The meadow blossoms before me. Two dark-haired young girls are skipping about in it, little golden wings trailing behind them. They are so similar they could almost be twins, although the younger one has the smallest, sweetest set of horns protruding out of the top of her hair. A flower is tied to one of them.
“Eila! Wait for me!” she calls out to the older one.
Her sister stops and grins, holding out her hand for her to follow. I miss Honour and Hope with a sudden pang.
“Come on!” Eila calls.
The two run on, hand-in-hand, until they reach a river bank. My riverbank. They slow to a crawl, creeping through the long grass, spying on a group of very ordinary human children splashing around in the stream. They are dressed in very loose, very old-fashioned clothing.
“Boo!” Eila leaps out at them.
I expect them to startle at the sight of a fairy child appearing out of nowhere, but they don't. Instead, they laugh joyously and start splashing them too.
The game continues for some time, until there is a sudden cry. Eila spins round, and her sister is standing over one of the human boys, who is clutching his cheek. His eyes well up. “Monster!” he yells, and then he and the other boys turn on their heels and run.
“Moya!” Eila calls, racing to her side. “Why did you do that?”
“He pulled my horns and asked me if I was a goat,” Moya sniffles. “I'm not a goat!”
“Of course you aren't,” Elia replies. “And I love your horns. But you shouldn't have slapped him. You know what humans are like.”
“Stupid.”
“No, sacred. I know a lot of the grown-up ones are frightened of us.”
“Why would they be frightened of us?”
“Because,” Eila responds. “We are not like them.”
The scene changes, morphing into the ballroom, now many years later. A ball is in progress, and the guest are as colourful as the surroundings. The entire Fairy court must be present, plus many of their human neighbours.
The sisters are adults now. Eila is dressed in soft yellow, and her golden wings float down her back like a cape. She reminds me of sunlight on a cloudy day; all of the beauty with none of the harshness. Moya looks a little different to her now, the moonlight to her sister's sun. Her horns are larger, and her wings more silver than gold.
By the table, two human adolescents are staring at the older sister.
“Isn't she beautiful?” one gapes.
“For sure, but I've heard she can turn men to stone just by looking at them.”
“I heard that was the younger one.”
“Oh, that makes sense, she looks the part after all.” He mimes the pattern of her horns and the two of them snigger.
“Shall we test the theory?” Moya materialises behind them. They stumble back into the table, upsetting the punch bowl. “Careful, boys,” she sneers. “Did you not hear? If you touch the food of the fairies', you will have to stay with us forever. Wouldn't want you to have to put up with me all of that time.”
One of the boys is trembling, but the other gathers some courage. “Witch,” he spits.
Moya puts on a face of delight, but it is not hard to see the hurt in her eyes. “I could be,” she hisses.
Another day, another scene. Moya is walking through a market, simple and ordinary. She stops to coo at a baby. The baby giggles, but the mother whirls around and snatches it away.
“Get away from my baby, fiend!” she curses. “I've heard what your kind to do them.”
A grand announcement, a royal procession. “All hail Queen Eilinora!”
Moya is in the Hall of Mirrors, what could be years or decades later, it is unclear. The sisters appear to have stopped aging. There are some differences in Moya's face, however. Her features are sharper, her skin sallower. There Eila stands behind her, taller and grander and more beautiful than ever, a crown woven in her shining hair.
“Your majesty,” Moya mock-curtsies.
“To you, I will always be Eila.”
“If you say so,” Moya turns back to face her reflection, her mouth turned up in a look of utter disdain. “Tell me, dear sister, what is it that you see when you look in the Mirror of Truth? You probably look even more beautiful than you do now, don't you?”
“You and I look virtually the same, dearest-”
“We used to,” Moya says bitterly. “Do you know what I see now?”
“No.”
“I see a monster.”
Snippets of stories spanning decades. Reports to Eilinora, “Your sister appears to be inciting violence against humans...” “There's been a rumour of...” “A fairy has been accused of stealing a child...” Eilinora's face grows tired and weary. She speaks to Moya.
“I just want to know why they might be saying these things, dearest.”
“Why do you think?” her sister screams. “Because I look like a monster, that's why!”
“But you aren't!”
“Well maybe I want to be!”
“You... you don't mean that.”
“Why not? If the crown fits...” her eyes fall to Eila's. “Not all crowns are made of silver and gold.”
The Queen meets Leo down by the lake. Their entire courtship plays out at lightning speed.
“When do you think you'll tire of this pet of yours?” Moya asks.
Her sister grimaces at the use of the word, 'pet'. “Actually, I think I'm going to marry him.”
“Marry him? But- he's a human!”
“I know, which is why I think I must seize the precious time we have together. Mortal lives are so short, after all...”
“But they hate us!”
“Leo doesn't.”
“You wait,” Moya spits. “He'll never be happy as your husband.”
But they look wondrously, blissfully happy. Even though, in the scenes that follow, there are slight signs of Leo aging whilst Eilinora remains untouched by the years.
Then there is the day I've seen before: when the Queen closes the way to the mortal realm, where Moya fights her for the first time. Now I see her coming back, dozens of supporters behind her. They look like they used to be fairies, but now their skin is turning grey, their eyes dark. Moya's wings are the colour of pitch-black night.
“Open the way again, Eilinora.”
“You know I will not. We are meant to be allies. If we cannot be that, then it is better that we live apart for now.”
“We were meant to rule them. And if you won't, I will.”
“Do not start this fight, sister. It is not one you can win.”
Moya's face twists into a horrible smile, and for the first time, she is fully recognisable as the face in the lake. “Who said anything about winning?”
Series of battles unfold in the room. Lightning pervades the air. The castle is mutated into a war ground; bodies pile along the corridors. Leo vanishes from the picture; I do not see him fall. The next stark image is Moya bound in chains, being held in the Hall of Mirrors.
“What have you done to him?” Eilinora screams.
Moya just smiles, and the smile splits the scene. Only fragments of the scene that follow are visible: Moya been dragged towards a mirror of liquid silver, shrieking with strange, desperate delight. “I will be free one day, and you... you will have lost everything!”
Eilinora watches as her sister disappears, and a black cloth is fastened around the frame.
“I already have.”
The next image is quieter, but by no means calmer. There is a defeated, tired quality the entire room, as if the walls themselves are slouched. Eilinora sits by the remains of her throne, staring up at the scorched portrait.
“My lady,” Margaret approaches her, flanked by Ariel and Ophelia. “I beg you to reconsider. There must be another way-”
“This is the only way,” she sighs. “Moya is too strong to be contained forever. I must enter her prison too. I will fight her from within, and keep this place alive for as long as I can.”
“This could
kill you.”
“It probably will,” she says. “Please... take care of him.”
She vanishes in an eruption of light.
It is long past morning when the mirrors finally go quiet. “They were sisters,” I say, turning to back to the fairies. “They were sisters, and she...”
“We were there, Rose. We saw,” Margaret responds. “I was present for all of it. They are my memories too. Three hundred years of it.”
Three hundred years. A long time, I think, for dark thoughts to fester, for Moya to turn from the child to the monster. Could I ever grow to hate Honour or Hope in the way Moya hated Eilinora? Not in a thousand years, I thought. Not in a million. I could never want anything of theirs so much.
“I still... I still don't know what the curse really is,” I say numbly. “And... and where was Thorn in all of this?”
“Alas, dear, if we tell you, we may lose all hope of the curse ever being undone. We have made that mistake before.”
“What do you mean?”
“One or two of the other girls figured it out, or were told,” Ariel explains. “As you can see, it didn't help.”
“But how do you know that I'm the same-”
“You're not the same,” says Margaret tartly. “Which is why we cannot take any risks.”
“This is... immensely frustrating, you know.”
All three of the fairies sigh in unison. “No need to tell us, dear,” Margaret titters. “We've been watching girls fail for a decade, now.”
“Is there a reason we've all been girls?”
“Yes,” says Ariel. The other two fairies glare at her, as if she's given too much away. “Well, there is.”
My eyes drift towards the blackened mirror. It seems to rumble, thunder quietly. If the others notice it, they say nothing. “What... what would I see... if I tore down the cover?”
“With any luck, you would see nothing.”
“What else could I see?”
“At worst?” says Ariel. “Her face, staring back at you.”
An icicle shoots through me at the thought. “But... she's not contained to the mirror,” I continue. “I've seen her face before. In the darkness, in other reflections...”
All three of the fairies shudder inwardly. “We know,” they say. “We were there, too.”
“How can she do that?”
“Trickery, magic,” Ariel says. “I told you before, that she was hoarding it. Waiting for a chance to break free, originally. Now waiting for the chance to hurt you.”
She had tricked me into falling through the ice, and then terrified me into going out after Thorn, putting myself in danger. The storm had to be the worst of it. Were her powers growing? I share my thoughts with the fairies.
“I imagine, after an attack like that, she needs some time to recover,” Margaret surmises. “But we shall have to take precautions during the next full moon. If you haven't managed to break the curse by then, of course.”
I swallow. No pressure, Rose.
“It has to be you now,” says Margaret sternly. “And if you fail... all will be lost forever.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Memories of Winter
I ask the fairies to give me some time alone, to process what I have just seen. In reality, I am sick of them: sick of the well-meaning lies and the frustration they bring. I need to see something good. Checking in on my family is out of the question, so I step back towards the Mirror of Memories instead.
“Show me a moment in Thorn's childhood, when he was happy.” I am certain he will not mind me seeing this, that it will not show me anything I should not see. But I am desperate to know his story, whatever snippets I can. I try not to ask it anything too secret, too private.
The library flickers into view. Thorn is there, a mere sniff of the size he is now. He is so tiny. How old can he possibly be? His back is pressed up against a wall, an oversized book open on his lap. He is reading aloud.
“Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a beautiful girl in a quiet village...” he stops, grapples at the corner. “I can't turn the pages.”
“You'll learn, little one,” a voice sounds from somewhere, but I cannot see its owner. It is a lovely voice. Soft and deep, but also... sad. She sounds like she's in pain. Thorn, I think, is too little to pick up on this.
“Try again. Be gentle. Take your time.”
Thorn struggles, screwing up his face, trying to force his nail under the sliver. "I did it!" he exclaims eventually.
“I knew you would, dearheart,” the voice says proudly. “You can do anything you wish, if you try hard enough, for long enough. Remember that. Whatever happens. And remember... you are never alone. Never, ever, ever.”
The voice trickles away. “Mother?” says Thorn. “Mother!”
The mirror swirls back to normal, and I know why. That memory is no longer a happy one.
I ask for other moments. I see him playing out in the gardens with Ariel and Ophelia, back when they had forms. Margaret is laying out a picnic. Thorn dashes into the lake and comes out with a fish in his mouth. Ariel and Ophelia both fall apart laughing whilst Margaret sighs. Once the fish is liberated, she wrestles him into her arms and begins to dry him off furiously. “How will you ever find yourself a wife if you don't behave at least a little bit like a gentleman?”
Thorn scowls. “I don't want a wife. I like being me!”
As if to prove his point, he leaps away from her and back into the lake. She is knocked back with the force of this, which makes him laugh even further.
“You can still be you with a wife!” she yells.
At one point, he was happy being him. When did this change? When the others came, from outside? When people screamed at him? When the fairies faded, and he become alone in the world? At what point did he look in the mirror and decide he was a monster?
This, I think, is too personal to ask.
“Show me another happy moment.”
There are more moments with the fairies, but precious few. They must have vanished so early in his life. Soon, they appear only as talking sprites, then little lights, then... nothing. Thorn grows older without them. The happy moments I am shown now are limited to him buried inside a book. A feeling I know well. That's how I first eked out happiness after Mama died.
There are a few moments of happiness with the other visitors of the castle. Only a handful. Six visitors before me, and only a handful of pleasant memories.
I startle when Mama is there. The two of them are eating dinner, laughing pleasantly. Mama sings a song on the harp. He nods along. He hands her flowers that she sews on a dress- her wedding dress.
I was sure, from the way he spoke about her, that there were more. A few happy memories in so many months?
“Another happy memory, please.”
White bursts across the glass. I remember this scene well: the first day we played in the snow. Our snow man. It is so strange, watching myself from afar, watching Thorn watching me. His eyes follow wherever I go.
The mirror shows me giving Thorn his birthday present. His face is so much more beautiful than it was the first time I saw this scene. It melts when I put it around his neck. His voice is barely a whisper when he thanks me.
Thorn and I dancing. Thorn helping me in the garden. The two of us reading together.
Me bandaging Thorn's arm. How can this be a happy memory? Then I see the way he looks down at the bandages after I am done, touches what I touched. Is it because I wasn't afraid of him, or because I helped him? Because he knew I cared?
Teaching me how to climb a tree. Falling on top of him. Singing in the music room. Us in the rose garden. Us by the lake, me snuggled in his arms during the thunderstorm.
There are so many memories of me. Are these truly the only happy memories he has? Is the rest of his life so clearly eclipsed by his time with me?
I do not feel surprised, but I do feel something. Honoured, strange, sympathetic, awful, glowing.
“Rose?”
I
startle at his presence, so far wrapped up in our memories. Thankfully, the mirror has returned to normal.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I say, quickly dabbing at my hot, damp cheeks. “Come and sit beside me.”
Thorn does so. “What are we looking at?”
I turn back towards the mirror. “Show us my happiest memories.”
I have so many more, compared to him, but I share them all. I can tell he loves seeing the ones I have of Mama, playing with us, reading to us, being so happy and being so her. I was not expecting so many after she died, but there are still dozens. So many beautiful days spent in the woods with my siblings, or singing around a piano. So many spent teaching Beau how to do things. I am surprised at how few there are of me reading. I have always felt that that was when I was happiest, but apparently not.
I am thankful the mirror does not include my kiss with James Saintclair. It does include a lot of moments with Thorn, though. Here, our memories match. A perfect mirror.
He says almost nothing until the montage of my life is over, and when he does speak, all he says is, “Thank you.”
Thorn and I settle on a new date for our ball: three week's time, a few days after the next full moon. It is the first one that I am really, truly dreading. What if something tries to stop us again? I have not seen the shadows since the last one, but I wonder if this doesn't just mean that Moya is biding her time, gathering her strength for the next attack.
The ball is a welcome distraction, both for ourselves, and our fairy companions. They are quite dedicated to the cause. Margaret has ferreted away my dress and refuses to tell me anything about it. She says it will be her masterpiece. Ophelia, meanwhile, is determined to secure the best flowers to decorate the the ballroom with. Ariel dithers between the music room, apparently composing, and the kitchen, where she plans to cook us the finest food we have ever eaten.
We are absolutely forbidden to help.
Thorn takes me back to the lake and we continue our climbing and swimming lessons. Inspired by our previous success, he decides to take up painting. I get several more canvases from this endeavour, and when I feel I'm almost running out of space, I suggest he turns his attentions to the task of calligraphy; I know he is self-conscious about his handwriting.
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