Looking Glass

Chapter 1

Dreams were for fools; she'd learned that a long time ago. Still, she smiles politely as she hears Mr. Morris tell tales of aspirations and adventures for a future. She hasn't decided whether she should tell him outright.

Dash his dreams or shape his future a different way.

"Miss Coldwell?"

Her smile is still forcingly polite. "Could you repeat your question? I apologise, for my mind had wandered in daydreams of your adventures."

His demeanour brightens in such a way; she begins to regret her choice of words.

"Of course, Miss Coldwell. This is of no inconvenience. I was merely enquiring your thoughts of my aspirations?"

His smile is so bright it hurts. "Perhaps you could bring to me some advice?"

She's quiet for a moment. A rare chance it was, a man to ask of a lady's thoughts on manners of business. But it is the internal thought that stops her from blurting out. She is sure, the blunt truth will not be accepted well.

It becomes a strain to smile now. "I am afraid my thoughts would not be welcomed nor adequate." Her fingers tap the edge of the chair. "For I am a woman after all." It is her last attempt at escape.

Friendliness fades off a little, more so replaced with awkwardness in still air. He laughs as she closes her eyes. "Nonsense, Miss Coldwell. I'm sure your words are of intelligence and reason."

She wants to tip her head back; oh, she would have, had it not been so improper for her to do so. She looks at him once more, considers it, sees it. This man might be her fiancée tomorrow, should this meeting go successfully. The silence remains a while longer until she makes her decision.

"I apologise, Mr. Morris. For this will surely offend you."

She doesn't wait for his protests of replies to speak. "I do not think your venture will go well. The risks are far too high, far too costly." Her fingers curl around the edge of the chair tighter as she sees the confusion and ire rise.

"Even with a man of your stature and position."

Words fly out in a flurry, there is no stopping. "It is likely," she breathes, a gasp. "that it will very likely end in bankruptcy."

She doesn't tell him more; say the things she saw when she looked into his eyes. No, she supposes, that the images told fully would be too unkind, for too filled with tragedy.

She doesn't speak about the man in rags, does not speak of the man travelling the alleys, speaks not of a manor's change of hands.

. . .

It doesn't end well, as she walks down the streets. A fit of rage displayed by Mr. Morris at the café, loud clanking of a teacup. She remembers the hurried steps and barely concealed anger, sighs as she turns around the corner.

It wasn't as if she hadn't predicted the outcome. But still, there was no denying the harshness and bluntness of her words. There is nothing she can do anymore; allowed not was the chance to see the new future*that was shaped, and all she can do is hope the best for the man.

She steps into a store filled with porcelain, precious and fragile. The storeowner looks up and smiles, friendly, charming. "Welcome to Allen's Tea Store," The woman gestures towards the entire store. "my name is Mary Allen; how may I help you miss?"

A freeze, she doesn't reply as she stares at the woman's eyes despite the unintention. Pictures flow like mechanic and all she sees now is a bloodbath; Mary Allen and her children laying on the floor. A tragedy far worse than sin.