by Jen Calonita
For a shop shrouded in mystery, they had a lot of patrons. Some traveled from very far, and some met with her master in private, not trusting his apprentice to give them what they needed. She hated customers like that. And she hated the busywork that was required of an apprentice—the cleaning, the mending of items that had been handled improperly, the sweeping of the shop. She was not a servant, no matter how she had spent her days before working there. She wanted to be her master’s equal, but that sort of trust took time.
There was that impatience again, creeping up on her.
“Ingrid?” her master called. “Ms. Yvonne and I will be going on an errand together to get some herbs.”
“I will get my cape and join you,” she said. There were several herbs she needed for a face cream she wanted to try, which was supposed to give the skin a shimmer.
“No,” her master said flatly, before lifting a cloak over his head to hide his face. She sighed as Ms. Yvonne did the same. “Watch the shop. We will be back soon.”
They weren’t. As the sun rose high in the sky, and no customers came, Ingrid became more and more aggravated she hadn’t been allowed to accompany them. Why was her master trying to hold her back rather than teach her all his ways as he’d promised? Wasn’t she the rightful heir to his shop? Shouldn’t she know all there was to know about magic, to benefit them both? Why wouldn’t he let her skills strengthen the way she knew they could?
Because he fears the power you wield, your master halts your progress. He puts up a shield.
Ingrid spun around. “Who said that?”
Look closely within these walls; great power you will find. Along with the knowledge to leave this place behind.
Great power? Where? The shop was not that big. Her eyes ran over the shelves stocked with books, potion bottles, urns, vials, and a few live rats and birds that were occasionally used for spells. None of the creatures could speak, of course.
“Reveal yourself!” she commanded, her voice so thunderous that the candle her master had put out reignited.
It is clear thou art exacting and strong. Lightning in the eye of the storm. The wait to become thy own master shall not be long.
Ingrid continued to search for the voice. When nothing jumped out at her in the shop, she entered the back room. The items in storage were mostly broken or no longer of value. Her master didn’t even bother telling her what many of the items were. He kept saying he needed to dispose of these things, but there was a system to doing so. Items with dark properties could not just be thrown out like rubbish. “Broken magic is the most dangerous type of magic there is,” he had once told her.
There seemed to be no one back there, either, and yet her instincts told her the phantom voice was close by. She immediately moved to the bookshelf in the back of the room, wiping off the dust and reaching her hand behind it, where there should have been a wall. Instead, she felt an indention that revealed a hidden nook. Carefully pulling the bookcase away, she spotted some shoddy rags. She pulled them off and found . . . a mirror?
Its glass was so dirty it was almost black, but it did not appear to be broken. Its gilded frame, with serpents twisting around it, was nicked and the paint was peeling, but she could tell it had once been impressive. Ingrid couldn’t understand why her master would have let an item like this fall into disrepair.
Do not fear magic you do not understand. Give yourself over to me, and become the fairest in the land.
Ingrid stumbled back as smoke seeped from the glass. The voice was coming from the mirror. And, what’s more, it seemed to be reading her thoughts. How?
“Thy fate is not sealed,” said the mirror in a deep baritone voice. “Touch the glass. All shall be revealed.”
Ingrid placed her palm on the cold mirror and felt a surprising flush of pain shoot through her arm. But she didn’t let go. With her hand on the glass, she could see the journey of the mirror: it had been welded out of molten lava, cloaked figures reciting incantations around it as the glass was formed and cooled. She watched as a large tree in what was known in these parts as the Haunted Woods was chopped down, and an intricate frame with snakes and symbols was carved from its wood. The cloaked figures were careful with it. They hid it away in a cave in the darkest recesses of the forest, visiting from time to time to care for the mirror and commune with it. Their cloaked appearance made it hard for Ingrid to make out faces, but there were a lot of them, always standing around the mirror, chanting. On the ground, paths of fire spread from their feet to the wall on which the mirror hung.
Somehow, she could tell the mirror was pleased with their devotion, but it desired more—a task. One of the cloaked figures seemed to understand that, and this figure, too, wanted something more. Beauty. The Fountain of Youth. Immortality. The mirror offered the figure these things for a price. In time, the figure was revealed to be a woman who seemed to age backward. She grew more beautiful with every visit and appeared happy. But soon the woman’s beauty led her to argue with the others. Someone called the mirror evil. They threatened to destroy it. A fight broke out among them. The next image she saw was of death, the woman who had loved the mirror lying on the ground. One of the cloaked figures took the mirror from the forest and brought it to this very shop, to plead with her master. “It’s dangerous and needs to be disposed of,” he said, speaking clearly.
“I will see to it that it is not trusted again,” Ingrid’s master replied. Ingrid let go in surprise and the images swirled and faded away.
“There is much more to see . . .” the mirror started. It was only then that she realized the glass, while foggy, emanated purple and black shapes, which seemed to swirl like fire. Was there a face staring back at her? Was it her own distorted image or someone else’s entirely? A mask of some sort? It was hard to tell. It appeared only in shadow. She was mesmerized by it.
“What more is there? Show me,” she hissed.
“When my lifeblood is renewed, I shall help thee.”
Lifeblood? Somehow she could sense the mirror’s magic was dying. She couldn’t allow that to happen. “What do I do?” she asked, afraid she wouldn’t be able to get it done in time. This mirror was the most unique and powerful thing she had ever seen. She couldn’t let it disappear.
“Mandrake and nightshade you must find. Do it quick. Concoct a brew for the magic to bind.”
The mirror’s voice was fading already. She rushed into the front room again and found some supplies, including the tonic she had been brewing to rejuvenate the spirit. Hopefully it was already strong enough. Mixing it all together, she ran back into the room and looked around for something with which to apply it to the mirror. Already, the glass had darkened. She grabbed a rag from a pile of clean laundry she had yet to fold and quickly began applying the varnish to the mirror’s glass, extending even to its frame.
The mirror remained dark and quiet. For a moment, she worried she was too late. But as she sat back on her heels and waited, the mirror slowly began to glow, like an ember growing to a full flame. Heat filled the room and Ingrid wondered for the second time that day whether the shop was about to burn down. But the light faded again and the mirror’s glass began to swirl with black and purple shades once more. The once tarnished frame began to shine and soon the glass was as clear as crystal. The masklike face slowly swam into view.
“Ingrid,” the mirror said, sounding strong again, “my master you will now be. I owe my life to you, and you, in turn, belong with me.”
Master? What had she done when she’d touched that mirror? “But my master has you in this room for a reason. I’m not sure I can set you free,” she said, hating that she suddenly sounded fearful. She was talking to a mirror. This was absurd.
“Do I appear broken? Does a river run after the rains return? Because of you I have awoken.” The voice was stronger still. “Put your hand on the glass. Your fate hangs in the balance. Let me show you the future, not the past.”
Once more, she touched the glass and the visions came to her, but
this time she was in them. She saw herself in a lavish room, the likes of which she had never seen before. She sat in a chair high above all others, wearing a beautiful gown and jewels much finer than those the nobles who frequented the village wore. The images kept changing—her standing in front of a roomful of people, her commanding a group of guards, her speaking from an opulent balcony, but she was always there, and each time she appeared, she looked younger and more beautiful than she ever had in real life. The last image was the most powerful of all. Suddenly, a crown was being placed upon her head. She looked young, vibrant, and powerful. Ingrid let go of the mirror, gasping in surprise. “I could be queen?”
“This fact does not wane,” the mirror said. “You are meant to be queen, and long will you reign.”
It’s what she’d always wanted—power, attention, respect—and who had more of those attributes than a queen? King Georg was a young man, of courting age. He was not yet engaged to be married. Perhaps he was her future. Perhaps this was what the mirror was telling her . . . If it was accurate.
“Place your faith in me,” the mirror said. “Grant me your trust. This will be the path that is meant to be.”
Ingrid hesitated for a moment, then touched the mirror again. This time she felt a surge of pain, then numbness, but saw no vision. Something was wrong. She let go and looked down at the palm of her hand. A burn mark appeared on her weathered palm. Before she could even consider it, it began to fade away, taking the roughness and dirt she could never seem to be rid of completely with it. The wrinkles and weather-beaten skin smoothed away, replaced with a flawless complexion. The unsightly vein that usually throbbed in her hand disappeared. She cried out in surprise and relief. Her hand was beautiful. She looked at the mirror. She wanted her other hand to match.
“You need only ask,” the mirror said, reading her thoughts. “Working together, your dreams shall be an easy task.”
Queen. She could see it. Feel it. Just then, she heard the shop door open.
“I will get you out of here,” she promised. “I will come back for you later. I won’t let him destroy you.”
The mirror became quiet once more. To be sure it was truly safe, she moved it to a new location, hiding it behind a large painting against a different wall in the back room. When the master left for the evening, she would say she had tidying up to do and come back for it. She’d figure out where to keep it permanently later. The bell on the desk chimed, which meant whoever had arrived was a customer. Her master wouldn’t ring for her—he would yell. The bell chimed again. This was a customer, and an annoying customer at that.
Ingrid wiped her hands—one dirty with varnish, but the other glowing with the beauty that befitted a future queen—and walked out of the back room. “Can I help you—?” she started, before seeing who it was.
“Sister!” Katherine ran to her and hugged her fiercely. “You’ll never believe what happened!” She waved a cream-colored paper in front of Ingrid. “I received an invitation to the palace’s masquerade ball!”
“You?” Ingrid sputtered, grabbing the piece of parchment and reading it hungrily. “ ‘King Georg cordially invites you . . .’ ” she read. The king was inviting her plain sister? Her stomach dropped, along with her hope. The mirror had said she would be queen. Not Katherine. “How did you get this?” Her beautiful hand was shaking.
Katherine didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were crystal clear and her cheeks were flushed. “It’s my apples!” she said, her voice bursting with pride. “The king has been asking for batches weekly now, and this week I was asked to deliver them myself! He’s such a lovely man, Ingrid. You would love him. And now he’s asked me to the ball! Can you believe it?”
“No, I cannot,” Ingrid said flatly.
Katherine hugged her sister tightly again, which was for the best; there was no hiding the look of jealousy on Ingrid’s face.
She was free.
After what felt like an eternity of being trapped in the woods, the trees had parted and she’d come upon a clearing. Snow inhaled sharply, feeling as if she had held her breath, along with her fears, for too long. The whispering that had plagued her as she wandered vanished, replaced with the welcome sound of chirping birds. As her eyes readjusted to the light of the midafternoon sun, she took in her surroundings. The ground was green, and the earth alive with flowers and trees, but she was definitely not in the meadow where she had begun this journey. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen a rocky terrain such as this. The boulders rose out of the ground like mountains. She noticed a cave opening among the rocks and a small wooden sign in front of it, which meant civilization couldn’t be far from here. That was a good omen, because she had no plan to explore that cave. A cavern meant more darkness, and she had finally found the light.
Snow walked past the cave opening and kept going, hoping she’d find a path or a road that might lead her . . . where? That was the problem. She couldn’t go back to the castle, not when the queen wanted her dead. She sighed, trying to clear her mind and will her aching feet to keep moving. She needed to find somewhere to rest, gather her thoughts, and decide what she was going to do next.
A northern lapwing flew past her, tweeting excitedly as though singing a song. Mesmerized, Snow followed it. It seemed funny that it was the second time that day she had seen her mother’s favorite—once in the meadow with the huntsman and now again. It was as if her mother were somehow with her, pushing her to go on. She watched the bird bob and weave over the meadow before landing on . . . a house? It was a cottage with a thatched roof and it sat in the middle of a grassy knoll like a mirage. The bird tweeted again, as if beckoning her to come see it for herself. Then it took off.
After hours of nothing, she had suddenly stumbled upon this small home in the woods. It had to be a mirage. But as she walked closer, her legs growing more and more tired, the home blessedly did not disappear. The closer she got, the more detail she noticed. The cottage had a hand-carved door with a small bird etched on the front. That same bird was carved into tiny shutters that dotted each window. Snow felt her heart leap; that seemed to be a good omen. Maybe that lapwing had been good luck.
Out front, she noticed a firepit with burned embers that still glowed. That meant the cottage wasn’t deserted! Maybe there were people there who might give her a quick respite. She hastened her pace to the front door and knocked softly. She could only imagine what they’d think of her appearance. Her dress was torn and soiled, and her hair had a few leaves tangled in it. But even if she looked like she normally did, in all likelihood, they wouldn’t recognize her. Those outside the palace walls hadn’t seen the princess in years.
No one answered the door, so Snow leaned her ear against it and listened. Inside, it seemed all was quiet. She knocked one more time to be sure, but no one came. She sighed, feeling the rush of adrenaline and hope drain out of her.
She couldn’t keep wandering. She would just have to wait for the owner of the cottage to return. She looked through the dirty window next to the front door. She could see a comfy armchair inside. Oh, how she longed to sink into that chair, if even for a little while. With a boldness she hadn’t known she possessed, her hand went to the doorknob. Turning it, she heard a small click. The unlocked door opened slightly. Snow looked around. There was no sign of anyone approaching. Would it be so terrible of her to wait inside?
“Hello?” Snow called. There was no answer.
If she’d had any doubts that someone currently lived in the cottage, they dissipated the minute she stepped over the threshold. There were bowls of porridge sitting all over the room on small tables, as well as on the chair upon which she had hoped to rest. Clothes and small single socks littered the floor and tables, along with open books and . . . was that a hatchet? Who lived here? Curious, she began to look around.
One thing was for sure: the cottage could really use a good tidying. The large room, which appeared to be for cooking and resting, was musty and warm, as if windows had never been
opened to let in fresh air. The dining table was covered with dirty dishes. When was the last time these dishes had seen the sink?
That chair looked divine, but she knew what would happen once she sank into it (after removing the bowl of porridge, of course). Her thoughts would return to the darkness. Her mother had been murdered—by her own sister. Had her father known what really happened to her mother? Was that why he’d always seemed so sad? Had Aunt Ingrid done away with him, too? The thoughts could easily paralyze her, and she needed to be sharp. She needed a plan. For now, it was easier to do something useful with her hands. Cleaning had kept her busy all those lonely years in the castle. It could keep her busy again for another few hours.
She picked up the dirty dishes and carried them to the sink to wash them for her hosts. That’s when she noticed the seven small dining chairs.
Did a group of children live here? Taking a closer look, Snow noticed the socks on the floor were tiny, as was the shirt hanging on a hook by the door. She didn’t see any larger clothes or chairs. . . . Did the children live on their own without parents or caregivers? Her heart gave a sudden lurch. If that were true, they were orphans, just like her. Poor darlings. She wondered where they were now.
Well, at least they will come back to a clean home. Finding energy she was surprised she had left, Snow began gathering the dirty clothing and placing it in a basket to be washed. She cleaned all the dishes and swept the floor. She washed the dirty windows with a rag she found. Then she ventured into the small garden out front. She was delighted to find some ripe and delicious-looking vegetables. Her stomach rumbled at the sight of them and she realized she hadn’t eaten since her breakfast at the castle, which now felt like days ago.
Gathering the vegetables, she headed back to the kitchen and started on a soup she had learned to make from Mrs. Kindred as a girl. As it began to boil, an appealing herby aroma filled the room. She left it to simmer, then set the table. When she had finished, she still wasn’t satisfied, so she headed back outside—a bouquet of fresh goldenrod flowers would brighten up the place. (What a strange completion to the task she had started what seemed like a lifetime ago!) When she returned with the flowers in tow, she couldn’t find a vase, so she placed them in a pitcher, which she then set in the center of the dining room table. Now the table looked presentable.
