Looking Glass

Chapter 4

When she reaches home, night has almost fallen, the sun setting. Yellow and orange glows cast the streets in light similar to candles, shadows dark in contrast, it's a scene she's seen so often familiar. The light shines the same way in the evening at the study.

Keys retrieved from her purse, twisted in the lock to let herself in, wrought metal creaking. The noise alerts of her return, and she can already see one of the servants by the door. The maid nods at her return, and she hands her gloves and purse over.

A dark corridor lined with yellow lamps till the end; it's almost dinner time. She walks towards, a lighter glow emitting from the doorway, reaches the dining hall.

It's large in splendour, crystal chandeliers gleaming in light, an illumination of shine. Dark oak in the centre, forest green tablecloth lain with food already prepared. Pale ivory of porcelain, set together with reflective cutlery.

She heads over to the cabinet at the far end of the room, opens the wooden door, reaching for a bottle of wine. Dark ruby liquid poured into the wineglasses, a drink for three. She sits, waiting, stares out of the window with her face in her palm as the sky blots into the night.

Footsteps tell her of arrival, turns her head to see her father and grandmother. A smile, she stands in greeting. They all seat, the butler following soon after, walking forth to put the bell on a tray. The butler leaves, and it's left with three.

Scraping of cutlery begins as eating, and she wonders how she might breach the topic of past events. A deep thought, she doesn't, nor does anyone speak until the meal is over, napkins used. Her grandmother is the first to speak. "How was your day?"

Quiet voice, a consideration of answer. "It was," a pause. "eventful."

She decides it best to omit the part of her assumptions of death with the topic later. A raised brow, a sign from her father to continue. Hesitation comes forth, hands curling on her lap.

"We will be likely be expecting a visit from the police tomorrow."

A frozen wineglass in mid-air, both her guardians staring at her. Her nails begin to dig in.

"Have you both heard of the murder down at Vine Street?"

A moment of silence before anyone speaks. "What does this have to do with us?"

She looks over to her father, shrinking in slightly. "I am," nail begins to touch skin. "somewhat involved."

Her father pinches the bridge of her nose, her grandmother sighing. "Exactly how, are you involved."

She tips her head back in the comfort of her home, away from the eyes of society; she's allowed to act a semblance of who she is. "Nothing entirely serious or worrying."

She sits back properly, eyes refusing to look at anywhere but the plate. "Merely a confirmation of my whereabouts."

A reaction of incredulity is what she receives, questions. "Why would wherever your attendance in presence be of any doubt?"

"Protocol, father, protocol."

Her guardians share a look between them, message unknown to her. The answer she would be getting not, and everyone is now in reservation, a reluctance acceptance of tomorrow's events.

The butler shuffles in, nodding in greeting to everyone, a maid trailing behind to clear the dishes. Everyone gets up, each to their own, a time to return to their respective rooms or the activities carried out before to be continued.

She murmurs a word of thanks, quickly stepping back into the hallway. Follow the same path she takes every day, heads to her study.

After all, there are many things to think about, events to reflect on.

. . .

It's night now, dark sky, spattered with gleaming white and yellow, shining. The moon is out in full glory, round and bright, glowing in the darkness. The pale ivory of marble shines when light hits, the church opposite a distance away in ethereal magnificent.

The streets are quiet and empty, a stark contrast to the day. It's a night perfect for thoughts overrun.

Her cheek lays on cool, pressed up against the window, seated on the sill. Eyes stare at the yellow glow of the lamps, small specks whizz around. Their movements are mesmerising, eyes unable to leave the moths alone.

When she comes to, it's a wonder how much time has passed in her trance. She gets up gingerly, limbs stiff from sitting curled up too long. Feet move towards the vanity desk, hands grasping at book and pen.

Worn cover, creased pages. She flips through the worded papers, searching for a blank one. Fingers pick at the pages left unwritten; she needs to get a new one soon. The pages were running out.

Pen dips onto paper, she begins writing.

It's a record of futures once seen, a record of changed fates. Mr. Morris' and Mary Allen's names rest on the previous page as she continues Mary Allen's events. Words pour out easily, black staining white in a flurry, paragraphs filled.

It isn't as though she hasn't done it before. She's changed fates, changed futures before. It's a familiar feeling unlike tonight; she isn't quite sure why. More words are written down, and her pen stops at a certain line.

Mary Allen and her children are still alive, but the lady next door lives not to see the morrow.

Her pen clatters as it hits wood, awareness and consciousness rushing through her. Realisations have become an occurrence of often it seems.

Her mind reels, thoughts dancing in a frenzy. So, this is why, her mind gasps, so this is why. The line of words is the explanation, a reason to the unfamiliarity, unsettling.

Someone else is dead this time.

She shoots up, grips the book hard, flipping through like a madman. A search for an answer in the records, a prayer it doesn't tell her what she doesn't want to hear.

Eyes search through texts, rove over words. Despite the number of pages written, it's finished through quickly enough. Fingers tighten around the sides of paper, and she grips them hard again, a furious revisit to find what she wants, read again once more, twice.

True to her mind and memory, she hasn't written down any sort of outcome resulting in the death of another, no recollection either. She sits back down heavily on the chair, hands pressing over her eyes, rubbing her forehead as she rests her elbow against the wood.

She wants to tell herself so badly that no, it cannot be. No, that her actions have not directly nor indirectly resulted in someone else's death. The sight of the thick book of past possibilities becomes so much heavier in fear and guilt of mistakes.

Blood flashes in her mind, a jolt.

She leans her face onto the cool surface of the desk, staring at the book, hand reaching to pull the book over. Flips through it, fingers the pages, sitting upright once more.

A reach for the pen, pressing against paper. She has to go through the entire book again, search for those that taint of dark; her responsibility, her past choices. There will be no sleeping tonight, no rest, no chances. Only working through the rubble, while a single line is uttered in her mind.

Someone else is dead because of you.