The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen - Delia Sherman [68]
There weren’t any Haunted Mirrors, though.
The day had started back home in Central Park, getting into my troll maiden outfit with Astris fussing over the hang of my rope tail and Pepperkaka telling me exactly what she’d do to me if I messed up her embroidered apron and her red felt hat from Finland. If I hadn’t been thinking about how I was going to be facing Bloody Mary’s iron claws in a few hours, it might have made me nervous.
The celebration began at Assembly. Everybody wore their costumes to school, so instead of silent mortal kids in star-spangled gray sweaters, we were a colorful selection of goblins and demons and ghosts and bogeymen and ghouls from seven continents, all breaking the no-talking rule into bite-sized pieces.
After the School Song, the Schooljuffrouw—dressed as a wicked witch, complete with warts, pointy hat, and cackle—led us in a group scream. She didn’t read from the Big Book of Rules.
There were no lessons, but we all had to pitch in and decorate the school, following the plan the Art Tutor and the Magic Tech had been working on. As we hammered, pinned, draped, and painted, Miss Van Loon’s began to look less like a school for changelings and more like a playground for nightmares.
Lunch was even more chaotic than usual, as if the Wild Hunt had taken over Miss Van Loon’s. Demons screamed, goblins threw food, and bogles ran from table to table, begging for treats. In the middle of it all, my friends and I sat around a table disguised as a poisonous toadstool and admired one another’s costumes.
Espresso made a truly terrifying flower child in huge bellbottoms and beads and a vest with fringes down to her knees. Fortran, who’d changed his mind again, was a mad scientist in a white lab coat, heavy black glasses, and wild white wig like a dandelion clock. Mukuti was a rather shy rusalka in a flowing white dress, crocheted green hair, a wooden comb, and a totally un-Russian breastplate of protective charms. Stonewall had opted for the classic vampire look: pointy teeth, black tail-suit, and red-lined cape. He’d even dyed his hair black, which made him look weirdly normal.
We all agreed, though, that Danskin’s costume was the best. In direct defiance of Rules 305 (Students must not wear glamours or alter their appearance magically) and 306 (Students must not carry or use magic talismans without written permission from their Neighborhood Genius), he’d stolen a feather cloak from Lincoln Center and turned himself into an actual swan, with a long snaky neck and snowy feathers. Or most of one, anyway: his broken arm hadn’t transformed.
To my total astonishment, Airboy was sitting between Espresso and Mukuti, wearing the alte-zachin hendler’s fuzzy blue sweater, a blue wig, and big, ducklike feet. When Mukuti asked what he was, he shot me a hunted look.
“A Blue Meanie,” I improvised. “They don’t speak, you know.”
“Oh,” said Mukuti. “Right. Um, Neef? Do you know where we’re supposed to meet Tiffany?”
I shrugged and ate my bread and cheese. Today was a day for comfort food. I didn’t even want coffee.
“She’ll show when she shows,” Danskin said.
“With any luck,” Fortran muttered, “she won’t show at all.”
“She’s got the mirror,” I reminded him.
Espresso looked up from her tabouli and wheatberry salad. “Do you have an actual playlist for this gig, Neef?”
I shrugged. “I thought we’d play it by ear.”
“No way.” Stonewall was firm. “The Angry One is dangerous , people. We need a plan.”
An apple whizzed by my head and splatted against the wall. “We can’t talk here.