Palace of Mirrors by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

the gold coins people want to pay him. . . .
    I pass a shop window filled with hats, and something tickles my memory.
Ooh—Mabella, Liandra, Suzerina! Come away from those hats and listen! This one’s going to play a love song!
This is the millinery shop the three women were looking at when their friend called to them. So Harper will be on the very next corner. He will. He will. He—
    Isn’t.
    Harper is nowhere in sight.

  13  
    Harper!” I scream, as if my voice has the power to conjure up people from thin air. I wish being the true princess meant having that power. I glance around frantically, because maybe Harper switched corners; maybe he thought he’d make more money on the other side of the street. The other corners are crowded with scurrying strangers. No matter how much I crane my neck or duck down low, I can’t catch any glimpse of a familiar freckled face or a carved wooden harp.
    “Oh, Harper,” I moan. My thoughts come in disjointed, panicky bursts.
Got to get to Desmia NOW. . . . Stop the press gang that must have taken Harper. . . . As the true princess I ought to be able to do that, right? . . . Got to stop them before Harper gets to the battlefield. . . .
    I step out into the street, thinking that might help me see. I gaze far down the block. Maybe whoever tookHarper isn’t far away; maybe if I can catch them I can just tell them that I’m the true princess and they’re not allowed to carry Harper off to war—I forbid it!
    Strong hands grab at me, jerking me back from the street. A flash of black mane whips past my eyes.
    “What are you doing?” someone yells. “Didn’t you see that horse about to trample you?”
    I turn around and focus my eyes on freckles and splotches of dirt and messy, sand-colored hair. It’s Harper. I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him close.
    “I thought they’d taken you away—I thought you were gone forever—I thought I’d never find you again . . .,” I babble.
    Harper pulls back a little, holding me far enough away that he can see my face. I think he’s trying to tell if I’ve gone totally crazy.
    “You really are an idiot,” he says, but there’s a trace of fondness in his voice that makes it seem like it’s not an insult. “You said you’d be back in three hours, and it’s barely been two.”
    I’m a little embarrassed. Three hours? Two? I’d completely forgotten about listening for the clocks and keeping track of time.
    “But you were sitting right there playing music,” I say. “You didn’t tell me you were going anywhere else.”
    Harper lets go of me. He looks down, kicks at the harp he’s holding at his side.
    “I wasn’t making much money,” he says. “So I thought I’d just go sign us up for the competition before you got back. And then I found out why I wasn’t making any money. There are musicians all over the place. All of them playing better than me.” He sighs. “I’m a failure at my own fate.”
    “No, no—I bet it’s just a matter of economics,” I say comfortingly. “The laws of supply and demand. Because of the music competition, there are probably hundreds of musicians in Cortona, all of them trying to get some last-minute practice. The city’s full of music, so nobody wants to pay for it.”
    Harper shrugs.
    “How much money did you make?” I ask.
    Harper reaches into his pocket, pulls out a meager collection of coins.
    “Pennies,” he says.
    I don’t even bother to count the coins—it’s clearly not enough to buy so much as a fraction of a secondhand shoe that’s been covered in vomit and chewed by wild dogs.
    “Guess I better start playing again,” Harper says hopelessly, as he drops the coins back into his pocket. “We got one of the last open slots in the competition. The only times left were at the very beginning or at the very end, weeks away, so . . . we play first thing tomorrow morning.”
    My heart gives a little jump at this news. If we’re in the competition tomorrow,