Through a Dark Glass
Barb Hendee
Prologue
Late in my life, at a gathering of friends, I heard a story that caused me to sit down and tremble.
It meant nothing to the others who were listening, but it meant something to me. I simply couldn’t remember what.
The story went like this . . .
Long ago, a vain lord enslaved a young witch so that he might force her to use her powers to keep himself handsome and youthful. His most prized possession was an ornate three-paneled mirror via which he could see himself from several angles. He loved to gaze in its panels and admire his own beauty.
Seeking revenge on him, the young witch began secretly imbuing this mirror with power, planning to trap him in the reflection of the three panels where he would view different outcomes of his useless life over and over. He would see himself growing old and unwanted and alone.
Though the young witch had once been kind and generous, her thirst for vengeance began to twist her nature into something else.
Unknown to her, as she continued to cast power into the mirror, it came to gain a will and awareness of its own.
One night, the lord caught her as she worked her magic, and he realized she was attempting to enchant his beloved mirror. In a rage, he drew a dagger and killed her. But her spirit fled into the mirror, seeking escape, and there she was once again enslaved . . . this time by the mirror itself.
It whispered to her that it would protect her and use the power she’d given it for tasks more important than punishing a petty, vain lord. Together they would seek out those facing difficult decisions and show them outcomes to their choices.
“Wait!” she cried, inside the mirror. “What does that mean?”
The mirror then vanished from the lord’s room.
Where would it appear again?
Chapter 1
I was trapped, and I knew it. Worse, it came as a shock on my seventeenth birthday, the same day my elder sister died.
Daughters of the nobility are mere tools for their families, so in truth, what transpired shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, but I’d been trained and honed as a different type of tool than my sister, Helena.
She was beautiful, tall and well figured with ivory skin, green eyes, and a mass of silken red hair. She was quick-witted and skilled in the art of conversation. When she walked into a room, all heads turned. She expected everything in life to come to her just as she wished, and as a result, it usually did. Our father had always intended to profit from her by way of a great marriage to improve our family’s fortune.
In contrast, I was small and slight, with light brown eyes and dark blond hair. Although I was much better read than Helena, my prowess in circles of social conversation normally amounted to nodding and appearing attentive to those more proficient than myself.
Helena was the shining star of our family.
Yet, on my seventeenth birthday, I stood over her bed, wringing my hands as she lay dying. Her once ivory face had gone sickly white, and her green eyes were closed as she struggled to breathe, each attempt resulting in a gasp followed by a rattle.
My mother stood beside me, looking down at the bed, her face unreadable.
“She may yet recover,” I said by way of attempted comfort. “She has always been strong.”
I shouldn’t have bothered.
My mother glanced at me in contempt. Like Helena, she was tall with red hair, and she had no patience for offers of false comfort.
Only three days ago, Helena had complained of feeling warm at our midday meal. Shortly after, she’d been helped to her bed by several of the household servants, and within hours, the fever had taken hold. In a panic, my father had called upon our physician, who had done what he could—which in my opinion hadn’t been much. The illness settled quickly into Helena’s lungs.
Although I had been allowed inside her room, I’d not been allowed to touch her.
As Mother and I stood over her, my sister fought for one last breath. The following rattle was loud, and then all sounds vanished from the room as Helena went still. Looking down, I didn’t know what to feel. We had not been close, but she was still my sister.
As if summoned, my father walked in, dressed in a blue silk tunic and black pants. He was of medium height with broad shoulders and a thick head of light brown hair. He shaved his face twice a day.
“Well?” he asked.
“She’s gone,” my mother answered. “Just now.”
Father frowned, but that was all. His initial panic at the prospect of losing a valuable tool like Helena had passed yesterday—for he was ever a realist.
Walking over to the bed, he didn’t even look at his eldest daughter. Instead, he looked at me, and I couldn’t help noting the disappointment in his eyes. “Megan,” he said. “The Volodanes arrive this afternoon. You’ll have to take Helena’s place.”
I blinked several times, not certain I’d heard him correctly.
“Take her place? What does that . . .?”
“You know what it means,” he said coldly. Then he turned to my mother. “Make sure she’s presentable.”
I took a step backward as the awful truth set in.
The Volodanes were arriving afternoon.
And I was to take Helena’s place.
Less than hour later, I found myself seated at the dressing table in my own room, wearing a muslin dress of sunflower yellow—that had been hanging in my closet for over a year—and staring at my own reflection as my maid, Miriam, tried to do something with my hair.
Her mouth was tightly set, and she was not any happier about the situation. Miriam was pretty with dark hair, and only five years older than myself. She’d been hired by my mother when I was fifteen and Mother had deemed it necessary that I should have a “lady’s maid.” I’d resisted at first but not for long. Miriam had soon become devoted to me, and I welcomed her friendship.
The turn of events today had taken her by surprise.
“Your father was very clear,” she said, holding handfuls of thick hair. While the color might not be enticing, at least it was abundant. “I may have to cut a few pieces in the front.”
“Do what you must,” I answered quietly.
Normally, I had Miriam weave my hair into a single thick braid, as no one cared too much about my appearance. All my life, I’d been told that I would never marry, that I’d remain here in my family’s manor serving as a shadow advisor to my father, for I possessed a unique . . . skill that was use of him.