The door opened. A silver-haired woman stepped in.
Her face was lined and grandmotherly, but somehow still hard. Her skin was stretched taunt over the sharp angles of her cheeks. As she entered the room fully, she did not smile.
Frankie remained standing, eyes widening as he looked her over and edged back. She wore a deep blue skirt and a loose, silver, long-sleeved shirt. It somehow looked medieval. Though she didn't appear to need it, the woman also carried a cane, undecorated and made of some light-colored wood. It bent as she flexed it against the floor.
Frankie shuddered. It all crashed into him -- the fear and clouding confusion at someone who knew more about Frankie's powers than he did. All he really knew was that he had them. Was this how others felt when Frank mirror-walked in front of them?
"I swear," Frank said, "I was always going to put those batteries back. I didn't want to steal them. I --"
"Shut. Up."
He did.
The woman walked a half-circle around him, eyes flicking over him. Face cold. Impassive.
"Do you know what you can do?" the woman asked.
"I . . . I can jump through mirror. Through reflections, I mean. This . . . it's something like that movie Jumper, isn't it? Like I've been misusing the stuff, and you're this secret society, sort of like police, that hunts us and wants to--"
"If I must silence you again, I will beat you within an inch of your life." She raised the cane-tip off the carpet. Frankie paled.
"Better," the woman said. She seemed to finally finish her inspection, then moved back to the center of the room, hands folded over the cane's straight handle. "You are, of course, a glasswalker."
Frankie shook his head and shrugged.
"Someone with fae blood who can use their old roads. It doesn't mean there's anything noble or magical about you. You've already proven that, as if we needed proof. Your sort always do. There's precious little of the old blood left, and nothing special about it anymore except the occasional manifestation of glasswalking, a penchant for sleepwalking, and some rare infant disappearances. It would be better for everyone if those bloodlines vanished entirely." She sighed. "Ah, well. Old promises to keep until that day comes, I suppose."
"Excuse me, but the fae, what does that . . . ."
Her arched eyebrow silenced him.
"You will be offered the same contract I give to all the others. Asylum for the span of one-hundred years. You will not age, will not decay, will never enter danger."
"Wow, really? That doesn't sound so bad."
"You will remain locked in this chamber of the barrow. You will never leave and will never touch or communicate with the outside world. You will have no visitors. All mirrors will remain closed to you."
"You're kidding."
She narrowed her eyes. "You may, of course, choose to reject the contract."
"What, you mean rather than stay locked in a room for -- what did you say -- one hundred years? That's ridiculous, lady!"
"Very well." She turned away. "You may go."
Frankie blinked. "What did you say?"
"I said you may go. I wish that the scavengers would have all of you, filthy degenerates that the bloodlines have become. Leave. The road is open."
Frankie looked at the black mirror on the wall. It looked the same, yet . . . something had changed. Shifted. It seemed more ordinary.
He took a step towards it, then glanced back. He'd heard a few stories like this as a kid. This was the part where the mentor stopped the hero with a last, parting comment. But when he looked at the room, the lady was already gone.
He stepped through the dark looking-glass.
 |
| Not quite how I imagine the chamber in this story. Should be more medieval, with cloth draped over the walls. |
The Truth
A continuation of yesterday's story. I think one, maybe two more parts. Thanks for reading! If you want a much better story about this sort of mythology, read the wonderful Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.
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