Then, climbing to my wizard room one night, I caught sight of an object I had never before noticed, an article that set me nearly swooning in delight: a broom! (Well might one wonder at my myopia, for the wizard room was not five paces across. Yet this little garret had more hidden crannies and shadowy corners than all the rest of the castle combined, and unseen forces besides.) Delighted, I reached for it, anticipating a thrill of some sort. All that my fingers encountered, however, was the thick grime that clung to the broom as it did to every surface of that chamber.
Now I espied a mop and bucket, several petrified rags draped over the bucket's side. I spun about: the book lay tightly closed. At once I remembered our aphorism that the true cook holds the spoon. Such was the room's power, wielding the spoon as it did, that I could almost sense its bray of laughter: Ha, Princess! it seemed to say. If you want to learn to use that broom,you'd best begin by setting your hand to sweeping!
And so, with greatest reluctance, I did. I must say that when Queen Sophia banished me to that barren cell with the intent of instilling humility, she could not have dreamt I would spend my nights scrubbing the floor like a charwoman. Indeed, my opinion of charwomen rose immeasurably as the weeks passed, for cleaning that little room proved no minor feat. My first sweeping so filled the air with dust that I coughed for days, and I soon learned that sweeping has no effect if one does not dust, and that dusting has no effect if one does not wash, and washing has no effect if one does not scrub, and scrubbing, worst of all, has no effect if one's cleaning articles are as filthy as the floor itself.
At times I wondered whether there was space in all the world for the volumes of grit and droppings and bits of lint that this room seemed so intent on releasing. I was forever finding a hidden shelf coated in soot, or a dark cabinet with a skull-shaped lock that leered so unnervingly that I feared to turn my back. Countless buckets of wash water I emptied into my cell's basin, trekking back upstairs each time. But I persevered, if only because I sensed that the book would not reopen until its wizard room gleamed, and I discovered, however worn the maxim that hard work softens the heart, that it did do wonders for my mood.
My weeks of cleaning produced other unanticipated rewards. One night I set to work dusting the mirror that hung beside the stairs, and then, ever diligent, polished the glass until it gleamed. I studied my reflection in the light of the candles (which, no matter how long the marvelous things burned, never shrank in size). "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" I asked with grinning impertinence. Certainly not me. My plump, dust-streaked cheeks shone red from my labors, and cobwebs adorned my tousled hair.
My reflection, of course, stared back. My curiosity grew. What purpose, exactly, did this mirror serve? "Are you enchanted?" I asked the glass. No response came. I shrugged and smiled at my grimy reflection. "You're very dirty."
"Yes, you are," my reflection answered promptly.
Needless to say, this gave me such a fright that in my panic I overturned the bucket. Re-mopping took some time. Finally I returned to the mirror.
"How did you do that?" I demanded.
My reflection mouthed my words dumbly in the manner of reflections everywhere.
"You are very ... complicated!" I spat out.
"I agree, I am complicated," said my reflection.
I shall not inflict upon my readers the remainder of this burdensome conversation. After much frustration, not excepting my desire to toss the wretched thing on the floor and jump up and down upon it, I determined that this particular mirror only agreed to the truth. That is to say, if I stated a fact that was true, the mirror would confirm it. And if anyone reading this believes it to be the silliest attribute a magical mirror could possibly have, I shall not labor to convince him otherwise.
When, after Herculean effort, I established this, I could not hold my tongue: "You are so stupid.'"
My reflection did not react. As I considered it, this was actually a positive sign. After all, I was accusing both the mirror—which obviously was not stupid, for it had magical powers as most mirrors do not—and myself as embodied in my reflection. Imagine if my reflection had agreed that indeed I was stupid; what a blow that would have been. The mirror knew, therefore, that I had some innate intelligence.
My opinion of it warmed. I attempted to think of other truths. "Queen Sophia hates me."
Again, my reflection did not react. This, too, I found noteworthy, for not once had the queen indicated otherwise.
I tried again. "Lady Beatrix wears too much paint upon her face."
My reflection broke into such peals of laughter that she had to wipe tears from her eyes. I needed no further confirmation of that truth.
I returned to my foremost enemy. Perhaps I had not phrased the statement clearly enough. "Queen Sophia does not care for me."
My reflection rolled her eyes. "You require magic to verify that? "
I giggled. The magic mirror had wit, it seemed, atop its oblique perspicacity. Perhaps it might be used for matters weightier than facial powder. I could—I could determine, once and for all, the fate of my father!
I spun back toward the glass. "My father is..." Is what exactly? I wondered. Alive? What if I stated this and the mirror did not answer? Would that mean he was ... dead? Or that the mirror for some inscrutable reason elected not to respond? Perhaps I should say instead, much as I loathed the words, that my father was dead. But what if the mirror agreed? How dreadful it would be to learn this in such a manner. And—here was the core of the problem—what would become of me then? What if I could not keep this secret? Observe how delightfully the queen treated me when she believed my father might yet live. I could not begin to imagine my fate should I be orphaned and truly at her mercy.
I ultimately decided to hold my tongue and settle instead for the comfort of ignorance. Not knowing the truth, I retained hope, and that hope I held like a smooth warm stone against my heart.
NINE
As December passed, I required every grain of that hope, for my circumstances grew ever more oppressive. For reasons I could not begin to fathom, the queen became increasingly preoccupied with what she termed my carriage, and which everyone else delicately referred to as my girth. To be blunt, it was substantial. In the weeks following discovery of the wizard room, I had given little attention to food. As winter settled in earnest upon the castle, however, and the icy draughts about my ankles brought back memories of hot soups and steaming meat pies, my thoughts returned to these creature comforts. I missed my parents so acutely that I sobbed, for the hunger in my belly only exacerbated the hunger in my heart. It was not simply food I missed: it was my mother s food, her warm kitchen and quick kisses as she bustled about her labors. If my father returned—no, when he returned, for I must continue to believe—I vowed that he and I would banquet thrice daily while Sophia survived on dry bread and water. So famished was I, considering this scenario, that even the promise of stale crusts had me licking my lips.
Lady Beatrix harped endlessly about gluttony's effect on my marriage prospects. While the topic had always been a prong in her pitchfork, it now grew into a veritable pike. With every morsel I consumed, I was informed that princes most love slender young ladies. As I was as interested in a prince's love as in sticking my fish fork into my ear, I reacted to this by cleaning my plate ever more thoroughly. Queen Sophia could no longer chide me too bluntly, or beat me, with Lord Frederick at the table, and my portions were not quite so minute as they had once been. Nonetheless, hunger hovered always at my shoulder.
One night, preparing my Doppelschläferin spell, I lay upon my pallet wishing—not for the first time—that instead of water and bits of rock I could produce something of substance. A raspberry torte, say, with a pitcher of fresh cider, or a demitasse of melted chocolate such as my mother had permitted me on special occasions. I was growing weary of my wizard room. The spell book refused to open though I had swept and scrubbed every obscure nook and corner. I had puffed and huffed elemental a
ir up and down the broom and garnered only a fit of sneezing in return. Yet I had naught else to entertain me, and by now my body would not sleep, so accustomed was it to these nocturnal escapades. With a sigh, I stepped out of my Doppelschläferin and through the wall. Donning my black wool cloak, I turned—
To this day I struggle to recall my memories of the roomlet at the base of the wizard room stairs. I had stepped into it countless times: a dozen or more instances each night while learning the Doppelschläferin spell, and at least as many when emptying my wash bucket. Yet I cannot remember, try as I might, ever once paying notice to the wall opposite the staircase. Was it solid? Did moonlight filtering through the portal touch it even once? I cannot say. And yet before my eyes, as clear as if it had been there always, was now a staircase down.
I shivered, and reflexively glanced about. But for moonlight and dust, I stood alone.
Clearly I was expected to descend; that much I could deduce. With a deep sigh to steady my nerves, I snapped myself a handful of flame and stepped downward.
Immediately my bare feet met masonry rubble and dust. The stairs had not been used in generations, a suspicion reinforced by the chattering disgust with which the castle mice greeted my presence in their private realm. My light provided scant illumination, and, cautious though I was, I could not refrain from stumbling at the first landing I encountered. Regaining my composure, I crept forward again—and screeched in horror as cold fingers brushed my cheeks!
I batted about blindly, inadvertently quenching my light, as hands touched my hair and cloak. I beat them away, then crouched, ready for further attack. As the minutes passed with no sign of another's presence, I gathered courage enough to snap a small flame. The vision before my eyes set me gaping anew, but this time in awe, for I had entered a nugget of gold. The ceiling glittered. Mounted to walls both before and behind me was a shining Montagne hedgehog. The two other sides of this small chamber—a magical room, surely—each contained a door, almost akin to a closet, or hallway—
I began to giggle in relief, and mortification. To my death I shall be stunned that prior to this moment I had not inferred even half the truth. I was in the queen's ex-room, the passage that connected her privy chambers to the castle's main corridor! No fingers had touched me; 'twas only a magic portal, and the same sensation of cool silk I experienced whenever I passed through the portal in my cell.
Testing this theory, I reached for the nearest wall. My hand slipped through easily. I turned to the opposite wall and was thrilled to witness the same outcome. I chortled aloud as my mind raced to set in place each factor in this marvelous equation. Of course! The castle had not been erected by giants. It was rather the work of wizards who built such singularly deep walls so as to maintain secret passageways in the walls' midst. This explained the ex-rooms as well. By bisecting the thick interior walls, the ex-rooms provided innumerable portals between secret passageways and public space. Furthermore (and here I confess that my heart near stopped beating, so delicious this realization), I now at last understood the long-standing tradition of keeping the ex-room doors closed. This privacy would allow a magical person—such as myself!—to travel about the castle shielded from human eyes.
The sound of footsteps roused me from my contemplations, and I lunged through the closest portal. Not a moment too soon, for a manservant entered the ex-room with a lantern and a bouquet, as Sophia expected fresh flowers every morn. Methodically he passed through the ex-room into her privy chambers, shutting each door behind him, while I secretly observed, near hugging myself with delight at this most amazing turn of events.
***
Oh, the vistas that opened for me that night. Every major wall in the castle contained a secret passageway, the portals always marked by a hedgehog: gilded on ex-rooms, carved into obscure walls and panels, even woven into tapestries. (In the light of day I would discover a hedgehog scratched on the wall of my cell; I had never before noted it.) Through the veiled openings of these portals I observed corridors, parlors, reception areas, the throne room, the ballroom, the grand and desolate king's apartment, workrooms, armories, and stockrooms. The very soul of caution, I refrained from stepping through a single doorway ... until I reached the royal larders. Stacked before me, a veritable oasis, rose shelf after laden shelf of food. My heart beat fast; my hands began to shake so that my handful of light trembled, then perished. With a cursory test of the doorway, reassuring myself I could reenter, I leapt into the room.
One might assume, given knowledge of my passions, that I would embark on a complete orgy of consumption. This assumption would be correct. And yet, half mad with desire though I was, I had sense enough to avoid the rarest and most notable items. Frosted cakes perched upon their own shelf, for example, I gave wide berth, as cooks monitor such precious foodstuffs most carefully. Instead I enjoyed the oddest but most delectable feast one could imagine: three apples from a packed bin, fistfuls of dried fruit, a moldy quarter of tart that would not be missed, slabs of smoked ham from a half-finished haunch, a mouthwatering spoonful of tallow—well, two spoonfuls; large spoonfuls—a cupful of sugar, deliciously crunchy, more apples still ... I soon felt quite ill, but continued to gorge in compensation for my months of imposed restraint. Famine, as they say, makes all food a feast.
Finally I halted, my cloak soiled with grease and jam. Why was it that jam always coated me so? I noticed, horrified, that my footprints covered the floor, first gray from dust, then white as I trod back and forth through a patch of flour I had not even noticed. Frantically I scrubbed away this evidence, grateful for my recent education in housekeeping. A second scare came when I could not locate the hedgehog! But no, I had simply mistaken the scratched outline for a random graffito.
Return proved far more strenuous than I had anticipated. The passageway, though I continued to remind myself that this was illusion, felt ever narrower and more constricting. My physical discomfort grew to intense nausea as I ascended one narrow staircase after another, for the kitchens of course occupied the castle's basement, and my cell the highest tower.
At one point, passing an opening to the servants' quarters, I near exclaimed in surprise. Shuffling toward me, clear as day in the moonlight that poured through a high window, was none other than my tormentor Hildebert, doubtless on her way to the privy. Ill tempered from queasiness, giving no thought whatsoever to the consequences of this rash act, I impulsively decided to exact revenge for the abuse to which the ogress had for so long subjected me. As she neared the portal, I thrust my head through the veil. How horrifying it must have looked, my face materializing out of the wall before her. Adding to the nightmare, I rolled my eyes in a most ghoulish manner.
I can recall few times in my life when disappointment leveled me as profoundly as it did at that instant. Hildebert glanced at my leering face and continued onward without a pause in her step. I pressed my head out further, but she had passed. Her mutter filled the corridor: "Always knew the ruddy place was haunted."
***
Once, when I was a child playing beneath an open window, that busybody Frau Lungonaso came upon me, and roughly scolded me that eavesdroppers punish themselves. Had I the wit and knowledge, I would have responded that she better than anyone should know. As it was, I had been so busy tucking my wee worm children into their tiny mud beds that I had not even been aware of the adult conversation occurring inside. Be that as it may, her aphorism would ultimately prove more than true.
I awoke the following morn sated, and my preoccupations carried me through another long, tedious day. No sooner had Hildebert locked me in my cell than I verily leapt from my Doppelschläferin. Securing my snug cloak, I headed downstairs at once, so eager was I to begin exploring, and eating as well, for gluttony like most sins inspires hasty vows but few improvements.
As I descended, the steps shimmered in a pale light, and it took me a moment to realize they were illuminated by yet another portal, this to the queen's reception room. In fact, as I peered in, I found myself loo
king straight into the face of Sophia herself!
I leapt back, cracking my head. Of course she could not perceive me, but the noise caught her attention.
"Is everything quite right, my queen?" asked a familiar voice. Clutching my throbbing skull, my eyes wet with pain, I leaned forward to observe Lord Frederick resting on a chair. I had not known the two were meeting.
"Of course! We heard only a mouse ... Are you certain, Frederick?"
"My sources give me no reason to believe otherwise. The possibility of Prince Walter's return no longer restrains them."
My father! My breath caught at his mention. But restrain whom from what?
The queen paced. "Then we have no alternative but to marry."
The queen? My jaw fell open. Who would ever want to marry her?
Frederick sighed to himself. "I see no alternative."
"Oh, there is an alternative! Drachensbett's absorption and destruction of our nation. Perhaps water does in fact flow uphill." At least water does not flow uphill is a traditional Montagne expression referring to the fact that Drachensbett cannot attack up the waterfall. But the queen now seemed to believe an attack was imminent, however much those fiends smirked their regrets over the Badger Tragedy.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the lord murmured, with seeming—and inexplicable—regret.
She resumed her pacing. "We shall host a great ball, inviting every man of rank within six days' ride."
I listened more intensely than ever I had. The queen could not seriously consider marriage. As regent, she had not even a country to offer as dowry. At least, I thought with a shiver, I hoped not.
Lord Frederick's words brought me back to the present. "I believe the announcement of such an event would delay their attack, knowing they have a chance at the throne through legitimate means."