Beheld Page 7

  But I never did find James, though I searched for his face in every customer, every new fishmonger, every delivery boy. I never saw eyes as blue as his.

  One day, late in the eighteenth century, I had walked into a stall in a far corner of the market. It was an odd stall, one I had not noticed before. While most of the sellers there sold something in particular, something people would want, this stall was called Krimskrams, or “Bits and Pieces,” and was more likely to contain a broken doll’s head, a stake said to have belonged to Vlad the Impaler, or a petrified mouse than ordinary household items like thimbles or bed warmers.

  So, of course, it fascinated me. What need had I for the ordinary?

  It was there, tucked beneath a bone saw, behind a working flea circus, that I found my mirror.

  It was a grand mirror, sterling silver and larger than my head, with ornamental curlicues and sculpted flowers—roses and chrysanthemums. In its tarnished state, you could not detect it, but I knew that polished, it would be fit for a queen.

  I found the shopkeeper, an old man with a sort of hump, and asked how much it was.

  He quoted a price many times what I felt its value should be.

  “Oh, that is too much,” I said, nestling it back into place, thinking that, now that I had seen it, I could conjure one of my own.

  “What you do not understand, Fräulein, is that it is a magic mirror.”

  “Oh, a magic mirror! Well, that’s different.” I laughed, recalling the lad I knew who had sold his cow in exchange for some “magic” beans in a similar flea-market situation.

  “It is true. With it, you can see whomever you wish, wherever he may be.”

  Oh, wait. The beans in Jack’s story had been magic. I found myself bouncing, inadvertently, on the tips of my new shoes, which were made of black satin with Italian heels. If it was truly a magic mirror, perhaps I could use it to find James at last.

  I pushed from my mind the idea that he might not be alive. He must be alive. I could see him, finally!

  I drew in my breath, seeing my face in the glass. The girl there was smiling, appearing more excited than I had ever seen her before. “May I try it?” I asked.

  The old man grinned, revealing a tooth of gold. “Certainly. Just ask for who you want.”

  I stared into it, hesitating before saying, “I want to see James Brandon.”

  And suddenly he was there. He was there! He was on a battlefield, I could not tell where, but it was hot, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  But oh! He was so handsome, still. The style of his auburn hair had changed a bit, and he wore a blue uniform and carried a long rifle. He also had a cocked hat (what we later called a tricorne), all of which showed him off so much better than the dour black doublets and frilly collars in which I had seen him last. He had also grown a mustache, but I would have recognized him anywhere for his eyes, which were as blue as the Danube River.

  I stared for too long, yet not long enough, before asking, “Is it . . . can I use it to find someone? Is there a way to know where the person is?”

  The old man’s gold tooth really got a thrill out of that one. “Ah, we are searching for a lost love?”

  “Something like that.” Exactly like that. I felt my throat tighten with the tears at seeing him again.

  But the old man shook his head. “No way to tell, unless he says so in conversation.”

  “I . . . can hear him speak?”

  “Yes,” the peddler said, “if he is speaking. Ask to see someone else and check.”

  “I wish to see my assistant,” I said, much as I hated not to see James.

  Immediately, the picture switched to my assistant, who was helping a customer. “Yes, we have Goethe’s poems right here,” he was saying.

  “I’ll take it,” I told the old man, knowing I would pay any price. “And do not wrap it up.”

  As soon as I left the stall, I told the mirror, “Let me see James.” I stared at him all afternoon, but he did not reveal his whereabouts.

  Every spare moment, I looked at James, overheard his conversations, which made me feel guilty for spying, but not that guilty, for I had to find him.

  I felt even less guilty when I heard this conversation, in a barrack (the language James was speaking was English, so that narrowed his whereabouts down, at least somewhat).

  “D’ya ever plan to marry, James?” a man, one of his friends, asked him.

  James shook his head, sadly. “There was a girl a long time ago, so long it seems another lifetime.”

  His friend laughed. “Yes, another lifetime. What is your age—maybe twenty?”

  “Well, it seems like a long time,” James said. “Anyway, I loved her, and she went away. I told her we would find each other again, but I’m afraid I’ve lost her.”

  His friend slapped his shoulder and pretended to weep, but I knew he’d meant me. I had to find him.

  I tried for years, but to no avail. I could see him, but I could not talk to him, and he was always on some battlefield somewhere. If only Google had existed, I could have narrowed down his whereabouts, researched his uniform. But no. It was no better than a photograph, but it was better than nothing.

  In the meantime, I discovered some interesting things about that mirror, one of them being that I could reproduce it, make a second one with a sort of copying spell, and the duplicate had the same powers as the original. This realization made me a bit angry, for I realized the seller had charged a great deal for what might well have been a duplicate. Still, it was useful, for it meant I could give a mirror to someone I wished to be able to see me—while still keeping one for myself. In this way, we could communicate, like a sort of nineteenth-century smartphone.

  I used it to help a girl, Cornelia, whose story is included below.

  1

  Wheels

  Bavaria, 1812

  Cornelia

  For seventeen years, my life was like the Isar River, which flowed past our mill, beautiful but all too consistent, always the same, lapping gently against rocks worn down by time. My sisters told me of the ocean, which rolled and churned, changing by the second, sometimes leaping up to take them by surprise, but my life had no surprises. My life was like the river, dependable and dull. Until it wasn’t. And then I wished it was.

  There was once a girl with a very big problem. Well, two very big problems, only one of which was her inability to spin straw into gold.

  Allow me to begin at the beginning, for I know this story far better than I would like to. It is the story of a poor miller’s daughter who found love—or something like it—with a handsome student who was not what he seemed, and she was never the same again.

  No, indeed, she was forever altered. I know it is so for that girl was me.

  Is me, for I am still alive and I am still on the horns of a dilemma, which is appropriate because my name, Cornelia, means “horn.”

  I met him at the marketplace. It was a fine April day.

  I generally took my time at shopping. I lived alone with my father. Mama was dead, and my older sisters and brother had long since married and moved out. I was seventeen, not yet a wife, so it was I who bore the brunt of all the housekeeping and chores, the cooking and baking, which I quite enjoyed, and the cleaning and laundry, which I did not. Monday, I washed the clothes. Tuesday, I baked bread and cookies and churned butter. Wednesday, I swept the house from top to bottom (or, rather, bottom to top, for I did not want to track dirt back in). But Thursday—oh, Thursday—I got to go to the marketplace. I went every Thursday unless it poured. It was one of the few opportunities for something approaching fun. So I dawdled, watching the children at the maypole in the entrance, smelling the aroma of strudel and the odor of fish, gazing at the flowers, trying on the lavish fabrics in the fabric seller’s stall (it was on Fridays that I sewed), and imagining I had someplace to wear the peacock-blue satin that brought out my eyes or the royal purple velvet, imagining also that I might go to a grand ball at the palace, which I often walked
past, just to look, or even a dance at church. But my favorite stall was the bookseller’s, for though my late mother had taught me to read, my father viewed books as frivolous. We had few at home, and those we did have, I hid in the cupboards or under pillows to read after I finished my chores. At that stall the stories curled around me as surely as the satins and velvets, and I always stayed until the bookseller chased me off.

  The bookseller was a strange lady, seeming at once young and old, dressed in costumes of black lace, periwinkle tulle, or once, green leather, like a fairy princess, a witch, and a dragon, all rolled into one. Sometimes, she allowed me to dawdle among the tables for an hour or more, reading the mythology of Greece, the plays of England, the history of the entire world, or the fairy tales of my own country. Other days, she asked me if I had any money and chased me away when I admitted I had none.

  On the day I met Karl, she was nowhere to be found, and there were few customers. I was reading a book about European history, taking particular interest in the fall of the French monarchy, which had happened some twenty years earlier, when I felt eyes staring at me.

  I looked up.

  “Is that an interesting book?” someone asked.

  It took me a moment to see the man. Even though I looked toward him, he was rather short, no taller than I was, so initially, I looked above his head. But finally, my eyes met another pair, close set and gray as cobblestones. I started, then recognized the bookseller’s employee, a young man my own age, but, like the bookseller, with a countenance which seemed beyond his years. I had seen him before. I always smiled at him when I came in, and he hovered nearby, likely in an attempt to intimidate me so I would not tarry too long over the books (it worked!), but we had never before spoken.

  I said, “I will put it away. I know I have stayed too long.”

  “No.” He shook his head, his brow furrowed. He carried a broom and swept a bit of imaginary dirt out of the way. “I didn’t mean that at all. I like to see you . . . I mean . . . I like to see people enjoy the books. I mean, so few young ladies read. I mean . . . I do not know what I mean.” He stopped, flustered.

  “It would be better if I could buy them but, alas, I have no money. I have been saving my pennies each week, but I haven’t enough yet.” I would not have enough for a year. “The bookseller is inclined to chase me off.”

  “Not today. She went off to run errands.” He grinned. “She will not be back for half an hour, at least. I will not chase you off.”

  It was too much to hope for. I hugged the book to my chest, then held it out, lest I harm its spine. “You are so lucky to work here.” I wished I was a boy and could have a job at the market.

  He seemed surprised but then nodded. “Why, yes. I’m not used to thinking of myself as lucky, but I suppose I am. I have read most of these books.” He flung his arm out, encompassing the little stall, and seemed very proud. “And hundreds more.”

  I nodded, wanting to get back to my own reading. “Lucky.”

  “Sometimes, when it rains and there are few customers, I read all day. Kendra—that’s the proprietress—says it is good to be familiar with the merchandise. I mean to read them all, and I hope to have a stall of my own someday.” He walked closer, adjusting his glasses, which had slipped to the tip of his nose. “Which book will you buy, when you have enough money?”

  I nodded toward the one in my hand. “This one.”

  “Why do you like that book so much?”

  “Because nothing ever happens in my life. It is the same, week after week. So I like to read about more interesting people.” I inhaled the scent of the book. It smelled of other places.

  He glanced at the title. “People like Marie Antoinette?” His teeth were a bit crooked. He pretend-swept again.

  “Why, yes. Her life was so much more glamorous than mine.”

  “It didn’t turn out so well.”

  I shrugged. “And that makes me feel better about my own life.”

  “Ah, schadenfreude! The best reason for reading!”

  I laughed. “I like happy stories too. There just aren’t very many in history.”

  He had a funny face, with a nose that turned first up, then down, and cheekbones that were high and sharp. “Well, you know what they say—history is written by the winners.”

  “That is why we have fairy tales as well.”

  He glanced over to the fairy-tale books across the way. “Which do you like better?”

  “Histories,” I admitted. “I like sad stories.”

  He squinted his eyes, as if trying to think of a way to extend the conversation. Now I rather hoped he would. No one was ever interested in what I had to say. But suddenly he looked down, finding an actual bit of dirt on the ground. “I should leave you to your reading. Will you . . . be here a while?”

  I glanced outside. The sun was low in the sky, and I knew I needed to do my shopping. I wanted to stay, though, and regretted the time I had spent at the milliner’s. I could not afford a new bonnet or a book, but at least I could read the book at the stall. “I have to go too. But I’ll be back next week.”

  He smiled, and though his bottom teeth were crooked, it was a kind smile. “I will look forward to it. Perhaps . . .” He stopped, sweeping.

  “What?”

  “Perhaps you will let me talk to you again?”

  “Perhaps I will.” I handed him the book.

  I left the store, grinning, then rushed through the market. I visited the butcher’s and the fishmonger’s stalls in rapid succession and was halfway through the greengrocer’s when I heard a voice above my head.

  “Excuse me, miss? Can you help me?”

  At first, I did not realize he spoke to me. No one ever did, other than to tell me to move on. The conversation with the bookseller’s assistant was the longest I had had in a year with anyone who wasn’t Father. Even Father didn’t talk much.

  Only when the voice repeated itself did I look up.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t realize you were speaking to me.”

  “No, it is I who am sorry. Perhaps I was rude to interrupt you.”

  “Oh, no.” I looked up.

  Up was where I had to look to see this young man. He was very tall, and when I beheld his face, I almost had to suppress a gasp, for he was beautiful, the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He reminded me of nothing more than the sun, for his face, his smile, his eyes of blue, all framed by curls the color of chestnuts, warmed me, warmed my face, my body, my heart.

  “Oh . . . no . . . ,” I stammered again, unable to form any longer words. Did I know any words?

  He looked away. “I know it is wrong to address a young lady without a proper introduction, but I cannot ask the greengrocer for any more help. I have asked him twenty times already, but I need aid in selecting these pears.”

  He pointed to a bin of pears. They were in season, large and golden green with barely a hint of red.

  “Pears . . . you . . . my help?” I would have helped him with horse dung, had he asked, but it was strange that he asked for my help with pears.

  “I am here shopping on my own,” he explained, “and I do not know much about selecting fruit. These pears, for example. How do I choose some that will not turn to mush in a day?” As I looked closer, I realized he was not a man at all, or barely. He might have been my own age.

  “It depends,” I said when I could next breathe. I wished I had worn a newer dress. “Are you going to eat them right away, or is your wife making a pie?”

  He smiled a bit ruefully. “Alas, there is no wife. It is only me, a poor student, buying them to eat in my lonely room.”

  I looked around, adjusting my blond curls as I did. The greengrocer did not appear busy, truth be told. In fact, he was examining the young man almost as closely as I was, very likely staring at his cloak, which was fine looking, for a poor student’s cloak. In fact, I shivered as it brushed against me.

  “Of course I can help you. I was just . . .” wondering if you had a wife. “He
re.”

  I reached into the bin and seized one golden pear. “This one, for example, has a good color, but it has been picked too early.” Never an authority on fruit, I waxed rhapsodic on the subject, trying to impress the handsome stranger.

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s hard like a rock. Poke it.”

  He reached out to touch it and, as he did, his hand brushed mine. His was soft, so soft, as if it had done not a bit of work. I folded my own fingers inward, that he would not notice the calluses from my Tuesday churnings. How could a man’s hand be so soft?

  “Do you feel how it has no give at all?” I asked him.

  He nodded in earnest, as if he found the subject fascinating. “I do.”

  I groped around in the remaining pears until I found one perfect, red-gold one. “Now try this one.”

  He did and, again, his hand brushed mine. This time, I was ready for him, with the pear held in my softer left hand.

  “Feel how it has just a bit of give?” I asked.

  “Yes.” His eyes met mine as he touched it. “Lovely.”

  I gazed at him. “Perfect.” He had such long lashes I almost gasped.

  The greengrocer came upon us. “Can I help you? Miss?” His eyes held a question, for I never talked to anyone.

  “Oh no, I am fine. I was just helping this gentleman.”

  I placed the pear inside the basket he carried and looked at him. “Do you want more?”

  “As many as you care to find me.”

  I could have stood there all day, but I did not believe he wanted a bushel, so I helped him—slowly—to select five more. “I always choose one that is fully ripe,” I told him. “That is for the walk home.”