Palace of Mirrors by Haddix Margaret Peterson

Author:Haddix, Margaret Peterson [Haddix, Margaret Peterson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Young Adult, Romance, Adventure, Childrens
ISBN: 9781416939153
Amazon: 1416939156
Goodreads: 2208767
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Published: 2008-09-30T07:00:00+00:00

19

Harper and I fall into an odd pattern over the next few days. We live for the sound of someone approaching on the stairs—we’re constantly listening for footsteps and birdcalls. But somehow the birds are always quiet until after our food appears; we never make it to the door in time to catch more than a glimpse of our food deliverer dashing away from us. Eventually I suggest that we take turns at guard duty, watching beside the door so that at the first sign of someone bringing food we can begin pleading our case: Oh, please, listen to us. We mean no one any harm. We were trying to do the right thing, coming here. . . .

No one shows up for an entire day. We are hungry and thirsty and tired, and when we hear the clock tower far below us chiming midnight, we give up. In the morning the basket is waiting outside our door, full of food again, and there’s a note in elegant handwriting tucked between two apples:

Do not watch for me. I cannot bring your food if you are watching.

The note is not signed.

“Couldn’t she have given us a few more details?” I ask, studying the note. “Reasons? Explanations? Maybe some indication of when she’s going to let us out?”

Harper shoots me a sidelong glance.

“I think maybe that was all she wanted to say.” He takes a bite of an apple, the skin crunching against his teeth. “Can you tell from the writing if it’s Desmia or someone else who wrote the note?”

“How should I know?”

“Would a princess leave a big blot of ink like that?” He points to the tail of the g in “watching,” where, indeed, too much ink has pooled.

I think about my own struggles with ink blots.

“Quill pens aren’t that easy to use,” I say. “You’d have to be a professional scribe, practically, not to leave any blots at all.”

“Well,” Harper says, patting my shoulder, “we know something, then. She didn’t hire out the writing of this note to the castle scribe.”

He tosses me an apple, but I don’t lift it to my mouth.

“What if she’s the only one who knows we’re here?” I ask slowly. “What if she’s keeping us secret?”

“Why would she?” Harper asks. “If she’s going to have us executed for treason, don’t you think she’d lop off our heads in front of everyone and be done with it?”

I don’t know how he can keep such a light tone in his voice, talking about that, like it’s all a joke.

“We are not treasonous!” I yell out, between the bars of the window, just in case someone—Desmia?—is listening. “We don’t deserve to be executed! We deserve to be set free!” I stop short of adding, I deserve to be wearing your crown!

“How many people do you know who get what they deserve out of life?” Harper asks.

I bite into my apple then, and shrug, pretending my mouth’s too full to answer.

But later on, after we’re full and Harper has wandered over to pluck at his harp, I’m still thinking about his question.

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