As Urchin’s royal rallying speech gathered speed, the people were chuckling more and more loudly, welcoming the surprise of entertainment from an unexpected source. Urchin paused to breathe.
“History,” her speech continued, “tradition, pomp, duty, golden crowns, and so on and so forth. Free bread and blankets! So that wolves do not invade the kingdom and its flock!” Urchin finished strong and shook her royal hempen garb.
“Huzzah!” A cheer went up and was echoed by three or four members of the crowd. Urchin tipped her head in gracious appreciation.
“In conclusion, I thank me for honoring you in this way, and remind you that none of this business of good rulership can be kept up without you pay your taxes, withal.” With that, Urchin whipped the hat from Minka’s head and passed it around, and several amused folk tossed in coins, so that some merry clinking could be heard above the laughter.
Later, Urchin counted the coins as they rode west toward Knightsbridge. In among them were a spoon, a thimble, two walnuts, and a pin.
“Where did you come by those items?” Minka demanded.
“Pip,” Urchin replied. “He’s a clever one, even for a squirrel.”
Minka gasped and put her hand to her bosom. “Bilious!” she barked, shifting on the wagon seat to fix her eye on him.
“Ye-es?” Bilious stared straight ahead, eyes upon the road.
“I insist you reform that rodent,” Minka said, eyeing the squirrel around Urchin’s neck. “No more pickpocketry! I’ll not attach myself to a life of thieving.”
“Attached!” Bilious looked at her now, and held back a grin. “Attached, are we?”
Minka humphed. “Attached is a bunion to my sore left foot, that’s what,” she said, and crossed her arms.
Bilious chuckled and jiggled the reins. “Heeya, Penelope! Onward to the royal city, and rich as royals we are,” he said, “rich as royals!”
“Where is she?” Margaret whispered.
“I’ve sent her to the countryside,” said Lord Geoffrey. “For her own protection, and yours, my dear. Who knows what she is capable of? I am sorry you had to learn the truth this way. I have tried to shield you, to shield everyone, from Petra’s true nature.”
Margaret stared into the cold hearth. The horrible things he had told her! In parte insana? The words of their oath of fealty in the dark of night came to her. Her thumb throbbed like the devil, as if to needle her with doubt. Was Petra mad, as Geoffrey claimed? Could Petra have pushed her from the wall, those years ago, and set in motion the life Margaret had led? She pictured the fevered way Petra had thrown her out the day they met. The strange turn of mood and abrupt departure from the pet stall in the marketplace. The insinuations of the baker and his wife and their bitter Petronilla pies. The elixirs. Could she have strangled her pets, the sweet rabbit in the hutch?
The puppy, Walter, whimpered at Margaret’s feet, and she reached to pick him up and hug him close. The ribbon bow around his neck brushed her chin. Might Petra have later used the ribbon to—to—oh, she couldn’t even think it.
“The poor lamb,” Emma said, “never quite right in the head, though I love her still, I do!” The maidservant wiped at her red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief, and then blew her nose loudly. “She cannot help it and never could.” With feeling she picked up a mending basket and bustled out of the chamber, shaking her head all the while.
“I want to go to her.” Margaret rose from her chair. She had to see her. She had to look into her eyes. “Please.”
Lord Geoffrey came and patted Margaret’s shoulder, pressing her back into the chair. She tensed and rubbed Walter’s ears for comfort. She wished Emma had not left her alone with Geoffrey.
“I dare not….” Geoffrey gave a deep sigh. “Dear Margaret. I worry that seeing you—her own face upon you—is the very thing that has sent her deeper into madness.”
Margaret let the puppy to the floor. “Then I must go from this place, for this is her home. If it be I that make her ill, then I will go.”
“Ah, but what a bind we find ourselves in,” Geoffrey said with a prim smile. “You must know, surely, that it is also you who gives her a reason to come back from that madness.” He clasped his hands and bent his head, as in prayer. “She must be away from us, for now, until she is well, until after our marriage is”—he waved a hand absently in the air—“accomplished.”
“And if I refuse to marry?” Her mouth was dry; all that she could manage was a whisper.
Geoffrey’s glare touched Margaret like a chill wind. Then he gave a shrug that lifted the hem of his robe from the floor. “The choice to wed is simply not yours to make,” he said, walking closer, “nor so the choice to come and go.” In no hurry, his voice soft and menacing, he added, “Nor to rise from bed or return to it, to eat, to drink…” His cool gaze traveled to her twisted leg, and his lip curled and his voice stabbed: “Nor to hobble here, or to lurch and stagger there.” He touched one finger to her cheek, and she pulled back and stared at the red lines scratched upon his. Then he turned and strode from the room in a swirl of red cloth.
Margaret’s skin went cold, and her head felt heavy, too heavy to hold up. For all the comforts she’d had here, she was as good as locked in prison.
Emma quietly entered the room. “Are you all right, Highness?”
Margaret reached for Walter again, and she plumped the bow round his neck, for Petra’s sake. “Is she frightened, Emma? Do you know? Is she safe?”
When Emma did not answer, Margaret rose from her chair. “Emma?” Walter looked from one to the other, alert.
Emma did not meet Margaret’s gaze. “I don’t know.” Then she picked up the sewing basket and brought it to Margaret’s chair beside the cold hearth. “Let’s busy ourselves with our embroidery, eh?” she said.
Margaret was silent.
Then: “No,” she said after a moment. “He can separate me from my sister. He can mock me, and frighten me, and force me to wed, and lock me in this room for all eternity, Emma, but…there will be no more embroidery.”
Emma stared in surprise at Margaret. Margaret was the first to laugh, then Emma joined her, and then, overcome, they both wept.
A storm attacked the castle in the night. A violent crack shook Geoffrey’s bed, and he woke with a gasp: Damn the glazier.
Geoffrey stared up into darkness rent by lightning. That evening years past, in the cathedral, when he’d gazed into the magic mirror, it was himself he’d seen: an old king, with Isobel by his side looking lovingly—adoringly!—up at him, her pale hand upon his chest. He’d seen everything he wanted in the glass. Everything he deserved, everything he’d done to get it.
Of course, he’d made demands—strong demands—upon the glazier. The man had gone mute, not a word in years. And no new magic mirror.
But—he plumped his pillow and rolled over—he’d managed to make his own magic yet again.
Another crack of thunder, and Emma’s eyes flew open, in the servants’ quarters. Where had Lord Geoffrey sent Princess Petronilla off to, dear lamb? Was she frightened by the same storm, this night? Was she taking her elixirs? She didn’t like to swallow down the icky liquids, but without them could she find peace? Could she sleep? Elixir…elixir…funny word, that. Emma yawned, elixir, and fell back to sleep.
A boom and rumble found Walter shivering and whimpering in the dungeon stairwell. “What’re you doing roaming about down here, little fellow?” said the night watch. “Lost, are you? You do wander round the castle, don’t you, pup.” He fed the dog a bit of chicken from his supper, and stroked his brown spotted fur. “There’s a good dog. Good dog.”
Margaret shivered beneath her coverlet and turned over in sleep. The storms of the day had tossed her plenty. She did not wake.
Days passed numbly. Margaret was allowed to venture out only to attend mass, and then always in the company of a guard. Father Sebastian kindly let her help him in the almonry annexed to the nave, where sorting food and blankets for the poor helped take h
er mind off her troubles. During these times, whatever guard was on duty stole the opportunity to snooze or socialize or pray, depending on his nature, for the almonry room was small and secure, its street door locked against thievery, and the trusted Father Sebastian had the only key.
At night, she dreamed of Beady Bone, in search of the truth.
Sweating and with pounding heart, Margaret woke from such a dream one night, rose, and lit a candle. Rain fell outside the open window, and she limped over, breathing in the damp air. She saw her face in a pane of glass, and thought of the magic mirror.
It all seemed a distant season, a different life. Could it have been only a month ago?
She’d longed for so much. Now she only longed to know the truth. Had Petra pushed Margaret from the wall? What was she to do? And where was Petra being held? Margaret had begged Geoffrey to tell her where she was and how she was, but he would only say she was in the country and that she would be fine, in time. Emma was no help: “How I miss my dear lamb,” she’d say, and turn away.
Walter lifted his head from the foot of the bed where he’d been snoring, jumped down, and padded to Margaret at the window. He’d grown so big, she hardly had to reach at all to stroke his back. The bright ribbon was gone now, of course, without Petra’s attentions. She should replace the bow, for Petra’s sake. Margaret dug her fingers into his fur and scratched, and—she paused—her fingers found a thin cord, tied deep in the ruff of Walter’s neck. She bent to untie the complicated knot and pulled the lacing free. Thoughtfully, she wound it round her hand. Emma, she thought. Emma loved Petra this much. But Margaret could do better than a plain sleeve lace!
She moved to the room’s small table, where Petra kept ribbons and laces, jewels and ornaments, and writing tools—pots of ink, powder for drying, a knife for sharpening and for scratching out errors. First she found a pretty purple ribbon and tied it in a bow round patient Walter’s neck. Then, curious, she pulled out the stack of softened vellum and riffled through the sheets. Margaret brought the candle closer and bent her head to the pages; Petra’s hand was clear and sure.
mother
sister
heart
bunny
fear my soul lost
She did not know all the words, but was pleased that she could read many, and said a silent thanks to her teachers, her friends.
And then, on a skin at the bottom of the stack, she came upon a drawing—two small girls holding hands, the aged parchment inked some years past, and with a youthful hand. The picture showed Petra’s heart’s true nature, sure as any magic mirror. Margaret took out Petra’s goose feather and inked across the bottom of the parchment the first word she’d learned by heart. Sister.
Margaret stacked the skins, her pulse quickening, and laid her hands upon them, and with a certainty sudden and sharp as the pricking of her thumb, she knew that whatever had happened in the past—if she had been pushed from the castle wall—was not by Petra’s will.
These were not the words and pictures of the insane. These pages bore the love of a sister. A sister who laughed with her, who taught her the letters, who welcomed her even though Margaret’s arrival meant Petra would not wear her mother’s crown.
Geoffrey was lying. How had she not known it before?
Rain began to fall in earnest.
Get her get her get her get her.
“Have you seen, come through here, a girl with a crooked leg?”
Minka and Bilious and Urchin stood before a grand gatehouse and plugged their noses against the stench of the disgusting river that ran beneath the bridge they had just crossed. The spires of the cathedral towered above the high, imposing walls.
The guard smirked at Minka. “Have I seen a girl with a crooked leg, you ask, missus? Was she fair, but not washed nor et in many days, and leaning on a crutch?”
“Yes, likely!”
The guard laughed, showing blunt teeth. “I seen her by the dozens,” he said.
Minka growled at the guard, and she and Bilious and Urchin passed through the gates into the city.
With them were all the makings of a fair—mummers and musicians and jugglers and all manner of folk—for people were arriving in droves in anticipation of the rumored royal wedding.
Late in the day they entered Knightsbridge Cathedral, Bilious to light a candle for his dead wife, Minka to give God a piece of her mind, and Urchin to spy for offerings she might pilfer. The great nave was shot through with color as afternoon light streamed through the glorious glass window.
Minka spied a young woman dressed in a fine gown, her shining hair coiled into ramshorns above her ears, and wearing delicate shoes. The fine lady’s head was bowed in prayer, and Minka gave her wide berth, the respect due nobility. The sun moved, casting colored light upon something resting on the floor beside the lady: a crutch.
Minka’s gaze shot to the lady’s face again, and then she shook her head as if to regain sense after taking a blow.
“Bilioussss!” she hissed, never taking her eyes from the young woman kneeling in prayer. When Bilious saw Minka’s frantic beckoning, he came hopping to her side.
“Look there!” Minka said, jutting her chin at the young lady: the bowed head, the delicate shoes, the left foot wrong, and the carved crutch.
Bilious swallowed, glanced at Minka, and loudly whispered, “Maggie?”
The lady turned.
Minka, seeing that it was Mags, began to advance upon her, but Margaret, to Minka’s annoyance, disappointment, and outright anger, put up a dainty—dainty!—hand to indicate she should stop. Minka did. Margaret’s face was stiff with concealed recognition and astonishment, and she was cutting her gaze left-right-left as though she had a tic, and waving that hand to mean something, but—
Bilious bent to Minka’s ear and whispered, “Sommat’s amiss. Wait. Watch.”
Margaret dropped her head again, as if in prayer, and remained that way a few moments. Then she rose, and crossed, clump-slide, to a man in the garb of a soldier and spoke with him. He nodded and then sauntered several paces away, stood by the west porch door of the cathedral, and joined another man in conversation.
With a glance at Minka, Margaret made her way along the length of the cathedral to a small door on the south wall of the nave, and after another meaningful glance at Minka, passed through the doorway.
“I’ll go first,” Minka said to Bilious.
“Slowly, now,” he said, “slowly.”
As Bilious watched, Minka traversed the nave, looked wonderingly at the great rose window, took a few steps backward, knelt for a moment in prayer, then crossed the nave at an angle so sharp as to attract attention from three different worshippers, but, Bilious marveled, she drew not even a glance from the soldier at the door. Then Minka was at the small door to the annex that was the almonry, and disappeared within.
Inside, Minka saw Margaret waiting eagerly for her. Minka crossed the room in two long strides, fell to her knees before Margaret, declared it a minor miracle, and then stood and hit her with her hat.
“Have you any thought to what I’ve been through, looking all over God’s creation for you?”
Then Minka surprised herself by tossing aside the hat and throwing her arms around Margaret. “Oh, Mags!” she cried. “Oh, my girl.”
And Margaret held to Minka as for dear life, and so they remained many long moments, both of them weeping, until Bilious entered the room, looked around the series of low vaults and thick columns, saw the annex was empty save Maggie and Minka, and cleared his throat. “Is it safe?”
Margaret nodded, wiping at her cheeks. “The guard doesn’t follow me into the almonry, and the priests are at vespers. How is it you are here? I am so happy to see you, and you, too, Bilious,” she added, looking curiously at the peddler, then at Minka, and back again.
“I?” said Minka. “How is it that I am here? Why, I’m here to visit the bones of St. Sincere, I am.” She turned to Bilious and elbowed him.
Margaret, distracte
d by a grubbily clad girl slipping in the door, said, “I’m sorry, it isn’t time.” She pointed to a padlocked door on the opposite wall. “Come round midday tomorrow, along to the churchyard door.”
“Never mind her; she’s with us,” Minka said, then she popped Margaret on the head. “I came looking for the magic mirror,” she said. “And truth be known, I came looking for you, Mags! Why else?”
“You—you left the house for me? You risked the bad luck of the world?”
“Found plenty of it, I might add,” Minka said, “and I picked up this lot, for my trouble.” She jerked a thumb at Bilious and then noticed Urchin sidling toward a collection plate. “Tsssst! Have off!” she hissed, waving the girl away.
“But I’m as poor as any,” Urchin reasoned loudly.
“Poorer than many, by any measure of morals,” Minka said. She turned to Margaret. “And now you’ve met our Urchin,” she said, and, shaking her head, rolled her eyes heavenward.
The two girls looked at each other. Margaret smiled, and Urchin made an elaborate curtsy that threatened the floor with her nose. A little russet squirrel peeped out from the girl’s pocket, and Margaret startled.
“Don’t ask,” said Minka. “A most disreputable pet, that rodent. He’ll go in anybody’s purse or pocket and take whatever shines.”
“And if he finds nothing shiny,” Bilious explained, “he makes himself at home.”
“Nods off,” Urchin agreed.
“Bit dull, in fact,” said Bilious, scratching his ear.
Minka sighed deeply. “Such is the wisdom and value of your trades, Bilious.” She was still bitter about the cup made of a coconut. “But here is our Mags,” Minka went on, looking Margaret up and down. She was overawed and put out and blustering and loving, but what came out was huff and vinegar. “Here she is, all cleaned and polished, and here I come all this way to rescue her and what’s clear as day is I’m not needed. And look at that crutch, would you, carved up so pretty? She doesn’t need this one, now, does she,” she said, jerking her head at Bilious, who leaned upon Margaret’s old crutch of rubbed ash. “You’ve the skill to make a trade, I’d say, Mags,” she muttered with another glance at Bilious. “Traded up quite fancy, by my eyes.” She looked at Margaret, and her eyes welled with tears. “You might have said sommat,” she said. “You might’ve said goodbye.”
The Magic Mirror Page 15
