by Shannon Hale
Rae leaned closer to the glass to watch and held her nose because the barn smelled of unmucked stalls. “Careful,” she whispered nasally.
The princess in the mirror just smiled. She pulled a shiny, red apple from her pocket and waltzed to the Turk’s stall. “Here you are, boy,” she cooed. “I have a treat for you.”
The horse whinnied happily and lipped the apple from the princess’s hand. He munched loudly for a moment and then nuzzled her for more. She stroked his bristly-silky nose. “Next time,” she promised and threw Rae a meaningful glance.
The following afternoon, Princess Rae was sure to bring an apple to her riding lessons. “I’d like to ride the Turk, please,” she said sweetly.
“Nazar?” the riding master scoffed. “Certainly not, Princess. He’s cunning as a unicorn and twice as wild. He’d throw you off inside a royal minute.”
“He likes me,” Rae said and marched right up to the Turk’s stall. “Don’t you, boy?” She slipped the sugar from her pocket and fed it to Nazar, then led the horse confidently to the riding arena.
To her riding master’s astonishment, Rae rode the horse without incident for her entire lesson.
“How did it go?” asked the princess in the mirror when Rae returned to her room.
“Perfect,” said Rae. “Thank you for the apple idea. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Sure you could,” said the princess in the mirror.
More time passed. Spring turned into summer, and summer into fall. Snow fell and melted away again. And then one day, Rae sensed a change in the air that had nothing to do with the seasons.
“What is it, Father?” she asked.
“Not now, my dear,” said the king.
“What’s wrong, Mother?” Rae asked.
“Don’t worry, darling,” said the queen.
But Rae did worry. She watched through the keyhole as the king assembled his advisors in the council hall and gathered his bravest knights. The men stood in fretful circles, murmuring in tones too low for Rae to hear.
“Sweetheart,” chided the queen, “come away from there. Princesses do not eavesdrop.”
“They do when no one will tell them what’s going on,” Rae grumbled.
“Now, now,” the queen said gently. “Why don’t you work on your—” Her words were cut off by a ruckus erupting on the other side of the council hall door. Rae returned to her keyhole.
“Dragons in the kingdom!” shouted the viceroy.
“They have sealed the southern border!” bellowed the chaplain.
“Let us fight!” cried the knights.
The king begged for calm. “Perhaps they mean no harm,” he said. “If we could just reason with them—”
“There is no reasoning with dragons,” countered the councilors. “They would fry us where we stand.”
“Our horses won’t go near them,” confirmed the knights. “And it’s much too dangerous to approach on foot. The armor clanks, you see.”
“But . . . diplomacy,” sputtered the king.
Princess Rae backed away from the door. She had to help her father and her kingdom. But what could one small princess do? She ran straight to her room to ask the princess in the mirror. As she opened the door, however, she heard a horrible crash.
“Oh, Highness!” the chambermaid cried. “Forgive me. I was polishing your mirror and it fell.” Sure enough, shards of glass lay at her feet, along with a mangled frame.
Anger and sadness and fear jumbled together and squeezed Rae’s chest like a too-tight corset. It wasn’t easy, but she tried to be gentle and kind. “Nothing to forgive,” she said. “It was an accident.”
The maid curtsied contritely and scurried off to find a broom. Alone in her bedchamber, Rae sank to the floor amid the slivers of mirror and sobbed.
“Oh, dear. This won’t do,” said Felicia.
“Fairy Grandmother!” cried Rae.
“Now what’s all this fuss about?” Felicia asked. “I thought you were off to fight the dragons.”
Rae shook her head. Her shoulders drooped in defeat. “I can’t,” she said. “The princess in the mirror is gone.”
“But my dear,” Felicia said gently, “you are the princess in the mirror. She is but a reflection of who you truly are”—she tapped her finger over her heart—“in here. So tell me, Princess, what would your mirror-self do?”
Rae sniffled. She wiped her eyes. “She . . . she would face the dragons and save her kingdom.”
“Good show,” said Felicia as she faded away. “Now get to work!”
Rae stood and dusted herself off. She was small like a pawn, and not threatening like a knight. Perhaps she could approach the dragons without getting fried and convince them to go home. She grabbed her traveling cloak, and a fencing foil for good measure, and ran down the turret stairs before she could change her mind.
The riding master saw Rae dash to the stables. “Princess!” he called. “No lesson today!”
But Rae pretended not to hear him and rushed to open Nazar’s stall. She jumped onto the horse’s back and grabbed handfuls of his mane so she wouldn’t fall off. They bolted past the riding master, clattered over the drawbridge, and galloped straight into the woods.
Near the border road, Rae smelled the dragons’ terrible brimstone breath. Her stomach twisted with fear. They must be close. She hid Nazar behind a tree and slid down from his back.
“Stay here until I come for you,” she whispered.
Rae pushed through the brambles and branches until she spied a thunder of fierce-looking dragons stomping across the road. At the sight of them, Rae shrank back and hid behind a bush, trembling.
But then she thought of her mother and father. She thought of her kingdom. She thought of the princess in the mirror. She must be brave, for them.
Peeking through the leaves, Rae watched the dragons march in a huge, lumbering circle, around and around and around again. Sunlight shimmered across their scales with every step. The movement was mesmerizing. Rae was so drawn to the light that before she could stop herself, she stepped out from her hiding place.
One of dragons turned its head toward her, eyes narrowing into angry yellow slits. A jolt of fear shot through Rae and broke the spell. She ducked back into the bush and shielded her eyes from the light.
It didn’t take her long to realize that the dragons were just as captivated by the flashes of gold and green as she had been. Indeed, each dazed dragon followed the dazzle of the dragon in front of it, one after the other, like one big turning wheel. The dragons weren’t invading or blocking the trade route; they were spellbound by the sparkles.
That gave Rae an idea. She drew a deep breath for courage, then stood and waved her fencing foil above her head. Sunlight glinted along the blade. She danced as she’d done in her room with the princess in the mirror. The dragons stopped their parade.
“That’s it,” Rae said. “Now we just need to turn you homeward.”
She wasn’t sure where their home was exactly, but she guessed it must be back down the road somewhere. Whirling and twirling with her foil, Rae led the dragons away from the kingdom’s border. She danced until her arms grew heavy and her slippers split. Then, when the dragons were pointed in the right direction, she ducked aside and let them follow their own flashing scales beyond the horizon and out of sight.
Kicking off her ruined slippers, Rae limped back to where she had left Nazar. Her heart dropped right to the dusty road when she saw the riding master waiting for her, holding the horse’s reins. She was going to be in such trouble! But to her surprise, instead of lecturing her, the riding master bowed when Rae approached.
“My lady,” he said. “That was amazing.”
Back at the palace, the knights knelt and the councilors cheered.
“Good show,” said the king.
“Bravely done,” said the queen.
“Well earned,” said Felicia. For next to the fairy grandmother stood Rae’s magic mirror. The princess inside wa
ved delightedly.
“You fixed it!” cried Rae. “She’s back!”
Felicia smiled. “Yes, well, one’s true self cannot rightly go away, can it?”
“Thank you, Fairy Grandmother,” Rae said.
“Ah, it was nothing,” Felicia said, smoothing her silver coif. “Besides, you may need a friend when your little brother becomes a bother.”
“But . . . I don’t have a little brother,” said Rae.
“Not yet,” said Felicia with her twinkly smile. “Not yet.”
Linda Gerber
Linda should have been born a princess. Instead, she grew up in a college town in the shadows of the Wasatch Mountains in Utah, where she avoided her homework by making up stories and daydreaming about faraway kingdoms. Currently, she lives in Japan, still dreaming, and spinning stories into books.
http://www.lindagerber.com/
Ellie
(Undifferentiated Sarcoma of the Kidney)
Meet Ellie! Ellie was diagnosed with stage 2 undifferentiated sarcoma of the kidney in the middle of 2013. It is a really rare type of cancer, especially in children. She is currently in remission and is back at school and having somewhat of a normal life. For the next five years, though, she will be closely monitored, and we all hope relapse will not be an issue.
Ellie’s dream is to be a baker. I didn’t want her to be just any baker—I wanted her to be an amazing baker who could do things that seem impossible. I think that the fight against cancer can feel like a losing battle sometimes, so I want anyone who looks at this image to believe that anything is possible, even overcoming cancer!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=821-c12INSA
Ellie the Baker
Adam Glendon Sidwell
Grandma was sick. Mom told Ellie after school that Grandma had fallen and was going to be in the hospital for two days.
Ellie didn’t understand how serious the words “critical” or “concussion” were in a medical sense. They sounded bad, but the doctors would fix it, right?
On the day Grandma came home from the hospital, Ellie flung open the kitchen screen door and scrambled down the back steps, jogging across the back lawn and into the woods that grew between her backyard and Grandma’s house.
It did not take long for her to dart down the winding, jagged path under the crisscrossing shadows of trees and reach the other side of the wood. She barely knocked on Grandma’s back door—she never needed to; it was always unlocked—before letting herself in.
“Ellie?” said a weak voice from Grandma’s room.
Ellie poured a glass of cool water, placed a napkin under it, and took it to Grandma’s room.
Ellie did not recognize the person in the big bed at first. The woman propped up on pillows was paler and frailer than Grandma had ever been. Her eyes were glassy. “Ellie?” she said again.
Ellie recognized the voice. It was her grandma, only she sounded as if her voice was calling from far away.
Grandma turned her head and smiled. “Now there’s a pretty sight,” she said, her breathing strained.
“Hello, Grandma,” said Ellie, her voice shaky. She held back her tears. Grandma had always been as constant as summertime or Christmas. Ellie did not know her grandma could change. She wasn’t sure what to say. “How . . . how are you feeling?” Ellie handed her the water.
“I’m in good shape for the shape I’m in,” said Grandma. She took a sip of water, then spooned a thick, yellow paste into her mouth. She grimaced.
“If only I had something sweet enough, I think I’d live forever,” Grandma said. This time her eyes twinkled. It was a sparkle that must have come from deep inside, because it glistened like a dewdrop at dawn, and that meant Grandma had spoken the truth.
A sudden thrill rose inside Ellie, and she seized hold of it. It was hope.
She turned from the room and rushed into the kitchen, throwing open the cupboard above the oven where she knew the old, red, leather-bound book of Grandma’s handwritten recipes was hidden. The cover was cracked, and the loose sheets of paper were yellow with age. Grandma’s personal recipe book was famous. Ellie had heard Mom or the aunties or any number of her cousins talk about it with reverence and awe at Christmastime or during summer camping trips when the scattered lines of Grandma’s descendants were gathered together.
Ellie felt a twinge of guilt as she hugged the book to her chest and ran from Grandma’s house into the woods. “You know how many people have tried to get their hands on that book?” one of her aunts had said last Fourth of July. Black crows flapped and cawed back and forth as they landed in thick, heavy layers on the tree branches above her. They seemed to speak to each other, as if planning their nighttime activities. Ellie wondered if they were mentioning her and doubled her pace.
When she was finally clear of the trees, and the back door to her own house was shut tight behind her, she opened the recipe book in the kitchen. The handwritten, cursive recipes were all written in pencil with Grandma’s long, looping letters. Ellie had never baked before, and she did not know sifting from folding, or baking powder from baking soda, but Grandma had said what she’d said, and in that there was hope.
With Mom’s help, Ellie baked her first cake. It sagged in the middle where the batter was still soggy, and there were bits of sharp eggshell that she had not been able to pick out mixed in. She shoveled the entire mess into the trash can and cried. She wanted to make Grandma something sweet. She needed to do this.
The second cake was also a struggle. But the third cake was an improvement. By the fourth day, Ellie had baked a round vanilla cake with blue frosting that caused Mom to nod her head in approval. Ellie sealed the cake in a plastic container and ran through the shadows in the woods, the crows fluttering above her, to Grandma’s house.
“Grandma, I made this for you, so you’ll get better,” said Ellie. She held out a slice of cake on a plate. Ellie was hopeful for a moment. She had created something sweet, and she felt the thrill that came with it.
Grandma propped herself up in bed, then slowly took a bite, sliding the fork from her mouth smoothly. Her eyes cleared, and she stared into Ellie’s face like she was reading her.
Ellie’s hope turned to anxiety. Grandma might recognize her own recipe. Would she know Ellie had stolen her prized book? No one in all their family had ever done that. It was too late for confessions now.
Grandma did not accuse her. Instead, she was thoughtful for a long moment.
“I wonder what lemon-flavored might taste like,” she finally said. Her lips did not show a hint of a smile, nor did her gaze leave Ellie’s face.
Ellie’s heart sank. Did Grandma not like the cake? Ellie studied the old woman’s face. There was no hint hidden in the wrinkles there.
Ellie ran from Grandma’s room and back through the woods, the cake clutched in both arms. Tears burst from her eyes. In all her life, she’d never known Grandma to do anything but praise her: “Oh, my, what an artistic masterpiece,” or “Don’t you look like a picture-perfect sweetheart.” Nothing but approval had ever escaped Grandma’s lips.
The crows seemed to laugh at her as she ran past.
It was a whole day before she began work on the lemon cake. By now she didn’t need Mom’s help. Ellie understood what sifting and folding meant and that she should mix the dry ingredients first before adding the wet ones. She knew how to crack eggs without losing track of the shells. She knew how to make the frosting soft but firm.
Before she put the cake into the oven, she overheard the next-door neighbor in the living room talking to Mom. Her back was to the kitchen.
“This is very good,” the neighbor said. She was holding a fork in one hand with a slice of Ellie’s vanilla cake with blue frosting on a plate in the other. She took another bite. “I mean really good,” she said, her mouth full of cake. “Who made this?”
The neighbor didn’t know Ellie was listening. Ellie felt her chest swell. She had made that.
She pushed the lemon cake batter into the oven.<
br />
“Hmm,” said Grandma as she slid the fork from her mouth later that afternoon. She chewed slowly while Ellie searched for signs of approval in Grandma’s face. Again her face was a mask. “I wonder what German chocolate might taste like.”
Again Ellie ran through the woods under the gathering crows with her cake clutched under her arms. She shoved the cake onto the kitchen counter and cried. Why didn’t her grandma like the cakes?
The next morning, Ellie heard a knock on the door. It was the neighbor again, plus two more women from down the street. “Is your mother home?” she asked.
Ellie let them in and slipped away into the kitchen.
Mom met them in the living room, where the women spoke in low voices. Mom came into the kitchen where Ellie hid. She seemed puzzled. “They want cake,” she said. She reached for the lemon cake and cut three slices.
And so it went, day after day. German chocolate, carrot cake, red velvet—all taken from Grandma’s treasured book of handwritten recipes. But it wasn’t just cakes anymore. Ellie made cupcakes and tarts and cookies, too. All layered with thick frosting in icy blue or soft white, with purple roses or green vines intertwined across the tops. The kitchen was a warm and colorful rainbow—chocolate cakes on the countertop, sugar cookies in the oven, slices of banana cake stacked in the corner, even donuts piled high on top the refrigerator.
Ellie practically had to balance stacks of cupcakes in one hand while rainbow- layered cakes teetered on top a spoon in the other hand just to get around the kitchen.
And, oh, the smells that came from the kitchen!
Each day Ellie tried to find that sweet something that would cure Grandma’s pains. Each day, more people came, some of them friends, most of them strangers, asking for a bite of the wonder that were Ellie’s cakes.
The taste-seekers came alone or in pairs at first, asking shyly for a taste, mentioning that they’d heard from so-and-so down the street just how good the cakes were and that they’d be willing to pay for the treats.
