Page 53 of Disenchanted

The scrunchie fell to the floor.

Sage’s hands flew out to grip the sink.

Behind the foggy glass, the mirror’s reflection wavered, distinct and unmissable, the same as it had the morning after the book had come to her. Like water, the glass rippled in rivulets.

Sage leaned in and frantically cleared away the fog with her forearm. But the glass, rather than showing Sage’s own face against the pale blue tiles of her bathroom, had turned dark—almost entirely black, in fact, save for small circles of blurred gold that lit the image. They gave just enough light for Sage to recognize what she was looking at.

The mirrors had come as a pair. She and Casimir had bought them together, but she had decided only one was necessary to feature in the exhibition. With Sage’s outright refusal to use her magic to refresh or update the charm connection strung between the two mirrors, much to Casimir’s annoyance, there hadn’t been a lot of point in displaying them together, so Sage had taken the other one home to replace her old bathroom mirror. It was pretty. But as she squinted closer, nose almost pressed against the glass, Sage balked. The link was now very much working.

She gripped both of the gilded sides wildly. Rather than its own setting, her mirror was showing the reflection of the mirror placed within the exhibition—the one hung opposite Lilara’s cloak and beneath the spotlights which stayed on overnight at the museum. She could see the edge of the wooden cabinets, the shelves of other curiosities, the welcome plaque of gold writing. Sage squinted, eyes glazing over as she tried to be absolutely certain. But, yes, the faintly lit outline of the cloak’s hooded silhouette was indisputable, thrown over the faceless mannequin, casting it in shadow.

This must be part of the spell. The reflective connection between the two locations had never shown itself like this before, like a direct portal of sight. There had to be a reason for it. Sage snatched for her glasses, balanced on the side of the bath, hastily unfolded them and shoved them onto the bridge of her nose in order to observe as best she could.

She screamed.

There was a face beneath the hood of the cloak. It gazed back at her, wide-eyed, open-mouthed. Barely lit, the spotlights only caught the shape of the chin. The bridge of the nose, the weight of the brow, a soft but strong profile. The eyes looked dark and round on a face that was ghostly pale but full of fire, black hair hanging heavily and wildly, unkempt and dripping wet.

Sage felt as though her heart was seconds from bursting through her own chest. Fear welled solidly in her throat. Her hands flew to the mirror, pressed against the glass.

“Lilara?”

The edges of the mirror frame bit into her palms as she strained to see and understand, and Lilara Mournfell stared back from the darkness, holding Sage’s own gaze mercilessly.

“Sage? Sage? Are you quite well, madam?” Maggie’s voice came from the other side of the door.

Sage blinked, vision clearing, chest heaving.

As she steadied herself, tried to slow her breathing, rationality came creeping back. And she saw only herself, reflected back against the shape of Lilara’s cloak on the other end, making her appear as though inside it, wearing it. It was her that the mirrors had shown, her own reflection imposed in front of the cloak in a combination of the two mirrors.

“I’m fine…” Sage croaked to Maggie.

Was she really there, at the museum? Some form of astral projection enchantment doubling her form, draping the cloak around her shoulders as she stood beneath it? Or was it mere chance and luck, the incidental hanging that they had chosen for the mirror so perfect to position her reflection in such a way? A trick of the light when the image of the dark bathroom and the dark museum came together?

She couldn’t be certain, but the next chapter of the spell had finally unfolded, with such a jolt of surprise and blurring of reality that, for the first time since Lilara’s enchantment arrived, its presence truly scared her.

From years of study, Sage was familiar with the fact that nearly all fairy tales took a deeply sinister turn to deliver their message or moral. The purple bloom of Laurel’s bruises, the dripping blood from Casimir’s cheek, the hidden wounds of Robin’s hand—they were all that she could see. As the droplets of water still clinging to her skin turned icy cold and made her shiver, it dawned on Sage that she had reached such a turning point.

Finally, Sage knew what Lilara was attempting to show her. What she was trying to remind her of at the heart of the spell and could reinforce now that she was truly alone. No one was here to persuade her away from the truth, to distract her with the sparkle of a life and love not meant for her.

The heavy herbal scents, damp air and heat of the small bathroom sent her swaying. She was breathing in shallow gasps. Stepping back towards the sink to anchor herself against it, she looked into the mirror once more.

Her reflection fitted perfectly again to hang the cloak around her shoulders. This was her costume, her character. Lilara was keen to remind her that she had not been left out of the spell’s story at all. Sage would always be the witch.

And in the realm of fairy tales that they had found themselves living within, witches were frightening, clever, scheming and dangerous. Best left alone to their bitterness, trouble and wrath.

Witches in fairy stories were always, always wicked.

22

Burn the Witch

“Why are you awake?” Mal wandered into the bedroom and stretched out his booted front paws with a slope of his whole body. “This is the time when I’m supposed to walk across your head while you’re fast asleep, a helpful reminder to make sure you haven’t forgotten that it’s time for my first breakfast.”

He sat back on his hind legs and watched with intrigued, twitching whiskers as Sage spun around the room in a whirlwind. She hadn’t the slightest idea of the time. Somewhere near dawn? Hastily, she threw on the same outfit that she’d worn to the festival the other day and left tossed over the armchair. The shirt still smelled strongly of bonfire smoke, but she didn’t have time to figure out anything else.

She had a plan. The fact that she had not gone to bed at any point seemed entirely irrelevant.

“I’m going to the museum,” she told Mal as she gathered up the notes that cascaded over the bed, shuffling them into a rough pile, along with the handful of textbooks that she kept by her bedside.