Page 6 of A Taste of Silver
But I knew what I'd seen.
I turned from the manor and fled into the white embrace of the blizzard, silver petals still melting against my skin, leaving traces of light that the snow couldn't quite erase.
Behind me, across the snow-swept grounds, I felt its gaze. A weight that transcended glass and distance. It was watching. Waiting. Remembering for us both.
CHAPTER THREE
Chapter 3
Aurea
The memory hit like ice water through my veins.
Seven winters old, maybe eight. The shop windows gleamed under my cloth, each pass revealing more of the world beyond the glass. I pressed harder, making the pane sing. The afternoon sun caught the surface just right, and there, my own face stared back, clearer than any pond or polished pot had ever shown.
My braids hung crooked. I reached up to fix the left one, watching my reflection copy the movement perfectly. The other me moved when I moved, smiled when I smiled. I pressed my nose to the glass until my breath fogged it, then drew a spiral in the condensation. The reflection's finger traced the same pattern from the other side.
"Step away from there."
Melora's voice was a knife in the quiet shop. Fingers dug into my shoulder, yanking me back so hard the cleaning cloth slipped from my hand and hit the floor.
"I was just?—"
"I know what you were doing." Melora's face was pale as old parchment, her mouth a thin line. She pulled me behind her, blocking the window with her own body. "How many times have I told you not to linger at reflections?"
My lower lip trembled. "Everyone else looks at themselves. The baker's wife has a hand mirror. She showed me yesterday how pretty my eyes are."
"The baker's wife is a fool." Melora's hands shook as she pulled the curtains closed, plunging the shop into shadow. "And she has no business showing you anything."
"But why?" I reached for my braid again, twisting it around my finger. "What's wrong with seeing myself?"
Melora knelt, bringing herself to my eye level. The lines around her mouth deepened, and she smelled of bitter herbs and old smoke. "They remember what we choose to forget, child. Mirrors don't just show what is. They show what was. What might be. What should never be."
"I don't understand."
"Good." Melora stood, moving through the shop with purpose now. She threw old curtains and tablecloths over the few remaining exposed surfaces, the copper pot, the glass vials, even the water basin. "Understanding is the first step toward danger."
I followed, my bare feet silent on the worn wooden floor. "But I want to remember everything. Every story you tell me, every herb you teach me about, every?—"
"Then you're a fool." The words came out harsh, and Melora's shoulders tensed. She turned, and her expression softened just a fraction. "Some things are better left buried, little one. Some doors, once opened, swallow both key and keeper."
"Doors?" I looked around the shop. "But we're talking about mirrors."
Melora's laugh held no humor. "Same thing, in the end." She moved to her workbench, pulling items from drawers with trembling fingers. Silver thread. Soft grey wool. Needles that caught no light. "Mirrors are doors, child. And something waits on the other side. Something that calls to certain people. People who shouldn't answer."
"Am I one of those people?"
The question hung in the air like incense smoke. Melora's hands stilled over her work. When she finally spoke, her voice was thick. "Yes."
My chest tightened. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No, child. You were born. That's all. Sometimes that's enough." Melora's fingers flew, a blur of motion as she wove the silver thread through grey fabric. The needle dipped and rose, leaving a trail of light in its wake. "But I can help. I can keep you safe."
"From mirrors?"
"From yourself." The first glove took shape, small enough for a child's hand. "From the parts of you that don't belong in this world."
I watched the silver thread catch the dim light filtering through the curtains. It looked alive somehow, writhing even as Melora wove it tight. "Is there something wrong with me?"
