Palace of Mirrors by Margaret Peterson Haddix

humanity flowing through the gates.
    I am the true princess. I am the true princess. I am the true princess even if my face is dirty. . . .
    I’m working so hard to remember myself, I almost miss Harper’s answer.
    “Looking like ragamuffins is a pretty good disguise,” he says. “Maybe we should go in now, get a feel for the lay of the land, then adjust our appearance accordingly. Is that all right with you?”
    Okay, I
know
that’s not like Harper, to ask my opinion so deferentially. He must be just as awestruck as I am. I shrug agreement, and we let ourselves be swept through the gates along with everyone else. No one guards the gateways here, but once I get into the city, I see why: On nearly every corner soldiers stand on alert, staring coldly out into the crowd. The soldiers look taller than any of the men back in our village, just as the buildings here tower higher, soaring three, four, even five stories above the ground. And the buildings aren’t made of sticks and logsand rotting boards—they’re bronzed brick, imperial stone, gleaming stucco, all lined with shining windows.
    I’m so busy looking around that when the crowd surges forward, I very nearly lose track of Harper.
    He reaches over a goat that’s come between us and grabs my hand.
    “Don’t let go!” he orders.
    Harper’s hand is dry and warm and soothing, while mine is sweaty with fear. We’ve never held hands before. I think about what it means in the village when boys and girls only a few years older than Harper and me wander around with their hands clasped together. They’re always peering dreamily into each other’s eyes, sneaking shy kisses . . . and soon after, there’s a wedding.
    And then usually the boy gets sent off to war, and that’s the end of that.
    Harper is
not
peering dreamily into my eyes or making any attempt to kiss me. He’s practically pulling my arm out of its socket as the crowd pushes him in one direction and me in the other. I have to leap gracelessly over the goat to avoid being torn limb from limb.
    “Slow down!” I call to him.
    “—can’t—” That’s all I hear of Harper’s reply, because a large man’s belly is shoved against my ear. Then Harper yanks me toward him.
Thanks a lot, Harper—I guess you’re counting on the fact that at least my other arm will still work, and all I’ll really need it for is to sign royal proclamations. . . .
My body slams against his side; he releases my hand and grabs my waist instead.
    “Hold on to the harp,” he mutters.
    He’s taken it from his back and is holding it in front of him. Together, we use the harp to plow our way through the crowd. I’ve never really thought much about this, but it
is
an impressive instrument: skillfully carved willow wood, shiny strings . . . Harper and I look like we belong in a backwoods village—a very poor backwoods village—but the harp looks like it belongs in Cortona, and so people step out of the way for it.
    “Look,” Harper breathes.
    The crowd has pushed us into a wide courtyard. There’s an impressive clock tower in the center of the square, with huge clock hands pointed very nearly to noon, and at first I think that’s what Harper’s referring to. Then I see that just about everyone else in the crowd has turned to the right, to gaze up at . . .
    The palace.
    I see suddenly why the crowd has fallen silent and stopped pushing and shoving. Several people have even let their jaws drop open. The palace is overwhelming—overwhelmingly large, overwhelmingly beautiful, overwhelmingly grand. It has graceful arches and frilly turrets, and you would think that that would be like putting a lace bonnet on a soldier. But the arches and turrets and other flourishes just make the palace look more majestic,more imposing, more daunting. I realize that my notion of impressive architecture is a one-room cottage without any holes in the roof, but I think
anyone
would be stunned and amazed by this palace.
    “She’s coming!”