Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington was exceptionally good at hiding. Being six meant she was the perfect size to squeeze into all sorts of places, especially when her sisters wanted to play dress-up with her. Again.
"Penelope!" Prudence's voice bounced off the walls of their big old house. "We found ribbons!"
"Penny-Penny-Penny!" That was Philippa, who never said anything just once if she could say it three times.
"She's probably in the library again," Felicity suggested, always the practical one.
"No, silly, that's where we found her last time," came Marina's voice, Penelope's partner-in-crime turned temporary traitor. Usually, Marina was on her side—they were the same age after all—but sometimes her cousin got caught up in the big girls' schemes.
Penelope hugged Mr. Trunks, her stuffed elephant closer and watched the dust fairies dance in the sunlight as she hid behind the sofa. The fixing-up people had gone home, leaving their tools scattered everywhere like Daddy's papers in his study. The house was full of perfect hiding spots now—behind sheets and ladders and big paint cans that said "DO NOT TOUCH" in red letters she was just learning to read.
She waited until the voices faded toward the library before darting up the stairs, her red curls bouncing with each step, and her favorite yellow dress with the pockets (pockets were the best invention ever, according to Penelope) swishing around her knees. One, two, three flights up she went, past the floor where they slept, past the dusty guest rooms, all the way to the mysterious third floor Mummy said wasn't for playing.
Which, of course, made it the perfect place for adventures.
Some of the doors up here were locked, others stuck shut with age, but today—today something was different. At the very end of the hall, where the ceiling sloped down like a sleepy dragon's tail, she found a door she'd never seen before. It was made of dark wood with magical creatures carved all over, and swirly vines and what looked like tiny dancing fairies if you squinted just right.
Inside was a round room that felt like stepping into one of her storybooks. A window seat wore faded purple velvet like an old royal throne, and the wallpaper, peeling in places, showed hints of painted stars and moons underneath. But what made Penelope's mouth form a perfect O of wonder was the mirror.
It stood taller than Daddy, its wooden frame absolutely covered in dragons that might (probably) (definitely) be having a very important dragon tea party. They curved and twisted all around the edges like they were playing follow-the-leader, each one carved with special care - some with wings spread wide, others curled up like sleepy cats after too much milk. At the very top, two big dragons faced each other with their snouts almost touching, making a heart shape that made Penelope think of the way Mama and Daddy used to look at each other during breakfast.
The glass itself didn't behave properly at all - instead of staying still like proper mirrors should, it rippled and danced like the garden pond did after Penelope threw in her very best wishing-stones, the ones that sparkled just right in the sunlight.
Then something moved in the mirror, and it wasn't her reflection. It was a boy, about ten years old, practicing with a wooden sword just like Prudence did, though his moves were much wobblier. He was so focused on his sword that he didn't see her at all.
"Hello!" Penelope called out cheerfully.
"Good heavens!" The boy startled so badly he lost his footing, pinwheeled his arms like a windmill, and landed with a very loud "Oof!" right on his bottom.
Penelope couldn't help it—she giggled. The boy scrambled to his feet, his face turning pink as he straightened his funny-looking clothes. They reminded her of the costumes in her picture books, with a jacket that had too many buttons and shorts that looked like they belonged in her school play.
"Are you okay?" Penelope asked, trying not to giggle again as the boy rubbed his bottom. "My sister Prudence says you're supposed to keep your feet steady when you have a sword. She knows 'cause she takes lessons in our ballroom. She's ever so proper about it."
The boy's face was still pink as he leaned closer to the mirror as if expecting a sword wielding princess to be hiding around the corner. "You have a ballroom? With fencing lessons?" He looked scandalized and fascinated all at once. "And... girls are allowed to fence?"
"Course they are, silly!" Penelope twirled in place, her yellow dress floating around her. That caught his attention even more than talk of girls fencing.
The boy stepped closer to the mirror, his eyes wide. "Your dress is... different." He tilted his head. "And very yellow."
"Yellow’'s the best color. And it has pockets!" She demonstrated by putting her hands in them and spinning around again. The treasures inside made satisfying clink-clunk sounds—pretty rocks and half a biscuit from tea. "See?"
He seemed fascinated by her whole existence. "Where did you come from?"
"Through the door," Penelope said, pointing behind her. "Where did you come from?"
"Through my door, of course." He picked up his wooden sword, trying to look dignified despite his pink cheeks. "I'm Colin, and this is my practice room."
"No it's not, it's my hiding room. I just found it." Penelope pressed her hand against the mirror. Instead of being cold like the mirrors downstairs, it felt warm, like when she pressed her hands against the windows on a sunny day. "I'm Penelope. Everyone calls me Penny except when I'm in trouble, then they use all my names at once." Her nose wrinkled. "Except Prudence. She calls me 'itty-bitty Penny' and says I mustn't touch her sword 'cause babies might hurt themselves." She crossed her arms, frowning. "I'm not a baby. I'm six!"
The thought of Prudence and her stupid rules made Penelope's lower lip wobble a bit. But then she had an idea, looking at Colin and his wooden sword. "Will you teach me? Since Prudence won't?"
Colin puffed up importantly, all traces of his earlier embarrassment forgotten. "Well, I suppose I could. I'm quite good, you know. Been learning for ages."
"How long is ages?"
"Three whole months!"
For the next little while (Penelope wasn't very good at telling time yet), Colin showed her how to stand like a proper fencer. She copied him with an imaginary sword, nearly falling over when she tried to do something called a "lungy thing."
"No, no—like this!" Colin demonstrated again. "And you have to say 'en garde' first."
"On guard!" Penelope shouted happily.
"No, en garde. It's fancy French talk."
"Why?"
"Because... because that's just how it is."
"Why?"
"Because... um... because grown-ups said so?"
Penelope nodded. That made sense. Grown-ups were always making up funny rules.
They practiced until Penelope heard footsteps thundering up the stairs. "Oh no! They found me!" Penelope whispered. "I have to go. Will you... will you be here tomorrow?"
Colin nodded earnestly. "I practice every day after lessons."
"Promise?" She pressed her palm against the mirror's surface.
He matched her gesture from his side, their hands separated by the strange, warm glass. "Cross my heart and hope to fly."
"That's not how it goes," Penelope giggled.
"Well, dying sounds rather permanent, doesn't it? Flying's much better."
The footsteps grew closer. Penelope cast one last look at the mirror, at Colin with his wooden sword and crooked grin, then slipped out of the room. She closed the door just as Prudence reached the top of the stairs, followed by a puffing Philippa.
"Were you talking to someone?" Prudence asked, looking around the empty hallway.
"Just practicing my fancy talk," Penelope said, which wasn't really a lie. She was getting quite good at fancy talk, after all.
That night, cuddled up with Mr. Trunks, her faithful stuffed elephant, Penelope thought about her new friend behind the mirror. About wooden swords and fancy talk and clothes with too many buttons. She thought maybe the dragons carved on the mirror were magical too—especially the littlest one that definitely (probably) (maybe) winked at her. Mr. Trunks seemed very interested in the dragons, his button eyes fixed on the mirror like he was waiting for them to dance or play games or maybe tell elephant jokes.
Magic was perfectly normal in stories, after all, so Penelope wasn't surprised at all to have a magic mirror with maybe-real dragons and a new friend who practiced sword fighting and said fancy French words. Besides, Mr. Trunks was an excellent judge of magic—he always knew which of her rocks had fairy wishes trapped inside them.
Just before she fell asleep, Penelope made a very important plan—tomorrow she would bring her special purple crayon and draw a picture of the mirror with its baby dragons and swirly vines. Then, when the fixing-up people came to the third floor, she would ask Daddy if the mirror could live in her room instead.
After all, every proper young lady needed a magic mirror.
The practice room wasn't magical at all without Penelope in it. Colin dragged his wooden sword across the floor, its tip making little scuff marks that Mother would probably scold him for later. The dust fairies that had danced so prettily in the sunbeams three days ago just looked like regular boring dust now, and the mirror was stubborn and ordinary, its carved dragons as still as stone, showing nothing but his own disappointed face and the row of wooden swords behind him that Father had commissioned for his birthday. Each one had been painted with dragons and knights by Benedict."Every hero needs a proper sword," Father had said with a wink, never mind that Anthony had rolled his eyes at such childishness.
"You're supposed to be magic," he told the mirror crossly, tapping the glass with one finger. "We had a deal."
All he heard in return was his stomach growling, reminding him of the meat pie Cook had wrapped in a napkin for him. But even her perfect crust couldn't make up for Anthony's words at breakfast.
"Honestly, Colin," his oldest brother had sighed, watching Colin's attempt at the new sword movement. "If you spent half as much time practicing as you do playing make-believe in that dusty old room..."
Benedict had tried to help, suggesting Colin join them for proper practice instead, but that was almost worse. Colin didn't want to be proper. He wanted to be a hero, like in the stories Father read to him at bedtime, where magic mirrors and enchanted swords were as normal as breakfast.
Colin hadn't bothered explaining that he wasn't playing make-believe, that there really was a girl in the mirror with red curls who thought his sword work was wonderful and his jokes were funny. They wouldn't believe him anyway. Anthony and Benedict were too grown-up now for proper magic, too busy with their real steel swords and fancy lessons.
But today, the mirror just showed his own reflection again, slightly warped by the old glass. Colin pressed his palm against it like before, hoping for that strange warmth, but it stayed cool and ordinary.
"Hello?" he whispered. "Penelope? Are you there?"
Nothing happened.
Colin slumped down beneath the mirror, pulling his knees to his chest. "Stupid," he muttered, setting his pie aside. "Probably imagined the whole thing. Anthony's right, I'm always making things up."
He sat there for a long time, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon light, listening to the distant sounds of his brothers' laughter in the garden below. Nobody cared that Colin had mastered a new parry, or that he'd finally remembered all his Latin conjugations last week.
His vision blurred, and he angrily wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He wasn't a baby. He was 10 years old. He wouldn't cry just because—
The mirror suddenly warmed against his back, like sunshine after rain.
"Colin?"
He scrambled to his feet so quickly he nearly tripped over his abandoned pie and there she was—but different, somehow. Her wild red curls were longer, tied back with a green ribbon that reminded him of the maze in the garden where he sometimes hid to read. This time, her yellow dress was scattered with tiny embroidered flowers that looked like they might have been stitched by fairies. Was that a new gap in her teeth?
But none of that mattered because she was real , she was here , and the magic hadn't abandoned him after all.
"You came back!" Penelope bounced on her toes, her whole face lighting up like Christmas morning. "Look, look—the mirror came with me! Daddy had it moved to my room because I told him it was special. Well, I didn't tell him about you ," she giggled, "that's our secret. But look!"
She twirled around, making her flowered dress float out like fairy wings, and Colin saw that her side of the mirror-world had transformed completely. Instead of the dusty room with its covered furniture and mysterious shadows, there were flowers painted on the walls that seemed to sway in an invisible breeze. Books were stacked everywhere like the turrets of a miniature castle, their spines glowing with promises of adventure. A dollhouse that looked exactly like something from Father's bedtime stories sat in one corner, its tiny windows glowing with what Colin was certain had to be real fairy light, and colorful rocks lined the windowsill like dragon's eggs waiting to hatch.
"Your room looks like magic," Colin breathed, pressing closer to the mirror. "Like something from Father's story books."
"Does your father tell good stories?" Penelope asked eagerly, settling cross-legged before the mirror. "My daddy does voices for all the characters in my books, even the dragons!"
Colin grinned. "Mine too! Last night he did all the voices for the Knight of the Ruby Sword—that's my favorite, about a magic sword that only works for heroes with pure hearts. Anthony says I'm too old for those stories now, but Father says you're never too old for magic.”
Penelope pressed closer to the mirror, her breath making little clouds on the glass like morning fog on a lake. "Is that why you have all those swords? Are you looking for a magic one?"
"Every sword can be magic if you believe in it enough," Colin said, reaching for his favorite—the one Benedict had painted with a golden dragon that curled all the way down to the hilt. "See? When the light hits it just right, the dragon looks like it's breathing real fire."
He demonstrated with a careful thrust, making sure to keep his feet steady just like his instructor said. The afternoon sun caught the paint perfectly, sending copper and gold sparkles dancing across the mirror's surface.
"Ooooh," Penelope breathed. "Do it again! It's like real dragon magic!"
Colin beamed, performing the move again with an extra flourish that would have made his instructor frown. But Father always said the best swordsmen had style as well as skill, and besides, Penelope's delighted giggles were worth any number of proper corrections.
"I'm going to be a hero one day," he confided, settling down cross-legged in front of the mirror to match her pose. "I'm going to rescue a princess. Anthony says I should focus on being a proper gentleman instead, but Father says being a gentleman is being a hero, just in a different way." He frowned slightly. "I don't quite understand what he means by that yet."
"Heroes help people," Penelope said with the absolute certainty of a six-year-old. "Like how you said you'd protect me from goblins last time."
"And ogres," Colin reminded her. "Don't forget the ogres."
"And my sisters when they're being mean!" She bounced a little. "Oh! Is that a pie? Did you catch a dragon and get it as a reward?"
Colin laughed, holding up Cook's slightly squashed meat pie. "Better than dragon treasure—it's Cook’s secret recipe. She says..." He puffed himself up, imitating the cook's warm voice, "'A growing hero needs proper feeding!'"
A bell rang somewhere in Colin’s world, making him jump. "Oh no, that's for tea! I have to go!"
Penelope pressed her palm flat against the mirror. "Will you come back? We can plan an adventure!"
Colin matched her gesture, feeling that now-familiar warmth between their almost-touching hands. "Promise. Father's taking Anthony to White's Club tomorrow morning, so I'll have ages to practice.”
"Cross your heart and hope to fly?"
"That's not how it goes," Colin laughed.
"Flying's better than dying," Penelope said matter-of-factly. "Bye-bye, my hero!"
She disappeared in a swirl of yellow skirts and red curls, leaving Colin alone with his half-eaten pie and the lingering warmth of magic in the air. He looked around the practice room thoughtfully. Mother might say yes to moving the mirror, if he asked very nicely. And if he promised to still practice his fencing every day.
After all, every proper magic mirror deserved a proper home. And maybe, just maybe, Colin deserved a friend who thought he was special just the way he was.