Page 2 of A Taste of Silver
"Would you prefer I call it something else?"
"Call it what it is, a haunting. A curse." His fingers found his temple, pressing against what must have been a persistent headache. "Three weeks ago, it started simply. Dreams that felt too real. Whispers at the edge of hearing."
"And now?"
"Now the voice grows louder each night." His emerald eyes locked onto mine, desperate and searching. "It knows things about me that no one should know. Private things. Secret things."
I pulled a leather journal from my satchel, along with a charcoal stick. "Describe the voice."
"Sometimes male, sometimes female. Sometimes..." He paused, swallowing hard. "Sometimes it sounds like my own thoughts, but wrong. Twisted."
I made notes in the shorthand Melora had taught me, symbols that meant nothing to anyone who might glance over my shoulder. "Physical manifestations?"
Valtier's hand moved unconsciously to his left forearm. "I wake with marks. Scratches."
"May I see?"
He hesitated, then rolled up his sleeve. Fresh scratches crossed older ones in a lattice pattern across his skin, some scabbed over, others still angry red. They formed no discernible pattern, but their depth suggested considerable force.
"Do you live alone here?"
"Servants, of course. But no family, if that's what you're asking."
The door opened. The servant girl entered carrying a tray that rattled despite her obvious effort to keep it steady. The silver tea service gleamed in the firelight—teapot, cups, sugar bowl, cream pitcher. Every surface polished to mirror brightness.
My breath caught.
The girl set the tray on the low table between our chairs and fled without being dismissed. Valtier poured with hands that shook only slightly, the liquid amber in the firelight.
"Sugar?"
"No. Thank you."
I accepted the delicate cup, keeping my eyes fixed on the liquid within. But the teapot remained in my peripheral vision, its curved surface reflecting the room in distorted miniature. I shifted in my chair, angling away, but caught a glimpse?—
Where my face should have been, the silver showed only empty space. A void in the shape of a woman.
My fingers tightened on the cup. Hot tea sloshed, nearly spilling. I set it down carefully on the side table, away from the reflective surfaces.
I kept my voice even, a disciplined calm that cost me a steadying breath. "Tell me about the covered mirrors."
Valtier's eyes sharpened. "You know the law."
"I know the law demands they be removed or destroyed. Covering them is?—"
"A compromise." He stood abruptly, pacing to the fireplace. "This estate has been in my family for seven generations. Those mirrors are heirlooms. Priceless. I won't destroy history because of superstition."
"The prohibition exists for a reason."
"Does it?" He spun to face me. "Do you truly believe that mirrors cause madness? That reflection itself is dangerous?"
I chose my words carefully. "I believe that what people fear has power over them."
"A diplomatic answer." His smile held no warmth. "But not an honest one."
I opened my satchel, pulling out vials and packets with practiced efficiency. "Valerian root for sleep. Moonbell extract for clarity of mind. White sage to burn before bed as the smoke helps settle restless thoughts."
"Thoughts." He laughed again, that hollow sound. "You think I imagine it."
