The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen (17 page)

“Danskin’s talking to you, Neef,” Stonewall said.

I picked up the flatbread.

“Didn’t Backdrop give you my message?” Danskin asked unhappily. “Never mind, I can see she didn’t. Drat. I’m sorry.”

“Message?” I transferred my gaze from my assembly-required lunch to Danskin’s face. His cheek was swollen and bruised, and his right arm was thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow and supported across his chest by a scarf.

“What happened to you?”

“An elf challenged him to a leaping contest,” Stonewall said dryly. “Danny-boy thought he meant onstage. He meant up in the flies.”

Danskin looked embarrassed. “It was stupid. I’m lucky all I broke was my arm. By the time my fairy godfather found the Company Doctor and he strapped it up, it was too late to meet you. I gave your ticket and the backstage pass to my friend Backdrop. She said she’d take care of you, but I guess she forgot. I’m really sorry.”

Danskin looked so pathetic, so
mortal
, with his bandaged hand and his bruised face, I couldn’t keep on being mad. “Not your fault,” I said. “Besides, I got in by myself.”

Espresso gave me a thumbs-up. “Right on, Neefer-girl. How’d you swing it?”

“I gave the usher a piece of my silver dress. He was really nice. He even took me backstage.”

Mukuti and Fortran, who’d been simmering impatiently, boiled over with questions.

“Did you find the right maiden?

“Did you get the mirror?”

“Some glamourist called Elizabeth Factor has it.” I picked up the bread. “I hope. If she doesn’t, I’ll be chasing it round New York Between all autumn.”

I needed something to do so I wouldn’t go nuts waiting for the Schooljuffrouw to announce the next weekend. Since all I could think about was the Garment District anyway, I figured I might as well spend some time finding out what it was actually like. I’d read mortal fashion magazines, but things were obviously different Outside. Mortal fashion models? Nonmagic makeup? Bags that didn’t give food? Interesting, maybe, but hardly useful.

So I went back to the library.

The quest pass worked like a charm. The Librarian didn’t even fuss. She just pointed me toward Fodor’s
Guide to the Neighborhoods of New York
and told me not to mark it up or take it out of the library. I carried it to the back of the room and sat down on a window seat overlooking East River Park to read it, with the library cat on my lap.

It was helpful up to a point. I learned that the Garment District’s main street was Seventh Avenue, that its Genius was the Wholesaler, that it was populated mostly with kobolds, leprechauns, fairy seamstresses, and the kind of house Folk who help tailors. Native Fashion Folk included models and mannequins. There was a short section on glamourists, with Elizabeth Factor’s name prominently mentioned. No hint of where she hung out, though.

The more historical books informed me that sweat-shops are always bad and designers are always mortal and agents are guardian spirits who take care of models. Elizabeth Factor didn’t come up.

Two days later, the Schooljuffrouw finally declared a weekend. One day, which didn’t give me much time.

Next morning, bright and early, I told Astris I was going questing. She tried to make me wear an extra sweater, gave me some Autumn cookies wrapped up in a napkin, put a spell on my laces so I wouldn’t trip on them, and reminded me that heroes never played with their hair.

That’s Astris for you.

As I rode the Betweenways to the Garment District, I found myself missing my fairy twin, Changeling. She’d been a big part of my last quest. Sure, she melted down every time things got too tense, but she’d fixed the Producer of Broadway’s computer and even figured out how the magic mirror worked. I missed her perfect memory, her knack of asking just the right question. But most of all, I missed how we both knew what it was like not to fit in anywhere.

I sure didn’t fit in the Garment District.

When I exited the Betweenways station, I shoved through the crowds of chattering Fashion Folk on Seventh Avenue. Huge metal racks stuffed with clothes trundled past me like charging trolls, piloted by teams of kobolds, one pushing and one pulling, neither one looking where he was going. As I watched, a brownie arced through the air, landed on top of a rack, and was swept away downtown, swearing and threatening.

If I was lucky, Elizabeth Factor would be on this side of Seventh Avenue. If I wasn’t, I’d just have to cope. Either way, I only had one day to find her, so I had to get started. I turned to an elf standing beside me with a heap of turquoise ruffles boiling out of his arms. “Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can find Elizabeth Factor?”

He stepped into the traffic and disappeared without even looking at me.

It was the same with the other Fashion Folk I approached. It was like I didn’t exist. I tried standing in their way, yelling and waving my hands. They just stepped around me.

I decided to try the models. Impossibly tall, skinny as giraffes, they prowled the sidewalk on tiny, tiptoe feet, pouting beautifully. One struck a pose against a lamppost, and a cloud of brownies with black boxes appeared. There was a tiny storm of flashing and clicking, then the model waved her long, pink-tipped fingers, and the brownies disappeared again.

The model was tall and skinny and polished, very like Tiffany. She made me feel dusty and short and fuzzy.

They’re just Folk,
I told myself.
You can talk to Folk. Plus, you have the Pooka’s coat. That’s got to count for something.

I marched up to the nearest model. She was dark-haired for a change, and carrying a hairless dog like an oversized gerbil in a pale lavender tote. The tote matched her fluffy coat and echoed the startling deep amethyst of her huge, shadowy eyes. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me. I’m a mortal changeling. I’m on a quest for a glamourist. Can you help me?”

The model’s eyelashes were long and curly, and her eyelids were smeared with smoky gray. When she blinked, it looked like window shades going up and down. “Huh?”

I tried again. “I’m looking for a glamourist.”

The window shades went all the way up. “Duh. I mean, look at you. Ugly, much? I just got myself redone. Whaddya think?”

She gave a practiced twirl, struck a graceful pose. There was a small local lightning storm of brownies and flashbulbs. When it passed over, the model wandered off, her gerbil-dog barking at me from her tote.

Beautiful. And as dumb as a park bench.

“Fashion emergency! Mannequin coming through!”

I spun right into the path of a small, wiry supernatural in a big black hat like a saucer with an upside-down cup on it. He cannoned into me and fell over on top of the strange, stick-like thing he’d been towing. His dog, which looked like a puffball with legs, bounced around my feet, growling like a zipper. Apologizing, I caught the puffball while he disentangled himself from the stick.

“Give me that!” he screeched, grabbing the puffball and tucking it under his arm. “And get out of my way! I have to get this mannequin to a glamourist! Right away!”

Now that he was more or less still, I could see his backward feet. A duende, then. I switched to Spanish. “What a coincidence,” I said. “I’m looking for a glamourist too. Elizabeth Factor. Do you know her?”

The duende sneered. “I’m a model’s agent, aren’t I?” he said in English. “Of course I know Elizabeth Factor. She’s strictly Artistes and Debs.”

“What?”

The duende stamped his foot. “Don’t you understand simple English? Oh, why am I even talking to you?”

He grabbed the mannequin’s stick arm and darted around me.

I darted after them.

The duende turned onto a side street. I turned the corner just in time to see him disappearing into a low brick building with LIVING DOLLS painted over the door in swirly silver letters. Through the door were stairs. I leapt up them, two at a time.

When I got to the top, panting and sweating, the agent, his mannequin, and the puffball were standing in front of another door. The duende saw me and sighed. “You’re harder to get rid of than a bad dye job,” he said. “Okay, you can come with us. But I’m warning you. If you so much as open your mouth before the glamourist’s done with my client, I’ll turn you into a pair of orthopedic oxfords.”

As I nodded, the door opened. I followed the duende and the mannequin into a huge, airy room lit by tall, gauze-draped windows. Half of it was taken up by racks of clothes and the other half by shelves filled with bottles and jars and boxes and trays and tubes and lidded bowls. Between the halves was a narrow strip of carpet and a black leather chair occupied by a floating copy of
Vogue
.

“Oh dear,” said a voice from behind the
Vogue
. “Another challenge. Two challenges. Pelo,
darling
. Why do you keep bringing me these no-hope cases?”

“The mortal’s not important,” Pelo said. “Jacaranda needs a Look.”

The
Vogue
dropped and the Glamourist detached himself from the black chair like a solid shadow. I wasn’t sure what kind of Folk he was—some minor djinn, maybe. He was all black—not black like Fortran, who was actually very dark brown, but black like a black cat: eyes, teeth, fingernails, clothes, everything. He pulled the sticklike mannequin into a clear space, then started waving his hands and shouting orders at the air.

Jacaranda and the Glamourist disappeared in a swirl of airborne beauty spells and potions.

“A real artist,” Pelo said admiringly. “He can copy anything. Watch your head! Here come the clothes.”

The racks behind me rustled. I ducked just in time to miss being knocked over by a stream of dresses, skirts, petticoats, and tops. They spun like a bright cyclone around Jacaranda and the Glamourist, then froze.

The Glamourist’s head popped out between a blue velvet skirt and a glittery red gown. “Fairy princess?” he asked hopefully.

“Goose girl,” said Pelo.

“Retro?”

“For
Fairy Parade
.”

“Why didn’t you
say
so?”

A few minutes later, the clothes slumped to the floor, revealing Jacaranda’s new Look.

Jacaranda didn’t look like any goose girl I’d ever heard of. The Glamourist had provided her with just enough flesh to keep the clothes from collapsing, but she still looked kind of like a stick figure. She was wearing an apron made of sky-blue net. Her tiny brown skirt showed off long legs ending in high-heeled wooden shoes with little cream-colored geese painted on the toes. She had pouty red lips, rosy cheeks, and wide blue eyes shadowed with the same brown as her skirt. A silver stick dangled from one slender wrist by a blue ribbon.

Jacaranda twirled. “How do I look?” she said, breathy and high and worried.

“Gorgeous, darling. As always.” Pelo shot me a glance. “What do you think, mortal?”

I thought any geese Jacaranda came near would probably attack her. “Gorgeous,” I lied. “But isn’t it kind of impractical?”

Pelo laughed. “Are you kidding? This is
glamour
. It’s not supposed to be
real
. If you want to talk to the Glamourist, do it quick, before I turn you into an accessory.”

I turned to the djinn. “Can you tell me where to find Elizabeth Factor?”

The Glamourist tilted his shadowy head. “Are you sure? I mean, okay, you’re a total fashion disaster, but she’s—”

“For Artistes and Debs,” I interrupted him. “I know. I don’t want a makeover.” I glanced at Jacaranda and shuddered. “I’m on an official and very important quest.” I pulled out my quest pass. “See?”

The Glamourist examined the pass. “Pretty,” he said. “The beaver’s got style.” He turned to the makeup shelves.

“You can come out, little boy. I’m ready to tell you what you wanted to know now.”

A small figure stepped out from behind the shelves—a pale, skinny figure with a close-clipped fuzz of black hair and slanting black eyes.

Rage boiled up my chest and into my throat. “
What
—”

The Glamourist, the agent, and Jacaranda leaned forward eagerly. I took a deep breath and counted carefully to ten, then fifteen, just to make sure.

“Hi, Airboy,” I said stiffly.

He nodded. “Neef.”

“I see you two are
old
friends,” the Glamourist said. “Now listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once.”

And then he told us how to get to Elizabeth Factor’s Beauty Salon.

Folk can’t understand that everybody else isn’t familiar with their Neighborhoods. The Glamourist’s directions were full of phrases like “turn left where the Button Shop used to be,” and “take a right two blocks before the Knitting Factory.” When he was done, all I knew for certain was that I was going to have to cross Seventh Avenue after all.

“Cool,” I said brightly. “You coming, Airboy?”