Violet blinked. Bindlepod stared at her. “Do you care if they think we stink?” he asked gently.

“I don’t care if you don’t care,” said the princess.

And they both laughed.

Princess Violet and Prince Bindlepod never did step into Fire Lake.

What they did do was build a home for themselves in a giant oak tree halfway between the gates of her father’s kingdom and the entrance to Nilbog. Part of the home was in the branches, and part beneath the roots. It smelled of sky and leaves, of stone and soil, and they loved it nearly as much as they loved each other.

Though they never went back to either kingdom, their home was always open to anyone who cared to visit, and who would take them as they were.

As the years passed, Violet and Bindlepod had seven children, who brought a great deal of jolliness to the home in the tree. They were an odd group: goggle-eyed, pale-skinned, and full of mischief. They adored the frog, who taught them to swim, and always called him uncle.

The frog adored the children, too, and often said to visitors, “They’re really sweet.” Then he would chuckle deep in his throat and add, “For a bunch of little stinkers.”

The Japanese Mirror

I WAS BLEEDING the first time I saw the Japanese mirror. I had been cleaning the side counter in Mr. Colella’s Curio Shoppe, and an unexpected piece of metal had sliced open my fingertip.

Crying out in rage, I threw my rag to the counter, stuck my bleeding finger into my mouth, and stamped my foot. I probably would have stamped again, except I noticed Mr. Colella giving me a warning stare.

I took a deep breath and tried to get my temper under control. I knew I might lose my job if I didn’t watch myself, and I didn’t want that to happen. Not only did I really need the money, I actually liked working with the strange junk the old man kept in his antique shop.

I took my finger from my mouth to look at the cut. It went straight across my fingertip. And it hurt like crazy. All those nerves so close to the surface, I guess.

Scanning the countertop, I found what had snagged me—the top of a screw Mr. Colella had used to make a repair and hadn’t wound deeply enough into the wood.

I was still hunting for a Band-Aid when Mr. Colella shouted, “Jonathan, come here. I need your help.”

Pressing thumb against fingertip to stem the bleeding, I went to the back room.

Mr. Colella was standing in front of a large wooden crate. “Open this,” he said, handing me a crowbar. “Gently.”

The mirror inside the crate—a Japanese mirror, according to Mr. Colella—was nearly eight feet tall. The glass was surrounded by a wooden frame carved with interlocking designs and finished in black lacquer. I couldn’t help but imagine strange messages hidden among those whorling symbols. Though the silvering behind the glass had worn thin in two or three places, for the most part the reflection it gave was clean and pure.