Happily Never After

by Kristen Duvall

  She looks at me. “Why does it matter?”

  “Aren’t you tired of my asking?”

  She sighs. “Because I was prettier than her.”

  My mind jumps to something Dasha had said, a word with a similar sound. “What does that mean—prettier?” I say, again as casually as I can.

  “Ah.” She grimaces and presses her palm to her forehead. “I forget myself sometimes, when I’m in private. That’s an old word, from the time before. But I figure I can trust you not to repeat it.”

  “I won’t,” I say. “What does it mean?”

  She bites her lip. “I might as well explain. When you take my place someday, you’ll need to know why things are the way they are.”

  Take her place? The thought makes my leg bounce. And my palms sweat.

  “All right.” She folds her hands. “You know how when you look at people, and some are nicer to look at than others? Easier on the eyes?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Those people are prettier. That’s what pretty means.”

  I laugh. “That’s it? She tried to kill you because of that?”

  “To her it was enough. It was enough that I was prettier.”

  “Says who?”

  “What?”

  “Prettier says who?”

  She blinks at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.

  A grin breaks across her lips. She reaches over and strokes one of my curls. “See, that’s how I know you’re my daughter. Your father would be proud—rest his soul. You ask the questions I used to ask, the ones that sparked the law in the first place. That’s why we have the law. So that what happened to me never happens again. So that no one will suffer the fate I almost suffered, at the hands of someone mirror-obsessed.” She laughs and shrugs. “Sure, it was dumb of me—opening the door, letting her in, taking the apple. But what my stepmother really did—it had nothing to do with the apple. What my stepmother really did was worse than trying to kill me.”

  I frown. “What could be worse that that?”

  “She condemned me to be known for my beauty alone. She made it the only thing I had. So that even if the apple didn’t work, even if I lived, one day I’d grow old and wrinkled like her, and have nothing.”

  “Beauty?”

  “Sorry. Another word from the old days.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen.” She leans forward. “Want to know the true law of mirrors? Once you look in one, you’ll want to look again. And again. Mirrors are unnecessary. And destructive. We’re better off without them. This way, we can’t agonize over our faces. We can’t compare them to others’. Everyone is happier for it.” The urgency in her voice impresses me. I decide that if I can ever be as passionate about something as she is about this, I’ll consider myself a success.

  oo00oo

  There is blood on my dress. I call for Milla. She gasps, then squeals, then helps me wash and change into a clean gown. “We should go tell your mother.” She beams. “She’ll be pleased to know you’re a woman now.”

  “Maybe she’ll be pleased, but I’m not. This is disgusting.”

  It’s Wednesday, so my mother is doing her weekly audiences. Lately, though, it’s been slow, and even if it’s not, Milla says my mother will be glad we interrupted when she hears my news.

  When we reach the doorway to the throne room, Milla holds out an arm, stopping me, and cranes her neck. I do the same. There’s a woman having an audience with my mother—a young-ish woman, twenty-something, wearing a peasant’s dress. She stands before my mother, fists clenched.

  My mother sits in her chair leaning on her elbow. “Go ahead.”

  The peasant woman clears her throat. “There’s a flaw in your system.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The guards draw their weapons and step forward, but my mother holds up a hand. “Wait.” She looks at the woman, challenging her. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

  The woman hesitates, as if surprised to have my mother’s full attention. She stammers. “Maybe it’s true that we can’t compare our faces to others, but others still compare us to others.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “My husband is having an affair. I found him—with a younger woman—”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “This might have been prevented. If I could just use a mirror—if I could know how to look more desirable to him—then maybe—”

  The guards again lift their weapons, and my mother again holds up her hand. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about such affairs. The law can only do so much.”

  “Why have it, then, if it’s not going to succeed completely?”

  “You can’t deny we are better off than we were before.”

  “Are we?”

  There is a moment of silence.

  “Don’t you see what the law’s done to us?” The woman’s voice rises. “A life without mirrors is a life of anxiety. Because we can see everyone else, we’ll always wonder what they see. Mirrors are a relief in that sense.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree with you.”

  The peasant woman shakes her head. “It hasn’t made us deeper at all. We look in each other’s eyes more often, but only to see our own reflections. That’s what the law has done to us.”

  My mother blinks, then waves a hand. “Take her away.”

  The men come forward, seizing the woman. Her eyes widen. “No—wait.” They cuff her, and I hear the panic in her voice. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I gave my opinion is all—I—”

  The men drag the shrieking woman away, as my mother sits massaging her temples. They seem to be pulling the woman east toward the stairs, the ones leading to the lower prison hall. But that can’t be right. Surely they won’t put her there—she doesn’t even have a mirror.

  Her cries fade to a distant wail.

  “Perhaps now is not a good time,” Milla whispers, and tugs me back down the hall.

  oo00oo

  They’ve been happening more often lately. More arrests. More hangings. Milla keeps talking about them with the other attendants, as if I can’t hear. Just this morning, one man was caught with a mirror sliver, the first man in a while; it’s usually women. They say he was shaving his own face when the mirror magistrates found him. He claimed, when questioned, that his wife always nicked him when she shaved him and he wanted to do it himself, only he couldn’t without a mirror.

  And yesterday, my mother received tips that two women, from opposite sides of the country, may be in possession of full-length mirrors. Full-length! It turns out the tips were true.

  And in the past week, seventeen arrests have been made on suspicion of treason alone. The upper and lower prison halls are growing crowded.

  I look at my hands as Milla brushes my hair and does it up in a bun. “Why are there so many arrests all of a sudden?”

  Milla shakes her head. “Beyond me. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. Sometimes there are lulls, and sometimes there are bursts of unrest.”

  I stand up so Milla can dress me. I have a new gown—my chest area seems to have outgrown my other dresses—and Milla helps me slip it on. She stands back and looks at me.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “What?”

  She blinks. “Nothing—just—thought you were your mother for a second. Now you better move along. Don’t keep her waiting.”

  I nod and hurry off to the parlor for Monday teatime. I’m anxious to speak to my mother. Milla doesn’t know why the arrests are so frequent, but perhaps my mother has an idea. I also never told her my womanly news; there never seemed to be a good time, after that first day. Maybe today is the day.

  When I enter the tearoom, she’s bent over the table writing. “Have a seat,” she says without looking up. “Let me just finish this letter. It’s urgent.”

  “What about?”

  Her pen moves furiously. I’m impressed she can still manage neat handwriting and talk at the same time. “Just alerting
the Russian diplomat of our situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “Oh, probably a false alarm…” She flips over the paper and continues writing on the reverse side. “We think a woman who had an audience with me last week may have been leading a rebel group. Now that she’s been hanged, we suspect her followers may be planning an uprising.”

  Her pen makes a final flourish—her signature. She rings the bell on the table, and a servant appears. She hands him the letter. “It’s ready to post.”

  He nods and retreats. She sighs and finally looks across the table at me. “Well, now, let’s have some tea, shall—”

  I wait for her to finish.

  She blinks, her eyes fixed somewhere on my face. “You look b—” Her mouth freezes, a B on her lips.

  “What? I look what?”

  Her eyelids flutter. She looks away and shakes her head, like I’ve done something to annoy her. “Never mind.”

  She sips her tea tube and asks how my lessons are going. I try to carry on the conversation like any other Monday. But I can’t help noticing the glances she casts me for the rest of the hour. Glances just like that first one. I look b— Blue? Brown? Bruised? Bored? Burnt? I’ll never know.

  After tea I wander in the garden, counting the birds. Eventually I give up, deciding they are countless. I watch a pair of sparrows play in the dirt. I wonder where they go to take their baths. They must fly high over the walls that surround the lakes and ponds.

  The sun casts my shadow; I see my silhouette dance along the ground. A thin silhouette, and perhaps a little awkward. This is the closest I’ve ever come to seeing my whole self, besides looking in Milla’s eyes. And it’s the closest I ever will come. I know my hands, my arms, my legs, my feet, my stomach…I know them well. But I’ve never seen my face. Everyone has seen it except me.

  Haven’t you ever been curious? Dasha’s words echo in my ears.

  I’ll admit I never was—until my mother gave me that look. I want to know why. I want to know what she saw that made her look at me like that.

  Just one glance, if I can find a mirror…that’s all I want, just one glance, and I’ll never wonder again. And if anyone can get away with it, it’s me. The queen’s daughter. She wouldn’t put her own daughter to death. She’d tell me that it can’t happen again, probably, that I can’t use my paints or the library for a week, but she’d let it go. Isn’t that the advantage of being the queen’s daughter?

  But where can I find a mirror in a land without mirrors?

  It can’t be completely without mirrors, if the criminal count is rising by the day. Where did all those people find one—those wretches now locked in cells below, waiting for their turn at the noose?

  It’s all I can think about. During lessons, during meals, during the time I’m supposed to be sleeping. I try not to let Milla see my distraction. I try to act as normal as possible. As I sit in the tub for my bath, she talks about how thrilled she is for spring to be here. I smile and say I agree. I don’t mention that the spring butterflies are in my stomach rather than outside where they belong.

  When she leans in to get behind my ears, something happens—my hands reach up and grab her shoulders and hold her fast. As I hold her there, I look in her eyes.

  “Elayne! What are you—”

  There isn’t enough time. I look for the face, the tiny little flash of a face in her pupils, but Milla blinks and slaps me, breaking away.

  I touch my cheek. She shrinks back. I am technically her superior. I could have her dismissed, and she knows it.

  “I’m sorry—” She wrings her hands, and I can tell she’s embarrassed. “You caught me off guard.”

  “Milla.” I stare down at my legs. “What do I look like?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What color are my eyes? Is my nose like yours? Do I have freckles? Am I…” What was that word Dasha and my mother used? “Pretty?”

  Milla drops the sponge and backs away. “Where did you learn that word?” She’s shaking. I’ve never seen her shake.

  She’s not going to cooperate, I realize. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ll never say it again. Come back—I’m ready to be dried.”

  She hesitates, then finally moves back to the tub. Probably because she has no choice—it’s her job. But she doesn’t say anything more. I wonder if I should be worried. I’ve always trusted Milla. But when it comes to the possibility of treason—when her life could be on the line because of me—I suppose trust only goes so far.

  I need to go to my mother before Milla does, just in case. I’ll talk to her today. Explain this misunderstanding. And maybe she’ll explain to me why she’s been looking at me funny. It’s not Monday, not our designated day, but certainly she’ll welcome a five-minute break from her duties. Certainly she’ll have a few minutes for her daughter.

  I’m not sure where she spends Tuesday afternoons, so I try her bedroom first. Empty. I try the parlor. Empty. The dining hall. Also empty. I go down the corridor to her study. I never visit my mother here. She doesn’t like to be disturbed in her study, but today seems like an exception if there ever was one.

  The door is ajar and I squint through the crack, but I can’t tell if anyone is inside. I push the door open and step in. The room is a mess, the desk covered with papers and books. The shelves are packed with folders and more books. My mother isn’t here.

  I walk over to the desk and spin the globe; it slows and stops, Russia facing me. I scan the bookshelves—history books, dictionaries, atlases. I notice one folder with a spine labeled Dictionary Amendments. I pull it off the shelf. Inside are old documents, browned, curling, the first one dated fifteen years ago.

  Removals

  By order of the queen, all existing copies of the English dictionary must be burned, and the following words will be removed from the next edition: attractive, beauty, beautiful, gorgeous, handsome, hideous, pretty, ugly, unattractive, unsightly…

  The list goes on. I stare at it, a whole inventory of words I’ve never heard, words that used to be part of the English language. Below the list, another category: Modifications.

  By order of the queen, the dictionary listing for the adjective “fair /fe(ə)r/” will be modified to remove the following sub-definition: “pleasing to look at.”

  I put the folder back on the shelf and pull out another folder labeled Decrees. I flip through pages and pages of documents, stopping on one that catches my eye.

  The Mirror Law

  Vanity, insecurity, jealousy, and superficiality are counterproductive to the development of a humane and just society. Man’s access to, and alarming dependence on, looking glasses has encouraged these characteristics. Some look in mirrors out of sheer vanity, others because they dislike the way they look and want to change it. But whatever the reason, staring at oneself in the mirror does more harm than good. For one thing, during prolonged bouts of staring, even healthy women and men eventually start to focus on their imperfections, whether these imperfections are actual or imagined. For another, this time spent in front of mirrors detracts from our society’s productivity and could be spent on more valuable tasks.

  The only way to unseat this dangerous trend is to eliminate our ability to scrutinize our physical appearances. Therefore, all mirrors are hereby banned. Existing mirrors must be turned in for obliteration immediately, or else they will be confiscated during a nation-wide household search to be held in the coming weeks.

  I flip the page and find another document, dated a year later:

  Amendment to the Mirror Law

  In light of the fact that citizens have been finding ways “around” the mirror law, all surfaces that create specular reflection are hereby banned. This includes not only mirrors, but any materials that have the properties of a mirror, such as windows, glass, aluminum, silver, and polished stone. Water is of particular concern, and several measures will be taken countrywide: Bodies of water within our borders will be closed off; washroom facilities will be rede
signed to prevent the collection of water; cups, bowls, pots, and other objects that collect liquid will be destroyed; drinking water and other beverages will be dispensed from and consumed directly through tubes.

  The clock in the corner chimes. Tensing, I shove the folder back on the shelf.

  As I turn to leave, I spot a door—not the door I came through, but another door attached to the study.

  I walk—not tiptoe—tiptoeing would imply sneaking—toward it. I lean my ear against it, hearing nothing. I turn the knob. The door opens, revealing another room: a long hall with vaulted ceilings and a person standing at the far end. I recognize her, even from this distance.

  My mother stands in front of something on the wall—I can’t quite see from this angle—and talking to it. She’s talking in a strange way. I should leave. I should slip back out, before she sees. I realize this at the same moment that her head turns toward me.

  “Elayne—how’d you get in here?” Her voice booms across the hall.

  I hesitate. What is that thing on the wall?

  “This is my private space. You aren’t allowed in here.”

  I take a step forward. “That…that thing on the wall…”

  She doesn’t look at it. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  I can see the gold frame of it, the small oval shape, and something, a flash, like the flash I saw when looking in Milla’s eyes, only bigger.

  It can’t be true. It can’t be. And yet it must be what I think it is.

  “You?” I croak. “You of all people…”

  She glares at me. “Do you just go walking into rooms that aren’t yours, without permission? You’ve trespassed. This is my private space.”

  The butterflies in my stomach rise to my chest, their wings beating fiercely. “You—you’ve been killing all those people, and yet, this whole time…”

  “If you don’t get out right now—”

  “This whole time, you’ve been hiding one in here.” I step back. “You’re a hypocrite. A fraud.”

  My mother’s face ices over and I notice just how white, just how snow-white, it is. I don’t know this woman in front of me. I’ve never known her, it seems. Our Monday teatimes were only snippets of her. Veiled snippets.