Chapter Text
Thorn Manor had long ceased to house mirrors.
The master and mistress of the ancient London home, motivated by a scare with scrying mirrors a few years back, had decided to take the drastic approach and save themselves the trouble in the future. Built for intimidating whoever dared to stand at the gate, the estate donned watchful gargoyles, black iron gates and fences two metres tall, trees with gnarly branches, unkempt bushes filled with blood-red roses clad in thorns.
So it was no surprise that rumours of a haunting presence began circulating soon after the scrying disaster.
At night, while master and mistress slept, a lone human figure could be seen strolling—nay, floating—from third to first floor before it again vanished from sight. Every night the same. Some claimed it had to be the ghost of a child, somehow forever trapped in this mysterious building. Others would swear it was too big to be a child—a young man seemed more likely. As the living occupants of the house were rather tall, or not the right species at all, they were quickly discounted.
Regardless of how often and however Mr and Mrs Thorn attempted to dispel the rumours, they had taken a life of their own. But neither believed them. And neither was bothered. Magicians attracted too much attention; it was a profession with high social demands. Having to entertain fewer guests was not much of a loss. And managing to survive in a haunted estate did wonders for their already healthy reputation.
On it went.
As the clock struck twelve, as the human residents dreamt, and as the hearth drew its last breaths, the cat jumped off its place on the windowsill. But paws never landed on the crimson carpet, only two bare golden feet, held by knobby knees and thin thighs. Two moles on the thin neck, two otherworldly amber eyes. A faded scar cutting beneath the chin. Dark hair fashioned in a style long forgotten. The boy padded across the room, a slim, bony hand turning the copper doorknob.
And the ritual began.
I moved through the long corridors of Thorn Manor, dim light casting long shadows. Varnished banisters and carpeted stairs awaited. Past windows I strolled, past dozens of dark oak doors left unopened for many a decade, ancient dust clinging stubbornly to every nook and cranny of the estate.
In the morning, the rumours would reignite. But the night was mine alone.
Thorn Manor had long ceased to house mirrors. Yet, a magician must always be prepared. Some creatures would only be defeated by a reflection. Others needed it to stay.
One room held them all, from the tallest, full-body piece to the tiniest hand mirror. Oval, rectangular, round, or square-shaped, with simple wooden framing, or the most intrinsically complex metalwork. The room vibrated with their biting coldness, hints of incense, rosemary and thyme still claiming this space as their own, where magic had once bled from every wall. But master and mistress seldom visited anymore. The summons could be done elsewhere.
I matched my footsteps to those on the floorboards, dust and cat hair delineating the day-old tracks. The lithe body was ideal for moving between mirrors, feline reflexes keeping me from touching any of them. In the centre, a circle. Or rather, a faded pentacle outlined by inward facing mirrors. And in all of them I saw him.
Pale skin, raven hair, thin body caged in a black suit so tight it would have asphyxiated a less stubborn man. The magician in the mirror adjusted his cuffs, blood-red lips set in a stern line, brow permanently vexed. Deep burn blue and a signal fire in his eyes. And a voice that had been silenced five decades prior.
“Hello, Bartimaeus.”