Mirror, Mirror Page 2

  Many people had left their places in the gallery after the doctor had made his announcement, but here and there people remained. Some gathered in small groups and were talking in low voices, and others had collapsed on various chairs and were openly crying. When Marya burst into the gallery, several of them looked up, with expressions ranging from shock to hope.

  Marya stopped short just outside the door, looking around at all the faces of the people who were mourning her sister. For a moment an intense bitterness swept over her, as she reflected that none of these people could possibly mourn Amelia the way she did, and the way the king did. Then, just as abruptly, that bitterness gave way to a gentle sadness, and Marya felt the tears that she hadn’t shed earlier rising swiftly to the surface.

  She wanted to run away, wanted to hide from all the faces that were turned towards her, but she did not. She could not, if she wanted to help the king. Instead, she forced herself to walk slowly and calmly forward, before turning and continuing just as sedately down the length of the gallery. Marya kept her chin high, and her gaze on the far wall, blinking frequently to keep the tears from pooling. She could hear whispers as she walked.

  She had not gotten very far before she was interrupted. The cook had sent an underling to the gallery to find out if supper was expected to be served today. Marya answered the boy almost at random then continued on, only to be stopped again, this time by the head chambermaid. One of the guests wanted to change rooms, and was it acceptable to move them to the rose room?

  Marya gave her consent and then resumed walking, not bothering to keep to the sedate stride any longer. She hurried along the gallery and then down a side hall until she reached her own room. Once she was safely inside, she cast herself on her bed and let herself cry.

  Eventually, when she had wept herself dry of tears, and when sheer exhaustion had deadened the pain of her grief somewhat, she sat up and thought about what she needed to do. After a moment she leaned over and pulled the bell rope that hung against the wall, then she went to splash cold water on her face from the basin that stood next to her mirror.

  A few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and a timid little maidservant poked her head in. “Yes, m‘lady?” she asked.

  “Please tell the butler that I wish to see him in the library in half an hour,” Marya said, not realizing how cold her voice sounded.

  “Of course, m’lady,” the maid said hastily, ducking back out of the room and closing the door behind her.

  Marya closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, then looked harder. On the rare occasions that she and her sister had been apart, she had sometimes thought that she could see Amelia in her own reflection. But not today.

  * * *

  In the following days, Marya took over the running of the household, more by necessity than choice. She had given instructions to a stiff and slightly offended-looking butler about the funeral arrangements, and had asked him to issue the general order that the king should not be bothered with any problems that arose in the household. She had met with the cook, and now every morning her breakfast tray was littered with menus that needed to be approved or amended before anything else could be done. The head chambermaid, the head groom, the head gardener, the head laundress and the steward all came to her with their problems and to request their orders. Marya had never been busier.

  Finally, the day of the funeral came and went, and the dozens of friends and distant relatives who had all gathered for the birth and who had stayed on for the funeral began to depart. Eventually the only people left in the castle were the ones who belonged there, and Marya’s days became less hectic and felt more empty.

  She had no real friends in the castle, and most of the servants followed her orders with a chilly obedience that would have been highly unsettling if she was not already used to it. Where Amelia had been loved by everyone around her, Marya had only been tolerated for Amelia’s sake. Now Amelia was gone, and her sister was left alone, trying to fill an emptiness that refused to be filled. Marya had never before regretted her lack of friends - Amelia had always been friend enough for her.

  The only person that she could talk to was Donavan, the king. His was the only grief that approached her own, and soon after the funeral he began seeking Marya out. They dined alone together every evening, and the two of them would talk about Amelia for hours, taking comfort in their shared memories and shared sorrow. When Marya suggested that someone else take over the running of the household, the king dismissed the idea, saying that he knew he could rely upon her. Marya had agreed quietly.

  Slowly, a friendship began to grow between Marya and the king, a friendship that had never existed while Amelia was alive. The king began to turn to her for advice on small matters, and continued to leave the running of the castle in her hands. He sought out her company more and more frequently, and their conversations were no longer solely about the late queen.

  Such behavior did not go unnoticed of course, but the servants were quick to find excuses for their king, and chose to set the blame on Marya instead. The gossip in the servants’ hall was renewed every time Marya and the king dined together, went riding together, or accidentally met in the gardens. Every last servant, from the butler on down to the boy who cleaned boots, agreed that Lady Marya was out to take her sister’s place.

  It was not long before Marya herself became aware of these rumors. She was on her way down from one of the tower rooms when she overheard two of the maids talking on the landing below.

  “…should have heard her giving orders to the cook, just like she was the lady of the house. Scandalous is what it is, scandalous,” said one of the women.

  “It surely is. Why, that woman was trying to step into her sister’s shoes before our good lady was even laid in the ground,” replied the other.

  “Hmmph,” muttered the first. “And in more ways than one, I’ll be bound.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that she’s got her eyes set on being something more than just a housekeeper, I’ll warrant,” the woman replied. “Haven’t you seen the way she looks at the poor king? Like a cat looking at a caged canary,” she added maliciously.

  The second woman uttered a shocked reply, but Marya did not hear what she said. She stood on the steps above the women, frozen. Indignation was her first reaction, followed swiftly by sadness, as she acknowledged the truth of what she had heard.

  Marya had loved the king ever since she had first seen him, but for years she had been trying to hide that love so that her sister would not be made unhappy. Now that Amelia was gone, it was becoming harder and harder to hide her feelings. Marya was also afraid that the king had noticed it, and while his behavior was encouraging, it also made her feel uneasy at times.

  Marya hadn’t been able to help but notice how frequently the king had begun to compare her to her late sister. He often mentioned that he hadn’t noticed before how similar in appearance Marya and Amelia actually were, and sometimes told Marya that she was as sweet as Amelia was. Once, during dinner, he had actually called her Amelia. Not knowing what to do, Marya had done nothing, and the dinner had continued without incident or comment. The king never realized that he had misspoke.

  Marya began to have fears that she refused to put into words, for she desperately wanted to believe that the king was coming to care for her. Deep down, she knew that she would never be able to fully replace Amelia in his mind, but she pushed such thoughts aside, telling herself that it would be better to be second place with the man she loved than to have no place at all. And even while she loved, she grieved.

  Marya had for weeks known that her heart was not just broken, but was broken into pieces. Part of her grieved for her sister, and always would, but another part of her grieved because of how quickly she had started to cherish hopes about the king. Last, she grieved because she had failed.

  She had wanted to give her sister a child, and the king a son. Now, because
of what she had done, her sister was dead and the king still had no son, only a daughter. This grief was greater than either of the others, and was made worse because she had no one to talk to about it. The king was her only friend these days, and she could never confess to him what she had done. All she could do with this grief was to turn it inward, and try to bury it within the pieces of her broken heart.

  As for the king, he never spoke about his disappointment in still having no son and heir, but Marya was certain that he suffered in silence. He had refused to see his daughter for weeks after her birth, and it was not until the funeral had long come and gone that he finally made an appearance in the nursery.

  Marya had escorted him there, for she had been overseeing the care of the child and wanted him to know that she had been doing so. She had at first tried to be a surrogate mother to the child, honestly wanting to love the baby for its mother’s sake, but she just couldn’t. Every time she saw the child, she was reminded of her own failure - both to create a boy-child and to save her sister’s life. Instead of love then, she gave the baby everything else a child could need in the way of nurses, toys, and pretty dresses.

  The king had no more than seen his daughter for the first time than he began to dote upon her, lavishing a free and easy affection upon the child that made Marya feel a small twinge of jealousy. She found herself maneuvering events and even telling outright lies to make sure that the king saw his daughter as rarely as possible. Despite such tricks, it was clear to everyone that the king loved his daughter more than anyone else in the world.

  And so time began to pass.

  The seasons drifted into years, and soon the baby was a small child, then a little girl, and then a young woman. The child was adored by her father, and by all the court and all the people of the town, for she had her mother’s sweetness as well as her beauty. Of all those who ever gazed upon the girl, only one person’s heart was left untouched.

  When the child was still very small, the king had married his first wife’s sister. The sisters had looked so much alike that at times he was able to convince himself that his second wife was actually his first. Though he tried very hard to never let his new wife know what he was thinking, he could not stop his memories of his lost love.

  His new wife, who always knew when he was pretending that she was her sister, never murmured. The love that would shine out of the king’s eyes during those times was so sweet and great that she hated driving it away. Instead, she would pretend as well - she would pretend that the great love shining out of his eyes was actually for herself, and that he truly cared for her.

  As time passed, and the older sister’s youth began to fade, the look of love came more and more rarely to the king’s eyes. The memory of his first wife, who had died so early in life, would never age, and in his mind the resemblance between the sisters became less and less with each passing year. He did not mean to be cruel to his new wife however, and he tried always to treat her with kindness and respect, for he had grown fond of her over the years.

  His new wife however, did not want his fondness, nor his kindness. She loved him with all the broken pieces of her heart, and she yearned to be loved by him in return. She had known when she married him that he was still in love with the memory of her younger sister, but she had convinced herself that time would weaken that memory, and that he would turn to her when it did.

  When it became clear to her that the king’s memory was growing stronger instead of fading, she had to find a new hope to cling to. She soon convinced herself that if only she could do what her sister had not been able to do, the king would have to love her. She would give the king a son.

  For years the new queen clung to this hope, and at the end of each of those years that hope grew a little bit smaller, while her fears loomed a little bit larger. When she had cast the spell to give her sister a child, she had known that she was making a sacrifice, but she never realized how deep it had gone. She did not know it, but she had sacrificed part of herself, the part from which life is born. Though some life was left to her, there was not enough to spare to give to a child. She did not conceive.

  As the last shards of youth left the older sister, the love and hope that had filled her for so long began to congeal into bitterness and fear. A shapeless desperation began to grow inside of her. She had not borne the king a son, and the only time his face now bore an expression of love was when he was with his daughter.

  The king’s daughter had grown up to be a mirror image of her mother. Though she brought delight to nearly everyone around her, the new queen was never able to look upon the girl with peace of mind. In the beginning, the child had reminded her of her terrible failures, and now that she was grown, the young woman reminded the new queen of her lost youth. And always, there had been the jealousy.

  It had always been clear to everyone who gazed upon them that the king loved his daughter more than his new wife. For years, the hope of eventually earning the king’s love had sustained the older sister, and she had been able to ignore the pangs of jealousy that she felt whenever she saw the natural love the king felt for his daughter. Now, however, when the last of her hope was disappearing, that jealousy went unchecked, twisting and coiling itself around the broken pieces of her heart like a serpent.

  Now, when she looked upon the king’s daughter, she began to have evil thoughts.

  II

  A playful breeze blew down the long gallery, ruffling the edges of the tapestries and carrying fresh, spring air past the portraits of all the staid and stodgy-looking kings of old. A maidservant sang softly to herself as she stood at one of the open windows, shaking the dust out of a rug. The ancient castle seemed to be full of sunlight and new life, and the very air carried with it that special kind of gladness that only spring can create.

  Queen Marya left her bedchamber and began walking the length of the gallery. The hems of her dark skirts trailed behind her like a shadow, and she moved slowly, as if weighted down. Though spring had intoxicated nearly everyone else in the castle and town, it had not been able to reach her. For her, winter had not yet ended.

  Near the end of the gallery she turned, and knocked on the door in front of her. A muffled response was heard from within, which Marya took as sufficient invitation to enter. She opened the door and stood upon the threshold of the sunny chamber, pinning a polite smile on her face.

  “Good morning, my dear,” she said to the room’s only occupant, who was half-hidden inside a large wardrobe.

  “Good morning!” the princess’ voice came singing out, slightly muffled by the clothes that surrounded her. A moment later she emerged triumphant, clutching a pair of worn but sturdy looking boots in her hand. Her face was flushed and her hair was in disarray, but her eyes were shining and the corners of her mouth were raised in their perpetual smile.

  A sudden gust of wind caused the curtains at the window to billow, and the room was filled with dancing light and shadow. For the briefest of moments, Marya thought she saw her sister Amelia crouched on the floor in front of her, then herself of younger, happier days, then Amelia again. As the curtains drifted back down to their normal places and the light steadied, the figure resolved itself once again into the king’s daughter. The spring breeze that had darted into the room reached out and touched Marya, and she shivered.

  “Oh, hullo, Aunt,” the princess said. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” She always called Marya “aunt“ - it had been tacitly agreed between them years ago that just as she wouldn’t be called “mother,” no more would she be called “stepmother.”

  “Yes, beautiful,” Marya replied absently, without even glancing at the window. “I have been told that you’re going to spend the day picking wildflowers? And that your maid is not going to accompany you?” She managed to add a touch of disapproval to her voice.

  “No, Berthe’s sick,” the king’s daughter replied, rummaging through a pile of clothes that were lying on the bed. “That’s why I’m going to go pick flowers. They’ll c
heer her up.” She pulled out a wide, brightly hued scarf and tossed it next to the boots, then crossed the room back towards the wardrobe.

  “Are you at least going to take a guard with you?” Marya asked, watching the princess’ perambulations warily.

  “Oh, Aunt!” exclaimed the princess indulgently. “Don’t be silly - I don’t need a guard!”

  “The woods are a dangerous place,” Marya responded.

  “Phooey,” was the stout reply. “Nothing ever happens to me in the forest.”

  “Nothing ever happens to you in the forest,” Marya said dryly, “Because you never go there alone and unguarded.”

  “Nonsense,” the princess replied. “I’ll be perfectly safe. I won’t go far, and I’ll be home again in time for supper.” As she spoke she approached Marya, and kissed her on the cheek.

  Marya stiffened under the embrace, but did not move away. Her niece was so accustomed to being surrounded by loving people that she never seemed to realize that her aunt was not included in their number. The princess treated Marya with the same casual affection that she bestowed on everyone else, and it always made Marya uncomfortable.

  Trying to hide her awkwardness, Marya moved further into the room and lifted the lid of a wicker basket that had been set carelessly on a chair.

  “It looks like you’re prepared to miss lunch in all events,” she said, peering inside the basket. With a knowing smile she added, “I see you convinced Cook to open the last barrel of snow apples.”

  “He didn’t mind,” the princess replied. “He knows they’re my favorites. He made me some chicken too, and I think there’s a piece of cheese in there as well.”

  “And grapes, and cold mutton…goodness, you have enough food in here to last the rest of the week!”

  The princess flashed a dimpled smile at Marya. “He likes to feed people.”

  “So I should hope, all things considered,” answered Marya.