Iron Hearted Violet (22 page)

“We
all
bear responsibility, Moth. All of us. Even the Princess.”

“The Princess?” Demetrius gave the three small creatures a hard look. “What about Violet? Do you know where she is? Did you kidnap her, too? What does she have to do with it?”

Auntie sighed. “Everything, unfortunately. And nothing.”
She paused, as though weighing her words. “And of course we didn’t kidnap her. We didn’t kidnap you, either.” Auntie swallowed. “Well, not intentionally, anyway.”

Moth began biting his thumb in earnest now, and Nod whistled.

“I see,” Demetrius said.

“In any case,” Auntie said, regaining her composure, “it’s all terribly complicated, and we would save some time if we were walking. Well.” She gave a sidelong glance to Demetrius. “
We
will walk. You, child, will have to crawl.”

Demetrius pressed his hands against the low ceiling. There was hardly any light, aside from the paltry glow coming from the tiny metal lantern held by one of the small creatures, but he could see three tiny openings around the room, leading into dark, tight passageways. Demetrius felt a hot wave of panic roll from his stomach to his throat, burning as it moved. “I don’t think…” Demetrius began, swallowing his fear. “I mean, I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’m too big.” He pressed harder, as though he could break through the stone from sheer force.

“Oh, tosh,” Auntie said, snatching the lantern. “You’ve already gone through the hard part, though, truthfully, we had to drag you. But these passages are nothing new to you
and your little friend. We’ve been cleaning up after you for years.” She walked into a passage, taking the light with her, her two companions following close behind. Demetrius sighed, flattened down onto his belly, and crawled after the light.

The war grew and swelled around us. It pummeled the walls; it rattled the windows; it whispered at the doors. Its voice was ragged and rusty and sharp. We choked on the smell. It crowded our eyes; it scratched at our ears; it knocked our bodies around and around. We thought war, spoke war, ate and drank and dreamed war. Soon we couldn’t imagine a world without it.

The Great Hall was transformed into a hospital wing, and the library became a strategy center. Generals and diplomats from the west and the south arrived with armies
and weapons and supplies in tow and proceeded to hurry through the hallways, their voices quick and sharp and urgent. They never stopped moving. The King, however, became more and more detached every minute. He deferred to the advisers. He relinquished control to this general or that general and began to agree to everything.

When the King simultaneously agreed to a total surrender
and
a fight to the death, the council of generals, sages, advisers, and magicians conferred with one another without the King. I was on the far side of the room with my beloved King, my ear tuned to their conversation. He didn’t seem to notice what was going on and instead peered insistently into mirrors, and the surface of water glasses, and the slicked surface of the window. He would point, gasp, and then deflate.

“
My darling
,” whispered the King. “
My child
,” he breathed.

But there was nothing there. Just the mirror. Just the glass. Just the water. The King covered his face and gave himself over to weeping.

On the other side of the room, the generals, advisers, and magicians argued.

“It is obvious,” one said, “that the King is incapacitated. We need a single voice of authority.”

“Which should be me,” the eldest magician said coolly.

“For your vast knowledge of military tactics,” sneered the youngest general. “I was top of my class at the Academy. I nominate myself.”

“
Idiocy
,” cried an adviser. “The military is supposed to do as it is told. What is needed is a scholar and a statesman. I nominate—”

“Myself,” said the magician who was called Albert.

“No, me!”

“No, me!”

The King ignored them. He was a man transported. The King stared at a mirror. Pressing his fingers to his mouth, his eyes shone and shone.

“Do you see her?” whispered the King.

“I see her,” he whispered his own answer back.

He sighed, shook his head, and marched into the adjacent room. I listened to his words, though they seemed nonsensical and vague, like words heard in a dream. Slowly, I made my way toward the mirror that had so captured the attention of the King.

“My dear friends.” King Randall stood tall in front of his advisers, his voice echoing strangely against the wall. His eyes shone. He smiled at the men and women staring back at him.

I turned away and stared at the mirror. My reflection wobbled, misted, and faded away.

No
, thought I.
No, no, no.

“While I understand and accept the gravity of the situation in which we now all find ourselves,” the King said to his advisers, “and clearly, it is imperative for the safety and permanence of the Andulan Realms that we fight and win this war, that we do not accept slavery from the likes of our cousin to the north, I regret to inform you that because of the disappearance of our one and only child, the dear Princess Violet, I will be leaving the castle. Immediately.”

A gasp.

A shout.

I hardly noticed. I stared at the empty mirror. A pair of eyes blinked back at me. They glittered like two hard jewels.

“I go in search of my daughter. Or…” He paused. “Not in search. Indeed, I know exactly where she is. I go to collect her. In my absence, I declare a temporary abdication of the crown and leave in my stead the crowned regent, the storyteller Cassian.”

What?
I thought.

“What?” they shouted.

Me?
I thought.

“Him?” they shouted.

“It has been decreed,” cried the King, slapping me hard on the back. “It is done. Cassian is lord regent. You will treat him as your king.”

In the mirror, the jeweled eyes winked at me. They sparkled with delight. Sharp-tipped golden teeth glinted in a slowly widening smile.

“I know what you are,” I whispered at the mirror.

OF COURSE YOU DO
, the mirror hissed back.

Deep underneath the castle, the Princess Violet awoke on a bed of hair.

“Bother,” she grumbled as she forced herself to her feet. Her hair had, for the time being, ceased to grow. Still. There were
mounds
of it, snaking down her back and pooling onto the floor. (And in her mind she cursed me by name, as it was my story that had birthed such a ridiculous notion in her young head. Who had ever heard of hair trailing on the floor? It was a terrible inconvenience, and I am sick,
sick, my dears
, that I ever put such a thing into a
story.)
Well
, she told herself,
it resists tangles. So that’s something.
At once, she began twisting it into a long rope that she looped around her waist and tied tightly into a knot. Though it still pulled painfully at her scalp and was terribly heavy to carry, she wasn’t in danger of falling.

“Hello,” she called. “Hello?”

From the end of the corridor, she heard the jangle of keys and the crackling of arthritic joints as a figure came closer through the gloom.

“Well,” said the jailer—as pale and gap-toothed and grizzled and surly as any jailer you’ve heard about in stories. “If it isn’t the
Princess
.” With an ugly, mocking expression on his uglier face, he sank into an exaggerated bow. Violet smiled serenely.

“She’s not the Princess,” yawned a sleepy voice from nearby. “I am.”

“No! Me!” said another.

“SHUT UP!” cried Violet and the jailer together.

“Honestly,” Violet said, standing at her full height and holding her chin just so, as she had been painstakingly taught by her governesses and tutors. “I can’t imagine how one can get anything done under such conditions. I commend you, sir, for your cool head.”

The jailer blanched. He removed his knitted hat. “Why, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Indeed. Thank you for noticing, miss.”

“I state only the obvious, my good, good man.” She inclined her head and gave a quick, genteel bow. The jailer opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, pressing his finger against his lips. “And I thank you for your service,” Violet added.

There is something, my dears, that you must understand. Violet—
my
Violet—was a
real
princess. And no matter what lies the stories tell you, a
real
princess has nothing to do with opulent garments or a heart-shaped face or teeth like pearls. A real princess engages with the world in a state of grace. It is with grace that she listens and with grace that she speaks. A princess loves her people, no matter what their birth or station. Even ugly jailers.

“Is—” He cleared his throat. “Is there anything I can get for you, miss?” the jailer found himself asking. He was astonished, really. He couldn’t remember ever asking if a prisoner needed anything. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he would have even considered
wondering
such a thing, let alone ask it. But the jailer asked. And, what’s more, he was desperate to know the answer.
He clasped his hands at his chest and waited. His breath caught in his throat.

“You know, sir,” Violet said very slowly, “I would give anything in the world for a basin of water to wash my face, and perhaps a mirror.” She spoke lightly, casually. As though it wouldn’t matter either way. But
oh
, how her heart trembled!

“Right away, miss,” the jailer said, and scurried into the darkness to get them.

Violet turned, leaned her back against the bars, and rubbed her temples and hairline with her fingers.
There is nothing
, she thought,
more uncomfortable than too much hair
. She felt as though the weight of it might pull her scalp off altogether. She would have asked for scissors, or a very sharp knife, and she would hack at it all day if she had to. But it wouldn’t do to push her luck. Best to take the mirror.

It didn’t take the jailer long. The mirror was just a fragment—its sharp edges filed to soft waves. She took the mirror first, pressing its reflective side to her chest. The water in the basin was warm to the point of steaming. He brought a lump of soap, and a worn but soft cloth to dry her
face and hands. He also brought a couple of apples, a hunk of hard cheese, and a bit of dry bread. It was, Violet could tell, all that he had.

“I can’t take this, sir,” she said, holding her hands up when he offered the food. But the man insisted, saying there was plenty more where that came from, and prisoners were fed but once a day, and while it was enough to last, she had missed the meal and would have to wait until tomorrow for nourishment.

She thanked the jailer, who found himself removing his hat and bowing at her. He turned, mystified, and walked away. Violet set the mirror facedown on the pile of straw in the back that she assumed would serve as her bed. The mirror heated and whispered. She knew exactly
who
was whispering her name, but
why
? That was another matter indeed.

She took a breath and cleared her head. Her head felt clearer now than it had for… ever so long. Was it the time in the mirror? Or the new body? Or was it simply that while she was suspended, she was not thinking? And when she was not thinking, she was not dwelling in thoughts of the Nybbas. And it had no control over her.

As she washed her face, Violet went over the facts as she
understood them. And as she sat, the things that she had
read
, and then ignored while she was wading through books in the library, came roaring into her mind, as clear and bright as bells. First, she
knew
that the voice in the mirror—that wish-granting trickster—was not to be trusted. That much was obvious. She knew that she had spent quite a bit of time inside the mirror. Two weeks, perhaps. Or more. Also obvious was that, in her absence, terrible things had been happening to her home. The council of grim-faced generals, the worn expression on the face of her father, the pandemonium outside—she had no idea what it meant, but she knew it couldn’t be good.