Mirror, Mirror

by Robb, J. D.

  The insistence of it—the capital letters, the blackness of the pen—frightened her. He seemed to see this and wrote something more.

  I’ve been so lonely.

  She read the words, taking in the sudden unsteadiness of the hand, and to her surprise felt tears well in her eyes. She raised her gaze back to his and something passed between them, a shiver of comprehension and a surge of emotion.

  She inhaled sharply, and his hands jerked as if he might reach for her.

  Shaken, more by her own feelings than his movement, she took another small step back. “Have you . . . have you been here . . . long?”

  He nodded slowly. Then wrote, Years.

  She took a deep breath. “Are you the man who disappeared? The newscaster? From the nineties?”

  His eyes widened. He looked enlivened, and tragic, and she worried that exciting a ghost was not a good thing at all.

  The pen flew quickly. Yes!

  She nodded, keeping her eyes on his, on those blue relieved eyes. “I remember. I saw you. On the news. And I saw this house. I knew then I was going to live here someday.”

  He regarded her with interest, head slightly tilted. You knew?

  She nodded again.

  How old were you?

  “About five.”

  He looked sad. You must think I’m old. But I’m only thirty.

  She smiled. “I’m twenty-nine.” She shrugged.

  He smiled in return, looking enthralled as he gazed at her. His lips moved and she frowned in incomprehension.

  He turned back toward the paper. You have a beautiful smile. You are a beautiful woman.

  Despite herself, her eyes narrowed. She had always mistrusted compliments, and while she didn’t exactly think she was being hit on by a ghost, she did suspect him of flattery for ulterior motives.

  He appeared to laugh.

  I seem to have lost my touch, he wrote.

  “You almost kissed me. The other night, you tried to kiss me while I slept,” she said, a slow realization dawning. “Do you watch me? Can you see me . . . ? All the time?”

  The implications of this reverberated in her one at a time, like gongs from a clock. He might watch her undress. He could have seen her in the bath. What if he were—

  He scribbled so furiously that her attention was caught by the sound of the pen on the page.

  I don’t. I can’t. I come and go—it’s not under my control. I never—he crossed that out—I watched you sleep that one night, because I wanted to communicate, to figure out how to communicate. And then I thought of kissing you. I’m sorry. I am not here to scare you!

  This last, which he’d said before, he underlined several times before spinning the pad back to her.

  Her eyes went from the pad, to his face, to the broken table behind him. “Tell me why you did this.”

  He took the pad back, flipped to a new page, and stood a long minute staring at the blank sheet. I thought the one who did this to me, who turned me into a ghost, would— He crossed that out and wrote, wanted me to. Then he paused, crossed that out, and with a frustrated expression wrote, I thought it might change things.

  She slumped. “You thought God wanted you to break my table?”

  The dry tone of her voice obviously registered with him, because he looked upset. Then he shook his head and wrote, Not God. Definitely not God.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her shoulders. “And did anything change?”

  He didn’t meet her eyes at first, and she felt sorry for him. He looked bleak.

  Then his expression turned pensive, and lightened. I don’t know. Maybe. He looked up at her, gesturing with his hands between them, as if saying, “You and I.”

  He turned back to the pad. You can see me. He shrugged again, palms up, eyebrows raised, hopeful.

  She pushed her fingers into her hair, then rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. This was nuts. The guy was sparkling, for pity’s sake. He was next to invisible. He made no sounds.

  And yet . . . She looked again at the table. That wood was definitely split. And there was nothing imaginary about the shards of glass on the floor. On an impulse, she bent and picked up a broken crystal drop from the chandelier. She pressed her finger against the sharp edge and watched as a drop of blood appeared on her fingertip.

  She heard the pen on the paper and looked over.

  That’s real.

  Her eyes snapped up to his. He nodded knowingly.

  Something cold clutched her stomach. Could he read her mind?

  He smiled sadly and shook his head.

  “What?” she asked, unable to suppress the challenging tone.

  I understand. You.

  She frowned again, looked at him askance, and put her bleeding finger to her mouth.

  Don’t ever play poker.

  It took a split second, then she laughed. Her father used to say that to her all the time. Her face was as easy to read as a stop sign.

  She looked at her fingertip again, at the fresh drop of blood oozing out of the cut. The man moved and she looked up to see him brandishing a handkerchief, an ironic smile on his face, one eyebrow lifted.

  She laughed. On impulse, she reached for it.

  There was a whisper of cold on her fingers, and then, like the bursting of a soap bubble, Michael Prince disappeared.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I have seen nothing of Deirdra. Asta has also been MIA. I’ve been wandering around the house looking for Cassandra for days, but she doesn’t seem to be here. And I can’t tell if I’m coming and going in time, if I’ve missed a week and she’s just out, or if three years have passed and I am nothing but the fading memory of a dream to her.

  The dining room has been painted, but there is no table. This gives me hope. Maybe it’s only been a short time and she’s getting a new one.

  The problem with hope is that even if Cassandra shows up, even if she sees me and I see her, what can I change? Will I be able to talk to her this time? Will she even be able to see me again?

  And what about that feeling that passed between us? That wave of knowledge and desire? It was so palpable it damn near knocked me over. And I know she felt it, too.

  But this is the thing. There is just too much I don’t know. Like what’s going to happen and what I’m supposed to do to become whole again. Or maybe it’s to become whole for the first time.

  Cassandra makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. I want to care for her and give her things and make her as happy as she can possibly be—whatever that takes. She doesn’t need to love me, but I’m desperate to be able to love her completely, to take care of her, be there for her, in whatever way she will have me.

  My inability to stay with her, to be all she needs, makes me feel like I’m going crazy. Most of the time I’m half-mad with it, but there seems to be nothing I can do.

  I can touch things, feel things, I could break something again if I wanted, but where would that get me? Us?

  If I ever do find my way back—to where? to when?—I am afraid I’ll have been rendered deranged by this situation, insensible of the change, a phantom in my mind forever.

  But right now, all I want to do is see her. Cassandra. What I felt with her wasn’t just the burnished pine of her table. As insane as it sounds, I know I am in love with her. Hopelessly and completely in love with her.

  But I can’t find her!

  And I must.

  “MOTHER, I TOLD YOU I DON’T WANT ANOTHER TABLE. The one I had was perfect and I’m getting it fixed.”

  Cassandra stabbed the lock with her key and twisted it so hard she wrenched her wrist. Rubbing it absently, she opened the door. Just as she had every day, every minute, for a month, she scanned the hallway for Michael, her heart breaking all over again when she did not see him.

  Behind her, her mother followed her into the house in a cloud of Dior perfume, her jet-black mink softly brushing Cassandra’s arm as she passed.

  “Regardless,” her mother said w
ith an airy wave, “the gentlemen from Roche Bobois are here and they’ve got a classic, formal dining table for you.”

  “But you didn’t even see my table.” Cassandra heard the plea in her voice and despised herself for it. And besides, she knew that even if her mother had seen her table she would have hated it.

  Not that it mattered. Nothing really mattered, she felt, because she’d been abandoned by her prince.

  Which was insane. Literally.

  She turned her attention back to her mother, who had strode straight to the near-empty dining room.

  Where the table argument was concerned Cassandra knew she was on weak ground to begin with, because she’d had to tell everyone that she’d broken the table. She’d concocted an elaborate story about changing a bulb in the chandelier, slipping, and grabbing onto the light, only to have it fall onto the table, breaking everything.

  People seemed to buy it, even if they did now regard her as incompetent. But she couldn’t very well have told them the truth. She could barely believe it herself. In fact, she probably didn’t believe it, except she had the pad of paper on which the Night Prince—Michael Prince—had written to her. She’d read and reread it dozens of time in the weeks since she’d seen him, simultaneously scared she’d never see him again, and worried that she’d seen him in the first place.

  Had he gone forever? Had she sent him into some new dimension just by trying to touch him? What did it mean that she felt so sure she knew him? Or had known him . . . once upon a time?

  “I’m sure your table was lovely, dear, but this one is spectacular. And perfect for the space.” She stepped toward the hall, waving the deliverymen back. “In here, boys!”

  Two large Italian-looking men who could not be further from “boys” wrestled a brown-paper-wrapped table through the doorway.

  Just as she was feeling her heart rate slow in defeat, Cassandra’s gaze was caught by a shimmer over her mother’s right shoulder. Her eyes flicked involuntarily and she gasped as the Night Prince appeared in the room.

  Her mother whirled, looked in Michael’s direction, and Cassandra’s heart flew to her throat. “For heaven’s sake, Cassandra, what is it?” She turned back around directly. “You act as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Crazily, Cassandra nearly laughed—both at her mother’s accurate description and her relief that Michael Prince had returned. After a full month without him, he was back. The fear and worry she’d associated with his last visit evaporated, and her heart sang as if one of her dearest friends had returned.

  They gazed hungrily at each other for a very long moment. If anyone had been able to see them both they’d have looked like lovesick teenagers, goggling at each other with pure joy.

  But while she could see Michael, her mother couldn’t!

  She frowned, looking back at her mother. Was that proof that she herself was crazy? That this vision was hers alone? She comforted herself with the pad of paper upstairs, the masculine handwriting decidedly not her own.

  Fortunately her mother did not witness the wave of expressions on Cassandra’s face, as she was busy directing the deliverymen on placement and how to gently—GENTly!—remove the paper from the furniture.

  From the periphery of her sight line, Cassandra saw Michael Prince look at her with concern. She turned her eyes to him and he put his hands out, pressing his palms downward slowly a couple of times.

  Calm down, she understood, the kindness in his eyes warming her.

  “Now, I may not have won the lottery, dear, but I hope I still have my good taste. Tell me what you think of this.”

  Cassandra turned to see her mother spreading her arms wide to encompass a gorgeous mahogany table with an inlaid top. Cassandra actually gasped when she saw it.

  “Oh, Mother,” she breathed. She looked up to see her mother beaming—actually beaming—at Cassandra’s reaction. “It’s stunning.”

  Her mother gave her the broadest, most natural smile Cassandra had seen on her face in years. Maybe since her father had died ten years ago. “There, you see? Your mother knows a thing or two about decor, doesn’t she?”

  Michael Prince tilted his head, considering her mother, a kind expression on his handsome face.

  He glanced at her and nodded, mouthing something she didn’t understand.

  “I will never doubt you again.” Cassandra ran her fingers over the marquetry top, admiring the precise lines of the inlay. She looked up at Michael, who raised his brows appreciatively, then gestured in her mother’s direction.

  She understood then the words that he’d mouthed. Include her.

  She straightened. “Maybe you could help me choose a bureau for the bedroom. I think it’s time I got rid of that old college dresser I have.”

  To her surprise, her mother actually flushed. “Well, of course, darling. I’ll call you this week and set up a day we can go look.”

  A gentle smile formed on Cassandra’s face as she looked at her mother—really looked—for the first time in years. She’d never gotten over Cassandra’s father’s death. Both of her girls had been closer to him than to her, but he had loved her unconditionally. And Cassandra could see now how much she’d relied on that, needed it, and did not know how to ask for it. Instead she pushed and demanded and generally made herself a nuisance in an effort to be present for them—her and Pamela. Cassandra resolved to change that, to appreciate all her mother tried to do, even when she was her most trying.

  “That would be perfect.” Cassandra reached out and squeezed her mother’s arm.

  “Well,” her mother said, obviously flustered. “Let me just tip those deliverymen and I’ll be on my way. Here they come with the chairs now. I’ll call you tomorrow!”

  Fifteen minutes later, it was all delivered and done, and Cassandra turned to Michael Prince.

  “Where have you been?”

  He gave an elaborate shrug, eyebrows up, but she saw relief in his eyes, too, as he gazed at her.

  She glanced from Michael toward the hall, where her mother had just closed the door behind her. “You understand women pretty well, don’t you?”

  His expression went dark with what appeared to be regret. He shook his head, placing a fist against his forehead and gently pounding a couple of times. His chin dropped in a gesture of shame, and he lifted his eyes toward hers. Stupid, he mouthed. Stupid, bad man.

  His pain was palpable. Did he truly believe he was a bad man?

  “I don’t believe that’s true. I don’t even think that’s possible.” Automatically she reached out a hand to touch his arm, to reassure him, but he pulled back, alarm on his face.

  Because of course that’s how he disappeared the last time.

  “I’m sorry!” She gripped her hands together at her waist. “I forgot. I’m so sorry!”

  He shook his head dismissively.

  “I’m so afraid of losing you again.” She stepped toward him but didn’t dare to reach out.

  He nodded appreciatively, as if to say, “Me, too.”

  “What are we going to do?” she asked. “I mean . . . I just feel . . . I wish . . .”

  This was ridiculous. Could she tell a man she barely knew she didn’t want to live without him? No, not even a man—a mere shade of one! For what would become of her if she fell in love with a man who wasn’t really there? She’d become Miss Havisham living in a cobwebbed house of memories.

  I know, he mouthed, reaching toward her, then jerking his hands back and grabbing his hair in frustration. He turned and marched several paces away. Then he went to her purse on the newel post, got out her pad and pen, and started writing.

  Do you feel it, too? Do you remember another time? Another life? Together? he wrote.

  She read the words and looked up at him, mouth agape. “I . . . think so. I hear music sometimes.”

  He nodded vigorously. Yes! Classical. Some kind of dance music.

  He wrote so fast it was hard to make out all the words. “What is— Oh yes, classical music. And I feel like
I remember us . . . dancing.”

  Their eyes met, and all of her insides lifted as if inflated with helium.

  And do you feel it? Feel—

  He stood for a long time over the pad, then looked up at her bashfully.

  She smiled, blushing. “I feel it,” she whispered. “I feel . . .”

  LOVE.

  They both looked at the word.

  His left hand lay on the sideboard. She moved her right hand next to it, not touching, but close.

  He looked over at her, and the expression in his eyes crushed her. Yearning, frustration, tragedy.

  “We’ll figure it out,” she whispered. “We will. We have to.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  God, I want to touch her. I want to touch her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  We stare at each other. We’ll figure it out.

  I’d give anything to believe that.

  I feel as if I suddenly have a heart, and it’s expanding and reaching out to hers. The look in her eyes says she feels it, too. It’s almost as if I can see inside of her, as if our joined gazes create a physical strand, a tangible connection.

  Sensations assail me. My hand is on the sideboard and I feel the polished wood under my palm. And there is her hand, right next to mine. I want to take it, touch it, skin to skin, feel her warmth.

  And then I want to turn, cup her face with my palm, let my fingers linger on that soft, smooth cheek, run my thumb along the pillow of her lips. I want to grab her, slide my hand into her hair, pull her close, and kiss her like she’s never been kissed before . . . our souls meeting in our breaths.

  Except I have no breath. I have no skin. I do not actually have hands.

  What I have, however, is emotion. Emotion moving inside me like a tidal wave.

  I. Have. Never. Felt this way.

  Finally I close my eyes and tear myself away. I can’t take it. The agony of our separation might kill me, I truly believe it.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I mutter.

  She gasps. I think for a moment that her mother has returned, but when I turn, she’s got me pinned with those wide dark eyes.