Palace of Mirrors by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

“Up there!” The people around us begin shouting and pointing.
    I tilt my head back farther, so I can see the balcony that soars out over the crowd. It seems so high up that I wonder if it’s hidden by clouds on less sunny days. Six men in regal black stand at alert on the balcony. They’re too far away for me to see their eyes, of course, but just by the way they stand, I can tell that they’re constantly scanning the crowd, looking for any possible danger at every moment. Behind them, at the window—or the door? Is a door still a door if it’s entirely made of glass?—a figure dressed in palest yellow is stepping out into the sunshine. Maybe it’s just because of the gauzy dress and veil she’s wearing, but the figure seems unreal, like a spirit in a dream.
    “It’s the princess . . .”
    “Princess Desmia . . .”
    “Our beloved princess . . .”
    The awed whispers flow through the crowd, as if everyone thinks that speaking out loud would break the spell and Desmia would vanish.
    “She’s so beautiful,” a boy murmurs behind me.
    “How can he tell?” I mutter to Harper. “Her whole face is covered with that veil!”
    I expect him to join me in sarcasm—kind of like how we always join together to make fun of Herk the tailor and his cowbell concerts. But Harper just looks from Desmia to me and back again without saying a word.
    Great. He’s apparently fallen under Desmia’s spell too.
    What? Are you jealous?
A little voice in my head taunts me.
    I stare at the figure on the balcony as she raises one hand and gracefully waves it back and forth. It’s like watching a willow tree sway in a gentle breeze, the movement so delicate and dainty that it could be set to music. I could never wave like that. Hoisting buckets of water and stacks of firewood isn’t very good practice for such tiny motions.
    Thanks a lot, Nanny,
I think bitterly.
You too, Sir Stephen—what were you thinking? Didn’t you know I’d need to wave like that? Couldn’t you have slipped in a few lessons in gracefulness along with the geometry?
    Desmia keeps waving. Her veil ruffles in the breeze, and even that doesn’t break her concentration or the precise motion of her hand. She’s like a perfect china doll.
    Really,
I think,
I wouldn’t want to have to wave like that. Too careful. Too tedious. I’d rather carry water buckets. The people of Suala are just going to have to get used to a princess who waves her arm back and forth wildly. People like exuberance, too, don’t they?
    Desmia leans out over the balcony, the bottom of her veil pinned against the railing.
    “Blessings,” she calls in a faint, bell-like voice. “Blessings upon my subjects.”
    The crowd cheers. They love their china-doll princess.
    Maybe when I take up my rightful position, I’ll have to hire Desmia to keep waving from the balcony every day. Just to keep the people happy. But will they still love her so much if she’s not the princess? And would that endanger her? If the point of revealing my true identity is to keep Desmia safe, would it be fair to expect her to keep appearing before the public?
    And . . . if Desmia’s their idea of a princess, will they ever love me?
    I’m so dizzy with questions and doubts that I almost miss Desmia’s exit. She’s backing away from the railing now, gliding back through the glass door. The six guards peer out suspiciously at the crowd for another few moments; then they, too, retreat out of sight. The balcony hovers high above us, completely empty.
    Many of the people in the crowd around us let out great sighs—maybe they’ve been holding their breath ever since their first glimpse of Desmia, and they just now remembered that they need to breathe. Or maybe they’re sighing with disappointment because she’s gone. Or maybe they’re still so filled with awe and disbelief at what they saw that they have to express it somehow. Maybe they’ll be sighing for hours—no, years. Decades from now they’llbe telling