Free The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen by Delia Sherman

Queen,” the Voice went on, “says this: Return the mirror by the Winter Solstice or she will flood all the waters of the Park with salt.”
    Now would be the time, I knew, for the champion of Central Park (namely, me) to jump in and save the day. Except I couldn’t think of any way of saving it. The Diplomat’s lessons on negotiating treaties and making conversation flashed through my brain, offering not a single useful clue. If there was a lesson about preventing a disaster, we hadn’t got to it yet.
    “Winter Solstice, huh?” The Lady’s voice was thoughtful. “Okay. Here’s the deal. You tell Her Fishyness I’ll get back to her. I’m not making any promises here, but I’ll think about it. Now, get lost.”
    The Voice of the Mermaid Queen bowed and walked away.
    The Lady clapped her hands. “Dance time! Come on, you guys, whatcha waiting for? Solstice?”
    Nobody moved.
    “What a bunch of chumps! Look at you, scared of a stupid mortal that smells like three-day-old fish! Old Lady Fish Breath can’t make salt from seawater, let alone turn the Reservoir and all the lakes and ponds into brine. She’s talking through her hat.”
    A low murmur of doubt and rebellion swept through the Folk, rising into panic. I clung to my branch. Then a couple of nixies surged forward, weedy hair streaming in distress, and begged the Lady to save them. That did it. Naiads wept, water-horses whinnied, and vodyanoi croaked nervously. Above the hubbub, I heard a banshee shrieking that she’d never get her bloody linen clean if she had to wash it in salt water.
    “Shaddup!” the Lady screamed. “Am I or am I not the Genius of Central Park? Would I let anything bad happen to our water? Fuggedaboutdit!”
    Slowly, the tumult faded. The nixies and naiads backed off; the water-horses pawed the ground uncertainly. The Lady’s hair settled back on her shoulders. “That’s better,” she said. “Now. Let’s have a little music here!”
    The trees began to play, raggedly at first, then more enthusiastically. I wasn’t surprised when the Folk started to dance. Folk are Folk. They do what they do. When they see gold, they have to take it. When you make a wish, they have to grant it. When music plays, they have to dance until the dance is done.
    Not me. I’m mortal. I can’t dance all night without stopping. And I can’t dance if I don’t feel like it.
    I climbed down from the tree, careful not to get tangled in my skirt. Then I collapsed on the nearest rock, put my spinning head in my hands, and tried to think.
    I’d hardly started when the Pooka appeared in front of me in his man shape. His long black hair was braided in a thick tail between his shoulders, his eyebrows looked like they were about to fly off his forehead, and his narrow eyes shone a bright, wicked yellow.
    “You’re not dancing!” he cried. “Is it waiting for your old fairy godfather you are?”
    “Go away, Pooka. I don’t want to dance.”
    “Don’t want to dance? Are you stone mad? Why should you not want to dance, for all love?”
    “I’m not in the mood.”
    He quirked a flying eyebrow at me. “It’s the Mermaid Queen, isn’t it, with her puffing and blowing threats here, there, and everywhere. Never mind her, my heart. She’ll not be salting the waters tonight. There’s plenty of time before Midwinter.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But I still don’t feel like dancing.”
    He pulled me to my feet and toward the reel. I jerked away.
    “Stop it, Pooka. I’m worried, okay? The Water Folk are my friends. I don’t want them to get all salty and poisoned. Why doesn’t the Lady just give the Queen her mirror back? It’s not like she knows how to use it or anything.”
    “You’re right,” the Pooka said. “The Lady can no more make the mirror work for her than a brownie can fly to the moon.”
    “Then why not return it?”
    “She’s a Genius,” the Pooka said, “not a sheep. She may be led, but she won’t be driven.” He grinned.