Princesses were not pushed out of mirrors.
Queens might politely ask them to leave banquets when they shattered a vase by accident. Kings might request them to leave private war-room meetings. But Saoirse could not remember a time she had been forcefully removed from a room.
Though Saoirse knew she repeated it a dozen times, the words continued to tumble. It did not help that Faolan was wordless and broody. She did not enjoy silence, and so she filled it.
"It's just so rude!" she finally shrieked, hoping to draw her horse boy into some semblance of conversation.
As he saddled Apple, he looked at her. His dark hair was messy from the constant distressed hand running through it. His eyes were framed under brows still drawn in unhappy contemplation. Faolan had worn the expression ever since the mirror had sealed behind them.
"But why did she push us out?"
The answer did not arrive until over a week later. Without a way into Otherworld and with a horse boy devoid of laughter, Saoirse no longer found she wanted to ride to Fir Tulach. In those days back at the castle, nursing an uncomfortable belly of guilt, the princess kept herself busy by following her father through his duties.
High King Aed had not scolded her for the many days of disappearing acts—though he gave her a look of unveiled disappointment that set her on the defensive. Saoirse claimed her rides took her across the countryside. Her escorts were just too slow to keep up with her. It wasn't as if she meant to ride ahead. The day slipped away from her. On and on, she lied.
It helped, of course, that her escorts never found her at the mac Domnall cottage. They trudged after her, but Saoirse was inches and leagues away. Covered in shadows and dust, the mirror was perfectly inconspicuous in a corner of the musty stable.
Despite her blatant dishonesty, her father only smiled and asked that she spend more time learning how to serve her future kingdom. With the path to Otherworld out of reach, the princess obliged. Instead of the comfortable gowns she had taken to wearing, Saoirse tied herself into her finest clothes and adorned herself with manners.
Perhaps it was that she had taken a reprieve from court, but Saoirse found she missed it. She missed the gossip and the grumbling, the flirting and the fighting. She missed the intrigue and politics. And yet there was something new blooming within the world of her father's council meetings.
Where she once stared out of the open window, head filled with dreams, she now found herself listening intently to each advisor. Once the meetings ended, their dilemmas continued to sprout in her head like stubborn daisies. On that strange day in Siofra's cottage, Saoirse had meant what she said: rulers had a responsibility to their people. It was odd, it took saying the words out loud to make them real.
"Saoirse," the High King Aed called, voice heavy with exhaustion. The men scattered around the scrubbed-oak table had taken to arguing in raised voices. "How might you solve this issue?"
One of these advisors—a coarse-bearded Ua Scholaidhe man who bragged he'd take care of the problem by the edge of his sword—smothered a laugh into a cough when he realized the king asked earnestly for her opinion. Saoirse shot the brute a practiced courtly glower before responding.
"Fir Tethba?" She knew the clan had taken to warring within itself after the unexpected death of its heirless lord. The two sides of the family threatened to take up arms against the other, both claiming kinship laws of succession. Her father risked throwing Mide into war if he supported either side, but risked the deaths of two mighty families if he supported neither.
Saoirse had been chewing on the puzzle. Tucking an escaped curl behind her ear, she continued, "Both families have the same claim, and both will fight until there is no one left to stand. Is there a way we might unite the Ui Ronáin and mac Fearghail families through marriage?"
That same bearded braggart could not hide his laughter at her suggestion. He tried to catch eyes with the other clan council members and jeered, "Trust a woman to find a woman's solution!"
Macan Ua Scolaidhe looked up from note-taking, attention focused on the High King for the expected tongue lashing his mouthy cousin was sure to receive. Saoirse looked to her father, expecting his sharp response. He looked thin and shadowed in the weak light of morning, but Saoirse knew he'd stand against this odious barbarian. Instead of rallying to her defense, he nodded once. In wonder, she realized, he's letting me defend myself.
With a swallow, Saoirse pushed down the growing bubble of anxiousness fluttering in her throat. Just pretend you're Siofra, she ordered herself. Siofra snapping at foolish, fluttering pixies.
"Take care to remember that a woman's solution can include slaughtering legionnaires. But I am not Boudicca, and these are not Roman enemies. I thought our council looked to avoid the bloodshed of our brothers, woman's solution or not."
Their eyes belonged to her. Just as the High King commanded attention, Saoirse of Mide held the room. Her heart rattled in her chest. Her hands were frog's skin, cool and clammy. She wondered if her father felt this nervous each time he spoke.
"Drust Ui Ronáin might marry off a daughter," Macan said thoughtfully. "But not without good reason."
The words fell out of her mouth as she thought them. "Then we give him a reason. Appoint him as regent to his daughter's heir."
A contemplative murmur hissed like the wind through summer wheat. That wild thundering in her breast quieted to a softer melody. They're listening to me, she thought with incredulous laughter, burgeoning pride.
With her excitement hidden behind a mask of patience, Saoirse glanced at her father from the corner of her eye. His beard twitched, his icy eyes burned with affection. In a heartbeat, Saoirse knew that if she held a spindle, she could have pulled a perfect thread of sunlight.
A knock drew her from the dip into delighted daydreaming.
"A message for the princess," came the voice of her father's grim steward, Cynbel. "From Faolan mac Domnall."
Faolan.
The thought did not set her pulse racing as it usually did. Perhaps it's just the exhilaration of this meeting, Saoirse rationalized. I am too excited about my victory, is all. She smothered the intrusive thought that Drust Ui Ronáin's daughter might have a horse boy of her own.
"May I?" she asked.
Pride and thoughtfulness still crinkling his eyes, the high king nodded and waved her out. In the weak morning light, he looked tired. And old. Saoirse reminded herself to pull him away for a ride in the afternoon; it was unhealthy to spend too many hours subject to male bickering.
She followed the long-faced steward into the hallway, hugging her arms close in the drafty hallway.
With his usual brisk efficiency, the steward handed her a letter with her name scrawled across in a sloppy hand. Just as she opened it, Cynbel coughed and added, "And this, princess."
He pointed to a lumpy sack on the hallway table. His ruffled expression delighted Saoirse: the image of him gingerly delivering the dirt-streak bundle violated the rules of decorum he so gravely sought to keep.
"Ah, yes. Thank you, Cynbel. That will be all," she said, unable to keep her lips from twitching into a smile. Relieved, the steward turned on his heel, muttering about the awful informality of this generation of youths.
Saoirse turned to the package, curiosity glowing in her blue-gray eyes. With eager fingers, she pulled away the dirty fabric. Folded into a heap lay the completed weaving. At first glance, it appeared ordinary. The glimmering threads that had radiated light and heat from the loom dulled into a bright yellow shawl.
She traced the loose pattern of the weave, the complicated twists and the geometric gaps. Happiness needs room to breathe, Siofra had rasped. It's easy to smother if bound too tight.
Though it did not shine like the thread, the princess could not deny that an uncanny warmth seeped into her fingers. It begged to be worn and so, ever in the habit of politeness, Saoirse obliged.
As if the fabric had sat before the fire or spent an afternoon in the summer sun, the shawl pulsed with comfort and joy. It sent tendrils of warmth into her shoulders, the breath of laughter to her chest. It was warm bread and hot tea and Apple's breath and her father's pride twisted together.
Unable to stop smiling, Saoirse returned to the scribbled note.
Dear Saoirse,
Here is the first piece of breaking your curse. I miss your smile.
Faolan
In a rush of understanding, Saoirse realized, the mirror is open!
Filled with exhilaration, she ran toward the stables, hair escaping its pins to fly behind her like a wild bronze banner. Her shoes slapped against the stone as her laughter rang throughout the hall. The surprised chortling, giggling, and chuckling of servants joined in as she passed. A river of happiness followed in Saoirse's wake.
It followed to the stables, as she bridled Apple and forewent his saddle. It followed as she rode through the countryside, waving to lonesome travelers. It followed as she arrived at the mac Domnall's homestead, splattered in mud and grinning. The gray morning followed into a gloomy day, but she was draped in sunshine.
"Faolan?" she called, leading Apple into the dreary stable. The smell of damp and mildew tickled her nose.
Banner let loose a happy whinny of recognition but, besides the mice and fleas that slept in the hayloft, there was not another living creature in the place. Her smile flickered for an instant, but the warm breath of the sunshine shawl kept it from falling.
They're waiting for me in the cottage, Saoirse concluded. She settled Apple into a stall and patted his neck affectionately before turning toward the uncovered mirror. He must have only just left.
Doubtful, Saoirse examined it. She had never stepped through alone, nor had she ever thought to ask Faolan how it worked. Each visit to Otherworld started with Faolan taking her hand, with Faolan pulling her through. What if it didn't work?
"Don't be stupid. It will work," she growled to herself, drawing up her courage.
She raised her fingertips to the shining surface, the tips meeting their reflection before her hand slid through the glass. Eyes squeezed shut, she stepped into the mirror.
The bustle of the floating spinning wheels and looms greeted her. Another petal of pride grew in her chest: Saoirse could make the magic work too.
"Hello, friends. Thank you for–"
The cottage clicked and hummed with activity, but it was empty. The day was bright in Otherworld. Sunlight dripped through the open windows, enhancing the brightness of the draped fabrics and illuminating the floating dust into specks of gold. Yet its emptiness dimmed the world around her.
They didn't wait for me.
The stark contrast of the bursting happiness to sudden loneliness sent a rush of hot tears to her eyes. Saoirse furiously rubbed them away, swallowing the lump of isolation and hurt that sat in her chest like a stone.
They didn't wait for me, she thought. But I will wait for them.
And so she waited. Determined to make them guilty, the princess tidied up the cottage with proud determination. Her hands and knees were raw after scrubbing the floor. Saoirse even tried to force herself to embroider a scrap of fabric to pass the time. She busied herself until the sun gave way to a sapphire faerie night.
And yet, Faolan and Siofra did not return. The hours trickled away. There was no sheepish smile, no raspy apology. Hopeful breaths and heartbeats threatened to turn sour. Self-pitying tears risked becoming angry. Saoirse turned back to the mirror, searching to wrest back a strand of control. Waiting, at least, was quicker in Mide.
Even that choice left her feeling foolish. Despite the traces of the noontime sun slipping through the slats, the human world was chilly enough to conquer the uplifting touch of the shawl. Saoirse pulled it tighter around her, determined to hold the last dregs of joy.
The drafty stable let in a touch of late autumn that sent her shivering despite the magic garment. Her empty belly cramped and rumbled in discontent.
Perhaps I won't be able to wait, Saoirse sighed. She dragged her feet to bridle Apple and lingered a moment, staring at the mirror, before taking those steps toward home. Toward a warm supper and a warmer seat before her father's fire.
Apple kept a comfortable pace for their return journey as Saoirse was too distracted to lead him. Fiery self-righteous hurt had burned her down to thoughtfulness. A part of her hoped that Faolan would see his mistake and come chasing after her, and the other part prayed he would not realize he had hurt her at all.
So caught in her own musings, Saoirse did not notice the veil that had dropped over the castle. The afternoon sun had just burned through the gray gloom, but the bailey was silent. Somber stillness replaced the bustle that should have filled the halls.
"Princess?"
The voice of the Macan Ua Scolaidhe stirred her from introspection. Out of practiced politeness, she flashed him a tired smile.
But he did not return it.
And then the next words were a blur.
Apoplexy, the physician believes.
Very sudden.
Nothing could have been done.
Let's get her inside.
A hand at her elbow. A murmured condolence at her ear. Her maid helped her change into nightclothes. Someone stoked a fire. And then she was alone.
The realization spurred her toward her writing desk. She knew he would come if she sent for him.
Faolan would be perfect and comforting. He would listen. He would hold her. He would comfort her into peaceful numbness. Suddenly, Saoirse knew she did not want him there. She wanted to weep and rage and scream into the open sky.
All of her life had been overflowing with emotion, but now that she yearned for the catharsis of reckless abandon? It was nowhere to be found.
As the last weak fingers of light left the world, Saoirse wrapped herself in sunshine and wondered if she'd ever feel warm again.
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