Hero

“Why?” Judging by the number of mirrors, such a project would have taken him longer than honing the edges of all the swords in the armory.

“While some features of this body are still my own, I have never enjoyed seeing someone else in my reflection.”

And yet, he had brought her here, willing to face a face he despised to aid her in her quest of knowledge. “What did you look like before?”

“I can’t remember.” Peregrine waved the question away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Saturday considered how difficult it must be to forget your own face, especially after your father had forgotten his whole life.

“I knew these had to be more than just mirrors. I believe they were Leila’s windows to a world in which she could not be and, ultimately, what drove her to escape.”

“So these mirrors are magic but you can’t make them work?” Saturday asked.

“Afraid not,” said Peregrine. “I’ve rhymed and rhymed until I thought my brain would leak out my ears.”

“Mine did,” said Betwixt. “They were grueling exercises.”

“What about you?” Saturday asked the chimera. “Did you try as well?”

“Such divination is beyond even my abilities,” said Betwixt, “hampered as they are by the witch’s geis.”

Their comments only reinforced the fact that Saturday had performed magic back in the crystal cavern, all on her own. A thrill warmed her from head to toe. This is what she had wanted for her life, the ability to manipulate magic, important magic, magic that she could take on her adventures and use to make the world a better place. She wanted to be a legend, like the brother she’d been mistaken for, and legends needed more weapons in their arsenal than a sword and a decent work ethic. She only wished her family were here to witness her triumph before she died saving them all.

Saturday stood before one of the larger mirrors, its thick wood and gemstone frame tall enough to reflect her whole body. This was it. She couldn’t wait. She knew exactly what she wanted—needed—to see. “Is a rhyme all I need to make this work?”

“I’m not sure which mirrors will respond to you,” said Betwixt, “if any.”

“It might be best for you to address the whole room,” offered Peregrine. “Just in case.”

Saturday took a step back from the large mirror, still facing it, but making sure her field of vision contained as many mirrors as possible. “I can do this,” she said, as much to herself as to the others. She swallowed a yawn, not wanting her companions to realize how exhausted she still was, but she could not disguise her shiver. Peregrine’s image stepped into the mirror behind her and gently placed a threadbare blanket around her shoulders.

The thin bit of fabric reminded her of the blankets on her bed at home. Typically Saturday was entirely self-sufficient; only Papa and Peter had ever braved her stubbor

Saturday let her eyes linger on the lines of his dusky olive face, the softness of his countenance reflecting his sympathetic nature. He was soft where she was hard. Saturday was sure that no matter what face Peregrine wore, she’d always be able to see that tenderness within him, a quality that she lacked.

Strange though its origins might be, Peregrine’s affection for her was a beautiful thing, and she hoped she was worthy of it. Here, at the end of her adventure, she might as well let herself be loved. Like the heroes of legend. Like her brother Jack.

She just wasn’t sure she knew how to love back.

“Thank you,” Saturday said, and meant it.

“Tell me what you see,” Peregrine said to her inside the mirror.

She hadn’t rhymed a word to start the spell yet; the only things framed in the looking glass were the two of them. Together. They were of a height, though Saturday’s body had experienced rougher work and better meals. He was dark where she was fair. She had stamina; he had grace. He was a flower and she was a tree.

“I see a boy in a girl’s body and a girl in a boy’s.”

Peregrine smiled at her, making his face even gentler. “Which is which?”

Saturday laughed at that. It was a comment Peter would have made.

“You’re beautiful,” said Peregrine.

That, however, was not something Peter would have said. Saturday screwed her face up into a scowl at the compliment in an attempt to mar whatever feature happened to be catching his overly romantic eye.

“And you’re an idiot,” he added.

“The two do tend to go hand in hand,” Saturday pointed out.

“No, they don’t. Being beautiful doesn’t make you an idiot, Saturday. Being stupid does.” She felt the pressure lift as Peregrine pulled the brush he’d given her from her belt. “As a clean Woodcutter once said: You are a complete fool, and I have half a mind to throw this brush at you.”

She wrenched the brush from his grasp and replaced it in her belt. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

Why did they have to talk about this? People’s outward appearance was Saturday’s least favorite subject. “Yes. I know. I can be pretty enough. I’ve been forced to dress up for a ball before, but only because my mother made me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He turned her face back toward the mirror. “You ca

“Pshaw,” sputtered Saturday. “Beauty is not a weapon.”

Peregrine squinted at her. “Come now, Woodcutter. I thought you cleverer than that.”

Beauty as power. Was he serious? But she considered Monday’s ability to capture a room with a glance and release it with a wave. Saturday could not deny there was power in that. “Fine. You’re right,” she agreed. “But I’m not—”

“Saturday, I love you. You will always be beautiful to me.”

Betwixt made mewling kitten noises.

It was difficult for Saturday to stay serious. “I’m the only woman you’ve seen in a very long time.”

“You’re the only human I’ve seen in a very long time,” Peregrine corrected.

Betwixt’s voice echoed from the far side of the cave. “The gods work in mysterious ways.”

“Those ways aren’t so mysterious if you’re paying attention,” Peregrine shot back.

“Paying attention is not one of my virtues,” said Saturday. Despite that, she was very aware of how close Peregrine still stood; she could feel the heat of him through her damp clothes.

“Everything happens for a reason,” said Betwixt.

“That’s what Mama always says,” Saturday muttered.

“Then it must be true,” said Peregrine.

“You have no idea.” She could almost see the outline of Mama’s face swimming in the silver glass scolding her back to the task at hand. Peter’s, too, as if he’d come to inspire the rhymes needed to ignite her spell. Saturday’s fingers itched to perform this magic, on purpose, and on her own.

But if any of these mirrors were going to work, there was one face she needed to see above all others. For better or worse, she would know here and now the fate to which she had doomed her little brother.

Mirror, Mirror, Monday’s rhyme had begun, and so Saturday’s would as well. She stared into the one still framing her and Peregrine, but she raised her voice to address the whole room.

“Mirror, Mirror, stones and sticks,

Show my little brother’s tricks.”

Saturday hoped that the looking glasses—if any of them chose to wake from hibernation—forgave her vague request in light of the clever play she’d made on Trix’s name in the couplet. And then she realized she was personifying an inanimate object.