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She glided away from the feasting and to her private quarters.
While the dining halls took up much of the Maw's upper decks, her own home lay toward the rear. Comfortable, but somber, with few lights amid the darkened rooms. Her chefs would send her food for herself to prepare while her faithful bellhop would keep her abreast of the Outside's current affairs. Every other year would be a new crop of creatures to eat of her bounty, and with them came new tidings that perked her interest. Things such as whether to appear in this area or stay below. It was a delicate business.
The Lady stepped into the lift, its cast-iron Eye glinting in dull light, and went to her rooms. It never took long unless she had to see the janitor. That man never failed to amuse her. He acted like a grandfather to those lonely souls, giving them trinkets and gifts out of his vast collection, sometimes receiving in turn. They loved him, and he loved them. Though he never said or did anything openly, he was sorry to what he had to do, eventually; such were the dangers of growing attached.
The lift doors opened with a rattling, and she stepped out. Soft lavender carpets covered fine hardwood flooring, which barely creaked as the ship rocked, and purple-colored walls concealed the light. Portraits, hidden by darkness and coverings, dotted the walls alongside empty mirror frames. Here, there were no reminders of what lay below. Her mind was content here. For a time, she could even forget about running the place.
She glided upstairs and to her dressing table. A brush lay there, next to a statuette. The ticking clock to her right indicated the evening was drawing to a close, and night would be upon them. Humming she undid the needles and pulled them out, long hair flowing free.
Then she undid her mask.
It was not paint and wax but an actual white mask. Only her dark eyes were the same. Looking into the mirror, which was cracked, was a haunted face, one with no beauty, not even a ghost. Deep lines were etched into her brow and cheeks, her lips black and sore; red lines from where the mask had scored her were obvious. It was a face which had seen too much, tried to hide from it all—a pitiful sight.
Long ago she had a name and a face, before she became swept into this business. She had a future before her, one which had seemed bright at the time, with no looming disaster. She even had a suitor who loved her, out of all those which had courted her. Then in a single moment her life ended. Her family splintered into pieces, their lands lost to debtors, and their name disparaged and despised.
She had run away from it all, fled to a kind woman's arms who turned out to be a cruel mistress. Her predecessor.
Now combing out her hair, she glanced over to where a velvetine case lay quite nearby. Inside was what had ensured her inheritance. It was locked away now, hidden from sight. Oh how her mother would cry to see the depths her daughter had sunk to. But she rested peacefully, and there was no disturbing the dead. No one from her past knew who or what she was now—she was now the Lady.
There was a sudden crash from the next room.
Quickly she reaffixed her mask, the stiff material pressing into her skin, and vanished in a cloud of smoke. Her presence now cloaked she watched, for one did not lightly penetrate her realm without considerable daring and boldness. She would find out who it was. The clock ticked, long seconds moving by. At last the perpetrator appeared, clutching a brass key.
The Lady's eyebrows rose, the mask contorting with its expression. It was a little girl, dressed in yellow. Tiny little thing, really. How did she ever get out of the Prison, escape her janitor? The girl ignored her, passing quickly by her without realizing the shadows seemed darker than usual, and disappeared out the door.
She stepped from the darkness and went to the table. Long white fingers flicked at a clasp, and the case was open. Inside was a dagger, a delicate thing. Whoever this little girl was, she would not escape and ruin her business. She would bring her janitor to heed, discipline him perhaps, but for now there was a danger to be dealt with. Turning the Lady flew through through door and down the stairs. There was another door, on the second landing, open—her eyes widened. How did she…? Coming to a stop, she peered through the gloom. She didn't need to. Free of her burden the little girl had a little light, quietly moving. The Lady frowned and ghosted after.
Something appeared to have alerted the girl, for she quickened her pace, and eventually broke into a run.
The Lady lifted her knife, its silver blade whistling in the air, preparing to—
—and stopped short. The little brat had somehow gone through the wall. No, not gone through, only utilized a peephole the bellhop used. She hissed and passed beyond the wall. There was only one place the girl could be heading toward.
Passing through another wall, she entered into a large room, the centerpiece of her suite. Here was her closet, full of mannequins clothed in kimonos and sashes like what she wore. Mirrors aplenty covered the walls, all empty frames, with four still Eyes staring motionless. Something had rendered them inactive, otherwise they would have pinned the intruder right where she stood the moment she entered.
The Lady moved cautiously in, knife at the ready—then stopped. The girl was standing in the room's center, holding what she feared she had come for. It was another mirror, but whole and free of dust. It was the Mirror.
Her predecessor had used this one, looking into it daily, brushing her hair, fixing her makeup. She had been a woman of beauty, even more so than what the Lady had been. She needed no mask, for she had given herself wholly to the Mirror and reaped bountiful rewards from It. It gave her terrible powers, telekinesis and hypnosis, among others. Those were what she had used to keep her business, the Maw, running smoothly. She had been a tyrant, forcing the Lady to do the most menial of tasks instead of more refined work. She had had servants in abundance, all bespelled by her magic, but the Lady had been singled out. For many years she endured patiently—then one day, something snapped, and she rose up against her mistress and slew her. Immediately the dark powers had come to her, suffusing her entire being.
In a moment of grim clarity, the Lady realized she could have had all she ever wanted, could have used her powers to reclaim what she had lost. It was a tempting offer, one she had come close to accepting. But she had grown terrified of it, fearful of the Mirror, which had begun to take over her existence once she realized she was the new mistress. She locked It away in the hopes It would go dormant. She even despised her new powers. But evil, once wholly given into, never gave up its hold. Slowly but surely she began to use these powers to better run the Maw, dismissing many servants until only the essentials were left behind—the elderly janitor, already a kind soul; the eternal twin chefs; and the bellhop, who had been loyal to his former mistress, and which she replaced. But she never thought to destroy It.
And now this girl had located It, and planned to use It against her.
She's here, the Lady realized. She's here for me.
Hissing again she glided onward, intending to be both rid of It and the girl. She lifted her knife.
The Eyes suddenly came alive, and fixed their unrelenting glare upon them. The girl did not flinch as expected; instead she angled the Mirror and caught the beams, and redirected them.
Screaming, the Lady dropped her weapon, clutching at her face. She called upon her abilities to cloak and hide away from it.
The girl however turned and followed her hidden movements. Four times more the Lady attacked, using telekinesis to first grab the Mirror, then the girl, then throw the mannequins, and then to tear the insolent thing apart. Each time the girl somehow sensed it and directed the light of the traitorous Eyes into her own. She must have allies somewhere, the Lady realized. It must be one of the guests—or if not, it was the janitor. They were trying to steal her place and install the girl instead!
Finally, she attempted one more attack, and attempted to physically grab the girl. Instead the painful light burned her eyes, and she collapsed to the ground. Her mask had become cracked and melted; she peeled it off. That used up the last of her strength, however.
A pitter-patter of feet sounded, and the girl reappeared in her sight. In her hands was the dagger, comically large. The Lady tried to make out what was beneath her yellow hood, but all that could be seen was dark hair.
The girl ignored her and went over to the Mirror. She lifted up the dagger. The Lady's eyes—her true eyes—grew wide, and she tried to reach out, tried to say no.
Smash!
The hateful Mirror lay in silvery pieces, broken forever.
A roar sounded and strange shapes appeared swirling around them in a great wind. They looked evil and fell, full of dark claws and horrid teeth. The girl in yellow had fallen when she destroyed the Mirror. Now she stood up again, unsteady on her feet. She still held the dagger. The shapes ignored her, gradually clustering around the Lady's prostrate form.
It was her punishment, she realized dully. She had pledged her life to the evil spirits which gave her these powers when she murdered her mistress. Someone long ago had trapped the greater part of their curse inside the Mirror, allowing Its users to manipulate It without threat. Now they had come to exact payment, and she was the current user. What irony. She had spent much of her life keeping the Mirror locked away, in fear of It, not knowing that It was the one thing which stood between her and damnation.
If only her mother could see what was happening to her daughter. But she was dead, and the dead did not care about the living. Or the damned.
A hand rested on her withered cheek. The Lady looked up into their owner's eyes. Brown eyes, she thought. The girl still had the dagger. She caressed the Lady's cheek once.
Then stabbed her.
The wind around them broke and faded just as suddenly as it appeared. The Lady sank again, her lifeblood draining through the wound. But this time, she did not resist. As her aged features settled into rigor mortis, they held a strange expression they had not worn in a long, long time.
One could call it peace.