22

Donut Moon

“MIRROR, MIRROR, ON the wall,” Ollie intoned, “where-oh-where is the Cavern of Dreams?”

Aisatsana crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “I hate fairy tales.”

“Of course you do,” Anastasia muttered.

“Aisatsana, did you go to Zero Cavern?” Gus called from behind the chain-mail canopy. He was being careful not to let his reflection glide over the looking glass, just in case Sugna’s snakes were, indeed, venomous. “Because we did.”

Aisatsana yawned. “I know. I saw you there, remember?”

“Wasn’t it fun?” Ollie enthused.

“I wasn’t impressed,” Aisatsana said. “It’s just a dingy hole overrun with bugs and floating junk. I’ve already canceled my party.”

“She doesn’t like Zero Cavern because you do,” Ollie whispered to Anastasia.

“Well, whether you like it or not, I held up my end of the deal,” Anastasia informed her reflection. “So show us the door to the Cavern of Dreams. Please.”

“I’m not a servant,” Aisatsana snapped. “I’m not some maid you can order around.”

“I don’t order people around!” Anastasia retorted. A comment about bossy mirror-twins hovered at the tip of her tongue, but she clamped her mouth shut. She had to focus on finding the Moonsilk Canopy. Tracking down her father took priority over zinging her snooty reflection.

This, dear Reader, is called keeping your eyes on the prize.

Aisatsana plucked a necklace from the mirror image of Wiggy’s jewelry box and examined the gems. “I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe I shouldn’t tell you. I could get into big trouble.”

Anastasia’s jaw dropped, and Pippistrella let out a tiny squeak of rage.

“You could get into trouble?” Gus cried. “We had to sneak out of the opera, for Pete’s sake!”

“Our bones could have warped!” Ollie added.

Aisatsana buckled the necklace to her freckled throat. “Oh boohoo.”

“You promised, Aisatsana,” Anastasia said. “And remember, I’ll be watching you for the rest of my life, too. It would be very unwise for you to break your promise.”

Aisatsana trilled with silvery laughter and pinned a brooch to the lapel of her school uniform. “There isn’t anything you could do to me.”

“Really?” Anastasia challenged. “I can embarrass you in front of your mirror friends. I’ll make faces like this.” She flared her nostrils and puffed her cheeks.

“And,” Ollie piped up, “she could shave her head. Your head.”

“You wouldn’t like to go around bald, would you?” Gus asked.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aisatsana hissed.

“Sure I would,” Anastasia lied cheerfully. “It would show off our ears.”

“Fine!” Aisatsana unclasped the necklace and flung it onto the reflected vanity. “Not that you do much with our hair anyway.” She sidled three steps to the left. “The Cavern of Dreams is right through here.”

Glimmering, shimmering, glinting in the far depths of the reflection, a pointed silver door nested between crags of crystal.

Anastasia and Ollie whirled around.

“Where did it go?” Ollie exclaimed, darting to run his hands over the wall.

Anastasia turned back to the looking glass. “There isn’t a door here. Why is there a door in your room?”

Aisatsana rolled her eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a magical mirror. It reflects magical things—things that are usually hidden.” She huffed. “Didn’t you wonder why I’ve never spoken to you before? You can shout all you like into the mirror in your loo, but I won’t respond. I can’t. It’s just a piece of shiny glass—not a Glimmerglass, like this one. Now, keep looking at the door and walk backward. Shadowboy, get out of the way.”

Grumbling, Ollie stepped aside.

Anastasia slowly stepped back, eyes glued to the mirror. Her silver twin mimicked her movements, retreating from the surface of the Glimmerglass and treading into the depths of the reflected room.

“Okay,” Aisatsana called, “reach back and grab the knob.”

Anastasia stretched her arm toward the wall, gasping as her fingers closed around a smooth metal ball.

“Don’t turn around!” Aisatsana warned, also twisting her arm behind her back. “You’ll break the spell. Now open it.”

Anastasia turned the knob. The hinges sang, and backward she tumbled through the silver door and into, of all things, a wintry forest. Trees hemmed this pocket of magic, and the air smelt of pine and earth and snow and freshness, and the night sky vaulted up, up, up, all the way to the stars.

“Look at the moon!” Ollie breathed.

High in the black yonder, the moon floated like a huge, silvery, beautiful Berliner, which is a sort of holeless donut, and twinkly bits snowed down from it like magical powdered sugar.

“Did we—did we somehow get outside?” Anastasia staggered to her feet.

“It must be some kind of illusion,” Gus whispered, joining them. “There’s no way that door could lead abovecaves. The palace is miles underground.”

“That moon is real,” Ollie argued. “I can feel its sizzle!” He closed his eyes and tilted his face to sop up the moonlight.

“It can’t be real,” Gus countered. “It’s some kind of magic.” But his eyes were brimful of wonder and the sparkles of far-flung stars.

“Peee-eeeep!” Pippistrella squealed, whizzing to the moon-tinseled trees.

“Wait!” Anastasia yelled.

“This is probably her first time abovecaves!” Ollie said. “No wonder she feels like frolicking! I feel like frolicking, too!” He galloped off after Pippistrella, disappearing into the forest.

“Come on.” Anastasia grabbed Gus’s hand and tugged him into a run. “They’ll get lost.”

They chased Ollie’s whoops through the tree trunks. Laughter bubbled up Anastasia’s windpipe. Her lungs thrilled with fresh air, and the smell-molecules of a thousand Christmas trees tingled her nostrils like champagne fizz. Perhaps this place was magic, and perhaps magic was bad, but she felt just peachy.

Gus pulled her to a halt. “Listen.”

A giggle died behind her molars. “What? I don’t hear anything.”

His face was tense. “Exactly. Why did Ollie stop yelling?”

They pressed forward cautiously, easing between a cluster of pine trees and into a clearing.

Ollie stood frozen at the edge of the moonlit dell, staring at the phantasm in its center.

The moon hovered directly overhead, and its fall of twinkling moonbits cascaded down to curtain a vast carved bed piled with cushions and pillows and aglow like a silver candle. If Cavepearl Palace was a marvel, the Moonsilk Canopy was a miracle.

“It’s beautiful,” Ollie said.

“Look, there are words on the headboard: good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Anastasia’s voice snagged. “My dad always said that when he tucked me in.” Of course, Anastasia’s bunk in the shabby McCrumpet abode was humble indeed compared to Calixto’s magic-sugared masterpiece. Hope pitter-pattered her rib cage: would the Moonsilk Canopy really sprinkle her sleep with clues? And by those twinkling inklings, could she truly chart her course to the Silver Hammer; to Nicodemus; to her father?

Pine needles crinkled beneath their feet as they crept toward the apparition. Anastasia held her hand beneath the avalanche of moon-snow, wondering at the soft zinging breath of each individual flake kissing her palm. Anastasia, uttered a faraway voice. Anastasia.

She snatched her hand away. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Gus asked.

“Someone was calling my name.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Ollie said.

Anastasia, come to bed.

“There it is again!”

Gus frowned. “Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

“I heard something.”

The Dreadfuls dawdled at the edge of the Canopy. “Well,” Anastasia finally said, “I suppose I’ll try to take a nap.”

“I don’t think you should,” Ollie waffled. “I’ve read Goldilocks enough times to know you shouldn’t sleep in a bed that isn’t yours. Magic or not.” He glanced around. “Do you think there are bears in these woods?”

“Ollie.” Gus rolled his eyes.

“If Calixto Swift could cook up a cavern full of sky and moon and forest, don’t you think he could add a few bears to guard his precious bed?” Ollie demanded.

“Maybe,” Anastasia conceded.

“Don’t do it, Anastasia.” Ollie grabbed her elbow. “No matter how pretty it is, that bed is full of witch magic.”

“But it might give us a hint about the Silver Hammer.” The compass tucked in Anastasia’s memory twirled, its arrow pointing to the moon-soaked cradle. She shook off Ollie’s hand and climbed into the glowing eiderdown.

Anastasia, sang the far, faraway voice. Anastasia, it’s bedtime, dear.

She jerked. “Did you hear that? Someone keeps calling me!”

“Anastasia, it’s some kind of trick,” Ollie quavered. “I really don’t think you should—”

But her ears were already sinking back to the pillow.