Chapter Twelve
Memories in the Mirror
Even Aunt Vashti wasn’t wealthy enough to have a bath. The households that had one were rumored to need three thousand slave girls, each with a decanter of water, to keep the spacious marble pools filled. Since Trinka still hadn’t yielded the words for the aquarock, Aunt Vashti still had no bath, and she remained in a terrible temper.
The palace did, however, have a shower. There was not much water in it, but as Trinka stood beneath its misty spray, she could feel the layers of dust sliding away, making her skin cool and fresh for the first time since she had left Ellipsis. She felt renewed, ready to start again after all the terrible things that had happened. All too soon, the stream shut off, and Trinka hurried into the dress Beatrice had repaired for her.
The folds of wispy, pink fabric that had been in tatters the last time she had seen it looked completely new, with long, loose sleeves that covered her hands and a smooth, silky skirt that fluttered gracefully just above her beaded, dusky rose slippers. As Trinka smoothed the skirt, she saw two strange pieces of metal, studded with clear, bright jewels, lying on the table. Intrigued, she picked one up, and it immediately flew out of her hand and started biting at the side of her head. Trinka screamed in alarm, but the little talisman stopped moving suddenly, and she saw that it had braided her hair in a neat little twist, with the jewels of the talisman glittering softly above it. Cautiously, Trinka picked up the other piece of mysterious metal, closed her eyes tightly and let it go. When the crawling and nipping had stopped, Trinka opened her eyes and looked in the mirror.
For once, everything about her was fresh and clean and in perfect order, but she knew Aunt Vashti would still not be pleased. Her brown eyes still looked too large for her face, the unbraided part of her hair hung plain and stiff—too dark to really be blonde, and too light to be beautifully brown—and her skin, despite her recent adventures outdoors, still looked pale and wan from all her years inside the towers of Ellipsis.
Trinka turned away and slipped quietly into the nearest chute.
“Kitchen,” she said then quickly drew her breath in and held it tightly. As the smoke began lifting her through the chamber, she slowly exhaled and felt her feet come to rest on something solid. She swung open the doors to the genies’ kitchen, expecting to find it overflowing with activity, but instead it was quiet and empty. Puzzled, Trinka made her way through the dining room and into the main part of the palace, where her aunt and cousins were putting the finishing touches on their own banquet looks.
Aunt Vashti bent over a small mirror. Brushes and black pencils worked their way across her face adding longer lashes, redder cheeks, and sparkly blue-streaked eyelids. The whole effect made her face look taller and more pinched than usual, but no matter how much color she added, it was still her cold, black eyes that stood out the most.
Trinka’s cousins looked equally ridiculous, done up in dresses that were almost as wide as they were long, with huge collars that stuck up behind their heads. The sight made Trinka glad she was only wearing everyday hand-me-downs.
Jamilah’s honey-brown locks, which normally spilled in gentle waves nearly to her waist, were tightly pulled back in dozens of tiny braids that joined beneath a spiky emerald tiara, then overflowed in a fountain of ringlets. Her gold collar stuck up almost as tall as her hair, like a fan made of broad, pointy blades. Bright green jewels accented each of the blade tips, and matching gems adorned the tight gold chain around her neck.
The tops of her sleeve ballooned out in stripes of mint and jade, then pulled in tightly just above the elbows, ending in skin-tight silk that ran all the way to her wrists. Large emeralds adorned the neckline and waist of her latticed, v-shaped bodice, and a mountain of richly embroidered fabric with jewel-encrusted triangular peaks made up her enormous skirt. Every aspect of her costume appeared to be as spiky and unpleasant as possible, and Trinka felt sorry for her cousin.
Sabirah needed no assistance from her wardrobe to appear unpleasant, but got it anyway. Garish bands of red and black ran all down her sleeves, which ended in itchy looking lace ruffles that matched the frilly collar tickling the sides and back of her head. Her hair had been pulled straight back in an unflattering bun that ended in two black, curling spikes that reminded Trinka of goat horns.
Sabirah held up her layers of ruby and onyx skirt, revealing lacy bloomers and a network of stiff skirt supports, like tent poles, underneath.
“Sabirah, stop lifting your skirt up like that. It’s horribly unladylike. And Jamilah, straighten that necklace,” Vashti looked over her daughters critically.
“But it’s hot!” Sabirah complained, still clutching her huge dress above her knees. Seeing the flash from her mother’s eyes, she dropped it to the floor and pouted, before she spotted Trinka.
“That’s my dress!” Sabirah screeched. “Mother, she stole my dress!”
“You don’t need it anymore, you have a much nicer one.”
“Besides, the last time you wore it, you fell into a vat of puréed durian fruit,” Jamilah reminded her.
“But it’s mine! I don’t want her to wear it. Beatrice got all the stains out, and now she smells like smoke!” Sabirah wrinkled her nose disdainfully.
“What do you expect when she came through the chutes?”
“Only a servant would use those!” Sabirah retorted.
“That’s right, Trinka,” Aunt Vashti addressed her coldly. “For tonight, you are not family, you are just a servant. You may attend the banquet so long as you are quiet and stay out of the way. You are to speak to no one unless I direct you. And if you draw any sort of attention to yourself, I assure you I will find a dungeon for you somewhere.”
Trinka’s cheeks flushed pinker than her dress.
If Aunt Vashti didn’t want anyone to know they were related, that certainly worked both ways. And at least the food would be good.
As she stepped out into the pavilion, Trinka felt as if she were stepping into a place she had never seen before. The terrace seemed to have been expanded to three times its normal size. Long sheets of brightly colored fabric hung in the air like genie scarves, protecting the vast array of tables from the heat overhead. Genies circulated everywhere, chasing after platters of food and drinks, sending tables spinning and chairs dancing into new arrangements. Two genies were hanging up streamers of fabric that issued from their little fingers and caught the gentlest breeze.
All of them rushed about at a pace that made Trinka dizzy, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. Trinka’s first thought was to offer to help them, but as it seemed she couldn’t even get close to the genies without risking bodily harm, she found a quiet spot behind one of the large potted plants to sit and watch as the guests began to arrive.
Aunt Vashti loomed on one side of the palace door and her daughters on the other, undoubtedly so all the guests could be exposed to their unpleasantness the minute they came in. Aunt Vashti’s heavily painted face pinched itself even tighter as she beamed at each guest and picked up their hands limply. Jamilah managed a bored half-smile when prompted, but Sabirah seemed to have lost all pretense of paying attention as her eyes were fully fastened on the food.
The whole party had the look of a mirage, as guests with painted faces moved about a terrace that wasn’t usually there, ate food that wouldn’t fill them, and said things they probably didn’t mean. All the food around her looked tantalizing, but Trinka couldn’t seem to get close enough to any of it to have a bite.
“Oh, here you go,” a genie that looked like Kimimela cheerfully pointed her finger at Trinka’s hands, which were suddenly struggling with the weight of an enormous platter decorated with rambutan fruits, and piled high with fat, golden tarts, full to bursting with red, juicy berries.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Trinka caught sight of her aunt’s painted eyelids squinting down at her. “They’re not for you. Go serve the guests.”
Trinka sighed and stepped lightly forw
ard to offer the treats to a short, paunchy man whose dark hair hung in tight curls all the same length, as if they were an upside-down bowl on his head. Just as she approached him, the platter suddenly flew from her hands, upset by the edge of Vashti’s enormous skirt.
The little tarts sailed, as if thrown by some evil force, directly at the paunchy man’s pants, where they splattered and oozed blue and red juice down his fine, white silk front. Several of the spiny rambutan fruits snagged on the threads of his fine clothing, where they hung like odd little ornaments.
“Trinka!” Aunt Vashti began, then inexplicably started giggling nervously as she caught sight of the tarts’ unfortunate target. “Your highness.” She bowed ingratiatingly, then shot Trinka a vicious look. “You must forgive the girl—she is new here,” she cooed as a genie waved away the stains.
Red-faced, Trinka got to her knees and picked up the fallen platter, then found herself almost bumping into the white-haired gentleman who had been in Vashti’s palace on the day Trinka had arrived. Jamilah and Sabirah approached behind her, eager to be wherever there was conflict, or food.
“Good evening, your highness,” Bahir Faruq announced. “I presume you’ve met my wife, Bahira Cantara?” he introduced a small, gray-haired woman who peered at her surroundings through tiny, jewel-like spectacles that perched on the point of her turned-up nose.
“Yes, yes,” Amir answered graciously. “Always a pleasure. Shall we get some food?” He turned expectantly to Trinka, who stood by awkwardly.
“Not very bright, is she?” Bahira Cantara commented primly.
“You, get us food,” Amir commanded slowly, gesturing at his mouth. “Well, Vashti did say she’s a new foreign servant,” he explained to the other guests.
“She’s not a servant,” Bahir Faruq guffawed. “She’s Vashti’s niece.”
Aunt Vashti went a shade paler under her makeup.
“She’s just helping out,” Vashti interjected. “No more than my own daughters are doing.” She quickly grabbed two platters from a passing genie and thrust them into the hands of Jamilah and Sabirah. “Daughters, some hors d’oeuvres for his highness…”
Jamilah curtseyed stiffly and offered him the platter of finger-sized pastries with cream sauce and slices of cherimoya. Vashti prompted Sabirah to offer her mangosteen-topped cakes to Bahir Faruq and his wife, but by that time, she was too busy cramming them into her mouth.
“So how are things in the jewel business?” Amir asked Faruq between enormous mouthfuls of food. Trinka tried to edge quietly out of the circle, but the crowd slowed her progress.
“Quite good. And you—still find time to party with all the goings-on in Sahar?”
Amir nodded and chewed. “Yes, business is far too good, I fear. I curse every moment that keeps me away from my beautiful Ashira.”
Trinka dropped the platter and what was left of the food with a resounding clatter.
“You came to see my mother?” Trinka asked in disbelief.
Amir paused for a moment in his methodical eating. “No, not unless your mother is Ashira.” He chuckled mildly.
“Yes, she is!” Trinka exclaimed.
“Obviously, my sister is not old enough to be the mother of such a child,” Vashti immediately contradicted. “And she is not married. That is, until his highness chooses otherwise,” she added slyly.
“They’re going sparking,” Sabirah blurted.
“What?” Trinka turned to her.
“Courting,” Jamilah supplied in a comparative whisper. “Mother expects they’ll get married any time now.”
Trinka felt as if all the blood had left her face. The motions of the genies and guests, plants, and plates full of food seemed to swirl even faster, and she felt unsteady on her feet. But somehow, a strength within her surged and found its way to her throat.
“You can’t marry Ashira!” Trinka shouted. “She’s my mom! And she’s already married to my dad!”
The entire pavilion seemed to pause.
“Really,” Amir said dryly. “A bit, um, you know, is she?” He made a twirling gesture around his ear, not noticing that he was getting sauce all over his hair.
“Yes, yes, she is,” Aunt Vashti answered with a high, false laugh that was as pinched as her face. “She’s really not well at all, and I think she ought to go to bed. Now,” she emphasized firmly through clenched teeth.
“But you can’t―” Trinka began.
“Little girl, no one tells an amir what he can and cannot do,” Bahira Cantara said primly, her beady eyes looking down sharply at Trinka over her jewel-rimmed spectacles.
“Now,” Vashti repeated. Her hand slipped into the jewel-covered bag at her hip and reappeared, briefly displaying the piacula she had used to make Trinka give up the aquarock.
The tears were already running down Trinka’s face as her grief bubbled over. She turned and ran toward the palace, with startled guests stepping from her path.
Trinka collapsed onto her bed upstairs, the deep weight of sorrow sinking all the way through her. As her cheek pressed into the dampness of the pillow, she felt herself kick something underneath the sheets. Trinka flung aside the bedding and saw the red book lying there, its pages askew.
The strange words that had intrigued her only a few nights ago now made her furious. This had been her mother’s. This and everything else in the room. So why wasn’t she here in it now? If she wanted so much to leave Bram and me and Kolinkar and Annelise, and come back to this horrid place, why isn’t she here?
In a sudden fury, she threw the book across the room as hard as she could. It hit the mirror on the vanity with a crack, followed by a crash and gentle tinkling noises as the tiny glass bottles shattered. The diary lay open beneath the shards and spilled piles of powder.
Trinka closed her eyes and fell back onto the pillows. What did it matter? If her mother had wanted that stuff, she would be here for it. And if she wanted me, she’d be here for me too.
“Never!” a furious female voice shouted.
Trinka sat bolt upright at the sound, every muscle at the ready, but there was no sign of the voice’s owner. Had she just imagined it? Slowly, she let herself relax, when suddenly, the flash of a dark-haired reflection stormed its way across the mirror.
“I wouldn’t marry Musonas for all the jewels in Apostrophe!” the girl’s reflection shouted.
The reflection sunk to the chair in front of the vanity on the other side of the glass, put her hands over her face, and wept, her thin shoulders shaking with sobs. Trinka couldn’t help but climb out of the bed in concern, but the chair in front of her was empty. The dark-haired girl existed only in the mirror. Trinka put her hand to the glass, but it felt solid, smooth, and cold.
“They can’t do this to me!” the girl continued between sobs. “I’ll never marry Musonas!” Her hand grabbed at a fine glass bottle and shattered it against the vanity. She bit her wide, red lips for a moment, then got up and flung herself onto the bed.
Trinka turned. The bed in the room was empty but messy, while the one in the mirror was covered with neatly folded blankets and a desperate, prostrate figure. Trinka couldn’t even see her own reflection in the glass, as it had been completely taken over by the girl in the diary.
Of course, that’s who she was, Trinka thought as she glanced at the open book, now covered with powder from the broken vials. And that must make her…
“Mother?”
The girl in the mirror got up suddenly, but instead of responding to Trinka, she pulled the secret latch at the side of the bed and sat down again with a familiar red book in her lap.
“How can they even think that I’d marry him?” she spoke. “Just because he’s a wealthy, irritable, old…”
Then, in a flash, the girl’s image faded and disappeared from the mirror, and Trinka found herself staring at a reflection of her own white face. Carefully, she got up and brushed the mix of soft powders off the pages of the diary and into her hand. To think that the key to unlocking its s
ecrets had been here on the vanity all along.
With the bottles broken, she only had enough powder to cover one more page of the diary. Trinka flipped through it thoughtfully, but there was no telling what the chapters of unreadable, loopy script might contain. Trinka finally sprinkled the handful of powder over the last page of the diary.
From the moment the powder hit the page, a very different girl appeared in the mirror. She was smiling, almost jumping on the bed with delight as she got out her diary to tell it her latest story.
“I have met him,” she whispered with happiness. “His name is Bram, and he’s from Brace.”
Trinka watched as her mother’s past reflection settled herself into her pillows, a blissful, dreamy expression covering her face.
“Just think, tomorrow, no more engagement to Musonas. I’m going to marry Bram.” She put the diary away and slid happily beneath her blankets, the smile never leaving her face as she dreamed herself to sleep.
With that, the last image of her mother disappeared from the mirror. Trinka hoped the diary would reveal her mother’s secrets, but she was left with more questions than answers. If her mother had really been so determined to run away and marry Bram, rather than marry a man for his wealth, why was she “sparking” with Amir now?
But that must mean… her mother was here. In the palace. And if Amir had come here to see her, then she had probably been here all along.
All thoughts of staying in bed, away from Aunt Vashti and her horrible guests, vanished as she stormed from the room and marched back downstairs to the main hall, where the family was beginning to bid some of the guests good night.
“Aunt Vashti,” she demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me my mother is here?”
For a moment, Aunt Vashti’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed as she resumed her composure. She calmly picked up a decanter from one of the entry tables and filled a golden goblet with rich, dark red liquid.
“I told you she was far away. And, in many ways, she is.”
“Why didn’t you want me to see her?” Trinka continued boldly.
“She doesn’t want to see you. Or even hear about you. Ever again. Is that clear?”
Trinka felt her eyes sting with the onslaught of tears as she tore from the room and stumbled blindly out to the garden. As she dashed across the terrace, she tripped and fell headlong into something soft and white.
“Ooof,” a dry male voice remarked. Trinka felt strong arms hauling her to her feet. She looked up and saw a tall guard holding her firmly on both sides and Amir carefully smoothing out the front of his plush, white jacket.
“What are you still doing here?” Trinka blurted.
“I’ve promised to take my lovely lady for a chariot ride of course.” With a sweep of his arm, he indicated a gleaming golden carriage, finely polished and glowing like the setting sun. At its head, two enormous, muscular white animals clicked their feet impatiently and rustled their expansive wings. Each wing looked as if it were made from jagged metal, its fierce points encrusted with glittering jewels. For a moment, Trinka wondered what it must be like to fly high above the sand in a golden chariot.
“Ah, Ashira! At last.” Amir smiled and stretched out his hands in welcome. Trinka whirled about, and the sight before her took her breath away.
A tall, beautiful woman in a long white dress came gracefully down the stairs from a second-story balcony at the back of the palace. Her dress was sleeveless, simple and flowing, with a pale pink ribbon fluttering down from her waistband that perfectly matched the dusky evening sky. Her skin was as smooth as the fine marble furniture and colored like honey. Her corsage of glittering flowers perfumed the air as she walked toward them. Her dark hair, swept back elegantly into a simple coil at the back of her head, framed her face perfectly and her eyes, dark as her hair, wore a dreamy, far-off look.
“Mother?” Trinka whispered. The woman somehow looked much younger than Trinka remembered, but it was unmistakably her.
Forgetting everything else, Trinka ran to her and flung her arms around her middle.
“My goodness,” the woman exclaimed, trying to keep her balance. “Amir, who is this girl?”
Trinka let go, and stepped back uncertainly. “But, Mom,” she began.
Ashira smiled at her kindly but distantly. “The word here is ‘mum,’” she corrected, “But you may call me Ashira if you like.”
“Mother,” Trinka wailed. She threw her arms around her mother’s waist again and buried her tear-streaked face against the fine fabric.
Ashira looked more and more confused; Amir began to looked disgusted.
“You can’t go with him,” Trinka sobbed, “Don’t you remember me at all? It’s me, Trinka!”
Ashira’s lips parted, and her eyes appeared glazed. For once, Aunt Vashti did seem right. Even when she was in Trinka’s arms, Ashira was far, far away.
“Come along now,” Amir said sharply. He was no longer smiling as he put a hand on Trinka’s shoulder. She jumped back as if she had been stung.
“You can’t take her away! You just can’t—she’s my mom!”
“Trinka!” Aunt Vashti’s voice shot across the terrace and stung her. Through blurry eyes, Trinka saw her aunt sweep forward.
“Your highness,” she cooed sweetly, dropping into a low curtsy, and motioning for her girls to do the same. “Thank you once again for gracing us with your presence.” She smiled benignly, and Sabirah batted her eyelashes and flung open her little fan. She immediately dropped it with a clatter and had to scurry after it, but Jamilah didn’t even crack a smile.
“I came to collect Ashira,” Amir replied promptly. “And no one else.” He looked meaningfully at Trinka.
“Oh, do not worry about her, your highness,” Aunt Vashti warbled. “I assure you, she will be packed and out of here as soon as possible.” She curtseyed low again, waving at her girls with one hand. “We would do anything, anything at all for his highness.” She smiled sweetly and batted her eyes a little. It looked even worse on her than it did on Sabirah.
“Good,” Amir returned shortly. “Then you will let me have the company of this young woman, and we will be on our way.” He turned toward Ashira, who stood staring in perplexity at Trinka.
“Ashira?” Amir asked, and her gaze drifted slowly toward him.
“Mmm? Oh, I’m not sure I want to go now,” she began, putting a hand to her forehead.
“Here,” Vashti offered promptly. “This will help.” Ashira accepted the small goblet her sister offered and drank its contents, then let the red glass slip from her fingers and shatter on the terrace stones. Everyone else startled, but Ashira’s vacant expression gave no indication that she had noticed the sight or the sounds.
“You mustn’t keep his highness waiting,” Aunt Vashti insisted, shoving her sister toward the chariot. “I’m sure the fresh air will do you good.”
Amir helped Ashira up the small step on the side of the chariot. Trinka made to rush toward her, but Aunt Vashti’s hand clamped over her arm, and Trinka could feel her long, sharp fingernails digging in.
With a chirrah from Amir, the animals started forward on clattering hooves. Their mighty wings unfolded and beat swiftly and steadily, carrying them forward along the terrace and then up into the sky. Trinka watched until she could no longer see her mother’s somber face looking back in perplexity through the window. Then Trinka’s breath shuddered, and she collapsed onto the terrace stones.
“You get out of my house right now!” Aunt Vashti’s voice broke like a firestorm overhead. “I will not have you here a moment longer! Beatrice! Beatrice! Get her out of my sight this instant!” she shrilled hotly. “And send for Pimlico immediately. I will pay him, if necessary, to take her away!”
“But, madam,” Beatrice protested gently. “Your niece—”
“She is not my niece,” Aunt Vashti’s black eyes seemed to spark with anger, as Trinka’s mother’s used to do only when she was extraordinarily upset. “She is not my sister’s child. Ashi
ra has no children. She has never been married. They’ll never be able to prove it!” With a swirl of her skirts, she stampeded back into the house. Sabirah skipped gleefully behind her.
“Come on now,” Beatrice said to Trinka, and within moments they were upstairs in Ashira’s old room. “Stay in here. And don’t come out until I send for you.”
Trinka nodded numbly, feeling close to collapse. To her surprise, Beatrice led her over to the bed and sat down next to her. She put a hand on Trinka’s forehead and looked her straight in the eye.
“People do get over-emotional sometimes. They say and do all kinds of things without thinking about the consequences. You understand?”
Trinka nodded dumbly.
“Well, think about it until you do understand,” Beatrice commanded.
She stepped toward the doorway, but before she could reach it, the door swung open and Jamilah’s face peered cautiously around it.
“What do you want, miss?” Beatrice asked crisply.
“I want to talk to Trinka.”
Beatrice looked both of them over sharply and swung the door open. With Beatrice gone, Jamilah sat down next to Trinka.
“It’s about your mother,” she began uncertainly.
Trinka felt another hot tear slide silently down her cheek.
“It’s not her fault,” her cousin continued earnestly. “Well, maybe a little but not really.” She paused and looked at Trinka. “You don’t know what happened to her, do you?