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
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
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