Fey Publishing. - Happily never after: an anthology from Fey Publishing

by Christina Elaine Collins

Milla hasnt let me go outside all morning. All this preparation for the visitors.

She turns on the faucet, and the water comes spurting out: cold. I shiver. The thought of visitors irritates me, though Im told I should be excited this time. The daughter of the Russian diplomat is my age. My mother mentioned this fact as if it would make a difference, as if it would make the formalities less boring. Maybe it will. Maybe it wont. It all depends on what the diplomats daughter is like.

I wonder if shell want to go outside.

Milla wets the sponge and scrubs my arms. Now turn a bit, so I can get your back.

I twist, and the drain holes chafe my skin, pressing a hundred tiny circles into my buttocks and the backs of my legs. Ouch, I groan.

Careful. Milla winces.

Would it kill anyone to make tubs more comfortable?

Yes, actually. She smirks, lifts my hair, and scrubs my shoulders and neck.

What?

Tubs werent always like this, you know. They used to have just one small drain at the front, and a plug.

Why?

So water could collect.

I laugh. I like when she tells jokes about the old days.

Its true. She keeps scrubbing, her face serious. Course, if anyone tried to build one of the old tubs now, theydyou know She pauses to slide a finger across her throat.

She lifts my arms and washes underneath. It tickles and I squeal, pulling away. Milla smirks again and adjusts the faucet; the water warms up. She leans in to scrub behind my ears, her face close to mine. Her eyes close to mine. I catch a glimpse of something in them, a tiny face, one in each, barely there, barely detectable. I blink and look away. I wonder if Milla noticed. Moments like these happen now and then. Everyone knows it, and no one mentions it.

Milla rinses my hair and pulls me to my feet, drying me with a towel. She dresses me, braids my hair, and escorts me down the hall, to where my mother and the visitors wait in the parlor.

My mother turns. Ah, here she isfashionably late. This is my daughter Elayne.

A man with a sour expressionthe Russian diplomat, I assumerises and bows. A pleasure. And this is my daughter Dasha. Shes come for the trip. Has never left Russia, so I thought it was time. His English is clean; Im surprised. Past diplomats have needed translators.

The girl beside him, also wearing a sour expression, curtsies. I curtsy back.

Elayne will be your host this week. My mother smiles at Dasha, who doesnt smile back. She turns to me. Can you keep her company until dinner? We have matters to discuss.

I nodnot that I have a choice. My mother and the diplomat leave, talking rapidly about something to do with peace treaties, and Dasha and I stare at each other.

Want to go outside? I say.

In this weather? Id rather not.

Oh. Is it raining? I forgot she just came from outside. From inside, of course, there is no way of knowing if its clear or gray, night or day.

No. Too sunny. Bad for my complexion. But we can sit by a window if you want.

Window. I frown. Ive heard that word before.

It was Milla who said it. During one of her bath stories. There used to be a thing called windows, she told me. Clear things that let you see outdoors while you are indoors. But they have long been bannedat least in this country. They must be legal in Russia.

Before I can tell Dasha we dont have windows, she pats her hair. Can I use your mirror?

What?

Can I use your mirror? I need to fix my hair.

I stare at her.

She frowns. Isnt that the right word in English? Mirror? Looking glass? Zerkalo ?

Is she mocking me? Or does she really not know? She couldnt have made it all the way to the capital without knowing, surely. I dont have one, I say.

No mirror? A pretty girl like you?

Pretty? Whats that?

She laughs. Well, arent you the modest one.

I consider asking for clarification, but decide its not worth it. Probably some Russian lingo that doesnt translate.

Can I use someone elses mirror then?

No one else has one.

She frowns again. No one in the whole palace?

No one in the whole country. At least, no ones supposed to.

She snorts. Sure.

Whats funny?

She stares at me. Her smile fades.

So she really doesnt know.

This isnt the first time this has happened. My mother has had other foreigners visit and forgotten to explain the law. Many countries know about it by now, but there are always the occasional visitors who dont. The ones who didnt pay attention when they crossed the border. The ones who didnt realize that the border patrols were looking for more than weapons when they searched their luggage. The ones who didnt connect the dots, when the guards asked if they had any glass. Metals. Water. Pots. Buckets.

No mirrors, I say quickly. I feel a surge of guilt for using the word. I guess no one told you. All specular surfaces are banned. So is anything that collects water. And portrait painting.

She blinks at me, then shakes her head. Sure. Fine. She sighs, as if Im a child telling lies and arguing with a child is not worth her time. How do I look, then? Hows my hair?

Sssshh! I look over my shoulder. Were the only people in the room, but you can never know whos listening through walls.

Whats wrong?

Thats treason.

She stares at me again.

Showing any interest in your appearance is punishable by death, I say.

Are you joking?

No.

But why? I dont understand. Why cant people see their reflections?

I shrug. Its been like that since before I was born.

You mean you dont know why its been like that?

I sniff. Of course I know why.

But when I try to think of the specific reasons, I draw a blank. No one has ever asked me before. And perhaps no one has ever told me before. Its bad for you, I say at last. I know that, at least.

Why?

Does she know any other word? It just is.

She runs a hand through her hair. Are you saying I wont be able to see myself at all while Im here?

Yes. I suppose thats what Im saying.

She stands up. But Im here for a week.

I shrug. Ive done it for fourteen years. Nearly fifteen.

Her eyes widen. I try not to look into them. You mean youve neverseen yourself?

No. I dont count the tiny shape Ive glimpsed in Millas pupils.

But dont you ever wonder

I flash her a look of warning.

Havent you ever been curious?

I stand up. I could report you.

She holds up her hands. Fine. Im sorry. It just doesnt seem fairIm not even a citizen. I shouldnt be subject to this. I do wish there was something I could look at, even a hand mirror

I watch her scramble around the parlor, peering at every surface. None of them will reflect, of course, but maybe she thinks our system isnt thorough. Her forehead shines. Is she sweating? As I watch her panic, Im glad Im not dependent on something the way she is, so dependent I cant go a day without it. My mother must have known what she was doing when she made that law.