it.”

  Harper shrugs.

  “How much money did you make?” I ask.

  Harper reaches into his pocket, pulls out a meager collection of coins.

  “Pennies,” he says.

  I don’t even bother to count the coins—it’s clearly not enough to buy so much as a fraction of a secondhand shoe that’s been covered in vomit and chewed by wild dogs.

  “Guess I better start playing again,” Harper says hopelessly, as he drops the coins back into his pocket. “We got one of the last open slots in the competition. The only times left were at the very beginning or at the very end, weeks away, so . . . we play first thing tomorrow morning.”

  My heart gives a little jump at this news. If we’re in the competition tomorrow, then I’ll get to talk to Desmia tomorrow—my true fate, my real life, is only a day away. Everything I’ve been reading about and studying for and daydreaming over is about to begin.

  Then I remember what made me rush to this corner so frantically.

  “Harper—it’s not safe for you to be out here on the streets,” I say. “There are these people who wander around grabbing men and boys and carrying them off to war.” I think about how the ragged boy was carried
away, and how the well-dressed man in the cobbler’s shop didn’t seem to be at any risk. “They take away poor men and boys,” I add.

  “Yeah, I know,” Harper says sulkily. “They’re called press gangs.”

  I stare at him in shock.

  “You know about the press gangs?”

  “The messengers from Cortona, the ones who come out to our village to tell us who’s died in the war—they told me about the press gangs.” Harper smiles, a little grimly. “At first I thought they were talking about people who roam around carrying flatirons, but it’s ‘press’ because they ‘impress’ people into the war.”

  I’m a little stunned that Harper knew something about the kingdom that I, the true princess, was totally ignorant of. Then something else strikes me.

  “But, Harper—you knew this, and you—you were still willing to come to Cortona with me? And to sit out here alone, playing music, when at any moment some press gang could—”

  “What? You think if you’d been sitting here with me while I was playing love songs, you could have protected me from a press gang? You—big, bad Cecilia?”

  The words are teasing, but there’s a darker tone in his voice. And I had thought that. Almost. It wasn’t that I was big, bad Cecilia, but that I was the true princess, and a simple word from me should be able to stop any press gang.

  If they believed me.

  I’m still gasping at the risks Harper has taken—is taking—for me, without me even knowing it. Harper’s sitting down, pulling his harp onto his lap again, resignedly positioning his fingers on the strings.

  “Harper, no,” I say, tugging on his arm, as if I’m strong enough to pick him up. “You can’t stay here. We’ve got to get you out of the city. Just in case a press gang shows up—”

  “Cecilia, I want to be a soldier, remember?” he says brusquely.

  Staring into his eyes I think, He’s lying. And it’s so weird to think that, because Harper’s been saying he wants to be a soldier for years, for as long as I can remember. I’ve always believed him before. Why should I doubt him now?