Mirror Bound

by Kirsten Bij't Vuur

  Whilst on my round I met the main contractor, the one responsible for the frame, and his behaviour mirrored the architect's. He took a good look at me and asked: 'Did you notice that the horses of your necklace really seem to

  move?'

  I nodded, and replied: 'I did, isn't it a marvel?' He looked at it intently and observed: 'Excellent craftsmanship, and very artistic, but copper. Not made by your companion yesterday, but by his master I'd guess.

  Only a crafts master would dedicate so much work to a humble material like copper. Though it matches the colour of your hair perfectly, glorious. Is he fed up with crafting boilers?' I was stunned by this man's deductive qualities, and felt my respect for him rise a few notches, and said: 'You're spot on sir, it was indeed made by the crafts master, and he did want me to wear it because it matched my hair so perfectly.

  But he's not fed up with boilers and steam engines, he loves them, this was just an experiment that turned out really well.' 'Well, please tell him for me that he has surpassed the level of crafting and has moved into artistry, and to keep experimenting, and respecting the humbler metals. I bet you learned your affinity with metals from him.'

  Again, his remarks struck a chord with me, copper was good enough for this man, which impressed me, and I promised to pass his compliments on to the crafts master He asked for Paul's shop and address, to view the quality of his

  'real' work, he did often install boilers after all, and of course I gave it to him, Paul had enough projects in his workshop to give this man an impression of what he could do.

  With Lukas improving in skill daily they would be able to produce more objects, so more demand would be a good thing.

  I was amazed by what wearing a necklace did for my contact with the men who were in a way my colleagues. I continued my inspection, and collected more compliments on the lifelike horses of the necklace, and on the glorious colour of my hair.

  Which had been there from the start, but who knows how men work. When the work was done for the day, I returned home eagerly, hoping to hear how Lukas had fared yesterday, and anticipating Paul's reaction to the many compliments I had for him. When I came in, I heard the familiar noise of the furnace, and I went into the workshop, to find only Paul there.

  Though I had seen him in bed sleeping but in excellent health, I still got a shock that Lukas wasn't there. Paul came towards me, arms wide to embrace me, face just incredibly happy to see me well. Once in his arms, I asked:

  'Where's Lukas, he seemed fine this morning?'

  Paul gave me a comforting squeeze, and said: 'Lukas is fine, but still asleep.

  He had a very profound experience yesterday, and it took a lot out of him. I took him to bed yesterday night, same as you, nearly fainted and with a raging headache.'

  Apparently I looked like a stunned ox, for he said: 'Come, I'll take you to him, and you can check for yourself, and I'll get you some tea and tell you what happened, as I heard it from George. George brought him home in a carriage, for he wouldn't have made it on his own hoofs but he insisted on going home, so as not to frighten us.

  Melissa, he was so sweet, he excused himself for being so late, then fainted in my arms, woke up with a reaction headache as I carried him to our bed, and totally surrendered himself to me, letting me undress him, feed him a painkiller, stroke him until it worked, held him until he fell asleep. Who'd ever thought I could one day learn to love a guy so much?'

  I was captivated by his evident affection for Lukas, but I still asked: 'What is a reaction headache?' He replied: 'When you overextend your magic energy, it feeds from your life-force. That causes physical hurt, starting with a headache in several gradations, to loss of consciousness, and ultimately leading to death.' That was new to me, that a mage could die of using too much magic energy.

  By now, we'd arrived in the bedroom, and I saw my loving goat-man, lying bonelessly across the huge bed, fast asleep. My heart filled up with love for him, and I wanted to be with him, hold him. Paul noticed and said: 'Just do it, hold him, cuddle him.

  He has slept quite enough by now, if he wakes up it's time for him to eat something and take some medicine anyway. I'll get you some tea and then I'll tell you what happened as far as George knew.' He left and I crawled on the bed, sat against the wall, and I picked up my sleeping lover and held him in my arms.

  Lukas clasped me with his arms, nuzzled my neck and cleavage, quieted again. Then he opened his eyes and breathed: 'Melissa, you're beautiful.' I kissed him, and he lay back in my arms and enjoyed my attentions. I stroked his hair, and if he could have purred, he would have. 'I'm glad I came back,'

  he said softly, a bit more awake, fondling my breasts under my blouse, 'did Paul tell you what happened?'

  I replied: 'Not yet, no, he's fetching tea, he was going to tell me what he knew

  as soon as he got back. But if you're awake, you can tell us both exactly what happened.'

  Lukas said: 'I'll tell you what George probably told Paul: my magical talent awoke suddenly, and with such force it completely overwhelmed me.'

  The remembrance silenced him again, and I kissed him and caressed his bare chest, enjoying the softness of his mottled skin, and the firm muscles underneath it. Physical labour was already shaping his body, the firmness of muscles covering up the ribs that used to stick out so much.

  'You feel great, muscled,' I commented. He smiled delightedly: 'I do feel strong. Well, not now but generally. Wielding a hammer, shaping the metal.

  And now I'll have magic to learn as well.' This he said tiredly, but delightedly. We continued caressing each other's bodies lazily, without any real thought of making love, just comfortably. This was different than usual, usually he needed physical love to recuperate his body, but he didn't feel heated, just quietly content.

  We heard Paul on the stairs, and soon he came in, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and three cups, as well as some rich treats. I felt my mouth water at the sight of them, clearly still hankering for calories.

  Spotting us, Paul called out: 'Lukas, you're awake! No headache?' Lukas now sat up straighter, also eyeing the food, and said: 'I feel fine, tired though.' As Paul poured the tea, I could smell Frances' invigorating mixture, and Paul said: 'This will give you some of your energy back,' as he handed Lukas a cup of tea and a large chunk of sticky chocolate cake.

  I got my share too, then he poured himself a cup and sat down on the bed on Lukas' other side, his own chunk of cake in the other hand. I decided not to worry about the pristine white bedclothes if Paul wasn't going to, and he seemed intent on hearing Lukas' story, proving my thoughts by asking: 'Are you up to telling us what happened yesterday evening? I'm dying with curiosity.'

  The tea seemed to have the same effect on Lukas as it did on me the day before, for the weariness left his face, the cake disappeared quickly and rather neatly, and his expression became expectant, he was clearly looking forward to this. We drank our tea and ate our cake, then snuggled really close to him, ready to be amazed.

  Chapter 24

  'As you know, I expected to arrive at the Nomes' in time for coffee, and I set a nice pace not to tempt potential robbers, soon running alongside the industrial area. When I got to the factory, a shift was just changing and the gates were open, there were people and children everywhere, and I couldn't resist the temptation to take a look inside.

  So I made myself inconspicuous, merging with the crowd, and went in with the mass of workers. They were chatting about children, relationships, sports, just normal people. I followed them into a large hall, filled with machines, each taking his own spot, starting work straight away.

  The children were a sad sight, working instead of playing, dangerous jobs too, their little hands in big machines to fish out an obstruction, nimble and unafraid, but so risky.

  I went on to the offices, nobody saw me, they seemed very susceptible to the suggestion of my natural magic. It suggests to anyone present that I'm not there, or someone they know and trust, and they either believe
it or don't.

  These workers all did, and I didn't even have to walk in the shadows or hide behind machines.

  The office building was another matter, of course, I knew there must be someone with active magic, so I became more careful. I checked each office for images of trees, and used my sight to check for magic users, but found neither one.

  Until I got to one really big office, where on one wall there were three pictures of solitary trees on silver plates, and I recognized two of the trees, the old oak, those birches with moss hanging from the branches. I could feel a bit of magic in them, but my sight works better with people than with metals.

  And then the door opened and I thought I was caught, for a magic user would never believe my magic. I was thinking of excuses and looking for a spot to hide, when an important looking man walked straight past me.

  I could see not even a small sign of magic in him with sight. Looking around

  the room, I saw that he did have an altar, so that did suggest he used magic, but not his own. I hid in a corner, wanting proof that he was the owner of the plant, and I soon got it when he had a conference with one of his underlings about a shipment of wool. I decided I had seen all I could learn, and walked right out when the gate opened for a delivery.

  I ran to the Nomes', and they apparently dine pretty late, for I was in time for coffee. I told them about the photographs, and the souls caught in them, and George promised me they'd find Jonas and test one of his photographs, then if they really did contain souls they'd find out where he had sold them or where he stored them, and destroy them all, keeping track of the dryads freed and the ones still caught.

  Frances was going to call the faeries at dusk, so she left. I was sitting there with Marcus, Julia, George and Ilsa, and we were having a really good time.

  Bertha was in bed of course. It was really nice to be with smart young people who knew exactly what I was and didn't care.

  From the start, Ilsa was more than commonly interested in me, when we shook hands she held my hand a shade too long, she asked a lot of personal questions, also about Melissa, which I answered generally.

  She never mentioned you, Paul, but whenever your name was spoken I could feel the hurt inside her, I really felt it as if it was my own. I've always been emphatic with the feelings of others, but I've never experienced another's feelings like that. I decided to try to help her if at all possible.

  Sir Nomes didn't seem to mind her interest in me at all and at a certain point he even left us to check on his wife's success. With their father gone out of the house, the conversation got a little rowdier, and Julia asked me if I was seeing someone.

  I tried to explain that my people don't date as exclusively as yours, that we love whomever we want to, as long as it's mutual, and they all found that fascinating. 'So you have sex with whomever you like?' Marcus asked. I replied honestly: 'Yes, as long as they want it too.'

  'But what if they're married?' That was Julia, very much in love with her Jonas, unwilling to believe someone might want to make love outside a marriage. I replied: 'We marry mainly for family connections, or when we want to raise children, but even within a marriage our love is not exclusive.'

  'And men, are you allowed to make love to your own sex?' Marcus again. My reply was the same: 'If both parties involved want to, sure.' Now Marcus

  wanted to know everything: 'And have you, had sex with a man?' My reply was simple: 'Sure, men can be very good lovers.'

  'Have you had sex with Paul?' Ilsa asked out of the blue. Despite my own astonishment, I could see her siblings' reaction very well. They were of course shocked by the rudeness of the question, but probably as much by her mentioning your name.

  Feeling her pain flare up at the thought, but also seeing an entrance to address it, I decided to answer her question with blunt honesty, mirroring her own rudeness: 'I have never made love to Paul, though I love him dearly and would very much like to express that physically.

  Unfortunately he doesn't return my feelings as far as that, so I enjoy such love as he is willing to give me, and give him as much as he is able to receive from me.'

  Again, I felt her pain and her guilt as clearly as if they were my own. She didn't cry, but rather spoke, haltingly: 'I should have accepted the love he was willing to give me, for he did love me very much.

  But I spurned brotherly love, I wanted another kind of love, and when he told me he didn't have those feelings for me, I wanted to hurt him. And I did, very much so, but I hurt myself much, much more.'

  I felt compelled to comfort her, and looked at her brother if that would be appropriate, and he nodded and said: 'Go ahead, mum and dad won't mind.

  She's never opened up to anyone before.'

  So I sat down next to her and held her in my arms, and she finally let her tears fall, years of them. It was easy for me to follow the intensity of her feelings, first she was racked with grief and guilt, but slowly I felt the knot inside her relax a little, and when it was loose enough, I told her: 'Despite what you did to him, Paul still loves you like a brother, and he wants you to be happy again.'

  Of course this caused the hurt to flare up, but that was inevitable, she'd never heal without facing that hurt again and again.

  At this moment, George came back, and seeing his daughter in my arms, crying, he stopped in his tracks, and took a good look at the situation.

  Despite my people's different approach to love, I have been threatened and chased by angry fathers often enough, sometimes rightfully, that I did feel a flicker of unease at his appearance. But he didn't seem to get angry, at first he looked as stunned as his middle children at witnessing the eldest opening up

  to a strange man.

  Then he got that blank look of someone using sight, and he spoke almost formally: 'Something is happening to the both of you. I suspect it may be profound. Please do what you can for her, Lukas, do whatever is needed.

  Ilsa's plight is the worst mistake Frances and I have made, and two of my children, for I love Paul like a son, have been suffering for too long.'

  Ilsa showed no reaction at all to her father's words, but I did feel one from her, a relief at being able to share responsibility, at least for the harm she caused Paul. She was only twenty after all. George soon left us, and so did the other two.

  I asked her: 'Do you want to go sit somewhere more comfortable?' Her reply was an anxious: 'Will you come with me then, stay with me for a while?' As her father had more or less given me permission to be alone with her, I really wanted to see if I could help her face her feelings of loss and guilt.

  I picked her up, and asked her to give directions, which she readily did, ending up in a nice apartment that seemed to be hers. I sat her down on the bed, and sat next to her, still holding her in my arms.

  She said: 'Tell me about Paul, how is he? I haven't seen him for so long.' I told her about you: 'He has a house of his own, with a workshop in the basement, an apartment that he leases out on top, and his own living space in the middle. His living space is amazing, he has handcrafted everything in it out of cast iron, bronze and copper, and even wood. In his workshop he makes beautiful things, and useful as well.

  He still practices magic, but it doesn't define him, his craft does. When I first met him he was very controlling, and starved of love, afraid of it even. He was madly in love with Melissa, his house-mate, had told her he returned her love for him, but he couldn't show it. He just looked at her with longing, treated her with distinction, but never showed her the slightest sign of his intense feeling for her.

  She was very patient with him, drawing him out bit by bit, hoping she'd get him in the end. It took a long time but they did reach an understanding, and they are now incredibly close and deliriously happy.'

  Of course it made her sad to hear this, but it gave her a certain peace as well.

  Now I wanted her story, so I asked: 'And what is your story? It would give Paul great relief to hear you are doing well.'

  At this, all her grief
came rushing back, and she clung to me: 'I grew up with

  him, fell in love with him when I was still a child, we played together, and I always assumed we would marry. I never asked him, never even doubted.

  And when he finally found out I thought that way and confessed he didn't love me that way, I was crushed. But my parents tried to convince him to marry me anyway, like they had, get married for appearances' sake and let love come later.

  He said he could never feel other love for me than brotherly love. I knew that was final, and I let myself go totally. Have for years now, my life is ruined, I'll never love that way again.'

  She was still so young. I said: 'Of course you'll never love that way again, love is never the same, but if you allow yourself you'll love differently, many times.' I could see her head was stuffed full of romantic nonsense, what these Victorians do to themselves and their children is just incredible, but her feeling was now surprised rather than sad, and I wanted to keep it that way. I looked her in the eye and said: 'There are many kinds of love, and you will taste plenty of them in the years to come.'

  I stroked her hair, told her: 'You're beautiful, you should go out more, have some fun, you'll find plenty of love.' That one touch electrified the poor love-starved girl, and she asked: 'Would you do that again? I've never been touched by a man before.'

  Stroking her hair, and her cheek, I felt her quiver. She wanted me to kiss her, and I did. It was just a kiss, but somehow it felt like I'd been hit by that apparatus of yours, with the disks. That was my own reaction but I felt hers as well, and it was like a lightning strike, straight into my brain.

  It took some time for both of us to recover from that, and she asked if it was always like that to kiss someone. I admitted: 'It's always different, but I've never felt anything like this before.' She kissed me again, and I answered her kiss, passion starting to rise.

  I had felt her emotions ride a roller-coaster that night, the guilt, the intense grief, the realization that you were definitively out of reach, had found love.

  And now she wanted to feel some love, something positive. I don't know if that mind-contact was mutual, that she might have picked up my heat rising, or maybe it was her poor love-starved body demanding satisfaction, but she started to get positively forward now.