If you hold something up to a mirror you will see it in reverse. This is particularly obvious when you hold a piece of text up to a mirror. It is disguised. Not only is it in reverse, it is inverted. If you use a second mirror the text will be reversed once more. The original will become apparent. It will be revealed as it truly is. It's magic.
Most shades are unaware of this trick. Most of them assume the rest of the world is able to see the real them. This is not surprising, as it is the way they see themselves. On rare occasions shades have come to understand the nature of their predicament. However, without outside help very few crack the secrets hidden behind a mirror.
Naturals have always had a soft spot for preening themselves in front of reflective surfaces. A high quality mirror was very difficult to come by in ancient times and the modern mirror was not advanced until the Venetians set their minds to it. It's not really surprising they were the ones to advance this technology, considering how self-absorbed and fashion-conscious they were. Also, they had the added advantage of being experts in glass blowing.
Before the Venetians founded a thriving industry in mirror making, a pool of water was your best option. Stones were polished for portability. Later, with the development of alloys, sheets of metal were used. However, the reflections were rarely flattering, or flat. It is a complicated process to achieve a perfectly uniform surface. In order to see a reflection, you need a smooth surface much more than something which is a particularly good reflector. Also, a metal alloy such as copper or bronze produces a tinted reflection. Perfectly fine if you prefer to see yourself with a permanent suntan. However, it requires a serious amount of work to keep such a surface clean and shiny.
The worldwide obsession with perfecting something to satisfy people's egos continued. Searching for the ideal mirror took millennia. This did have the advantage of concealing the dead from the living. There are now considerably more opportunities to see them uncovered. That is, if you know where to look. Fortunately, most naturals are too busy looking at their own reflections and not those of others.
Developments in glass making provided a better, although complex, solution to maintaining a polished reflective surface. Glass makes an excellent coating for a sheet of metal. Even with its advent, the flatness of a mirror could not be perfected. Blowing glass usually produces something which is concave. This creates a distorted reflection. In the end alchemy played a decisive role.
The global obsession with vanity got dirty. Where money is involved this invariably occurs. The first mirrors were very valuable objects and rumours abound that someone even offered an entire country estate for one. Supposedly they thought it was a good deal. This demand led to the final stage in mirror development.
Witches got involved in the spread of this much-sought-after technology. One of them broke the cardinal rule of not influencing the real world. Financial reward was not the catalyst. Looking good was. Vanity is an affliction not confined to naturals. An especially vain witch, using her alchemist connections, encouraged industrial espionage. Strategically dropped hints were placed in open ears, and the technique of adhering a perfect reflective surface to a glass coating presented the Venetians with a golden opportunity to cash in. The modern mirror achieved near perfection.
In order for them to work properly, mirrors depend on reflecting a high quantity of light. Without light there is no reflection. So how do shades see themselves? They are shadows, after all. A light burns within all of us. Dead or alive this inner source of power shines through. I cannot tell you why this is or how it exists. Just take my word for it. Religious beliefs and other organisations have given it a name. Witches also have a name for it. They call it the source. You know you have it. You can feel it. As long as anybody exists on any plane, supernatural or natural, it is there. It is where we draw our vitality from. The source is an energy so powerful it will always shine through.
Anaïs was about to meet someone who had discovered the key to manipulating reflection. This shade was special. It was incredibly vain. This preoccupation was so strong it had helped it harness and take control of death—something quite odd, really. Its drive for perfection, for outer looks, had led it to the discovery of the simple but complex nature of mirrors. All this narcissism came from a lifetime spent in front of one of them. It had a deep affinity with the reflected image. It had found a way to see not only itself but also the camouflage which covered it. It had gone beyond even this and was clearly very talented. It had altered its own disguise.
This shade was almost one of a kind, an abnormality, an anomaly.
The Misfit
The little witch looked up at the shade and gave it a nudge. 'Do you always do this?'
The shade looked down at her incredulously. 'Excuse me, child, did you say something?'
Anaïs smiled to herself. It was a woman's voice echoing in her head. 'Yes, I did. I said, "Do you always do this?"'
'Do what?'
'Flaunt yourself. You know, parade around dressed like this.'
The shade pointed at its chest. 'You mean like this?'
Anaïs nodded.
The shade slouched and put a hand on its hip. 'There's nothing wrong with this.' It looked over its shoulder, lifted a foot and flexed its ankle. It examined its footwear. 'Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.'
The librarian, slightly out of breath, pulled up beside Anaïs. 'Can you please not take off like that?' She studied the shade's face, ran her eyes over the rest of its body and frowned. 'What did it say?'
Anaïs turned to Immi. 'She said something about a woman's shoes conquering the world.'
The librarian grinned. 'Oh! I like this one already.'
Anaïs rolled her eyes. 'You would!'
'Who is it, by the way?'
'I'm not sure yet. I'm still checking.'
'So, you're a witch then?'
Anaïs took a step back in surprise. 'Yes, how did you know?'
'For a start you can hear me. You're not the first one I've met.'
'Really?'
'Most of them are not as forward as you, but yes, I've met a few.'
'Is that so?'
The shade nodded. 'Just like you, they're always warning me not to be so blatant about my appearance. They tend to worry I'll expose myself. I usually tell them to leave me alone.' She held the compact up to her face and examined her features. 'It's not that I don't appreciate their concern, but I prefer to do my own thing. It is better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring. I like what I do. I do what I like.'
'You mean you like it this way, being a shade and all?'
'Of course! What's not to like? Living was scary. Death is easy.' She grabbed Anaïs by the forearm. Her grip was a little too firm. A cold spike ran the length of the witch's arm. It shot all the way up to her shoulder and the entire limb went numb. The shade pulled her across to a nearby advertising pillar. It was decorated with shards of broken mirror. They were glued onto the masonry, completely covering it like a mirror ball. 'Look! Do you recognise me?'
Anaïs squinted at the reflection in the collection of little mirrors. The image of the shade without its camouflage was splintered but still discernible. She saw exactly what she had seen from across the road. A woman in her mid thirties, crowned with a shock of platinum blonde hair. She wore a strapless, sleek, ankle-length dress which clung to her body and left very little to the imagination. Anaïs was delighted with the colour: a brilliant tone of electric purple. The shade had an incredibly small waist and an extreme hour-glass figure. She pouted at Anaïs. The witch could now clearly see its face. Something which had been obscured before.
Her eyes lit up and a grin split her face. 'I knew it. It is you. Marilyn? Marilyn Monroe?'
The librarian's eyes widened in disbelief. 'What?'
The shade swelled her generous breast and proudly proclaimed, 'Indeed, the one and only!'
Anaïs began to shake uncontrollably. The shade's icy grip had spread beyond her arm and through the rest of her
body. It hurt and she grimaced. She clamped her jaw shut to stop her teeth chattering and murmured, 'Could you please let go of my arm?'
Marilyn released her grip. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Of course.' She kneaded her hands as if trying to warm them.
Anaïs rubbed her shoulder and shook her arm in an effort to get the blood flowing again. She flexed her fingers and squeezed the tips together. The feeling began to return.
'But …' stammered the librarian.
Anaïs ignored her. 'It's a pleasure to meet you,' she said.
'Oh, the pleasure is all mine,' said Marilyn.
Anaïs went to shake her hand but thought better of it. Her arm had only just returned to a normal temperature. 'Why do you take such risks with your appearance? Don't you know there are unfriendly forces out there looking for people like you?'
'Yes, I know. I've seen them. They are pretty easy to spot. But they don't bother me. Well, at least, I don't let them bother me.'
'Anaïs? We have to go.' This time the voice in her head was Nan's.
'Not right now, Nan,' said Anaïs with an edge of irritation. 'I'm talking.' She turned away from the mirrors which now also held Nan's image. She looked at the camouflaged Marilyn. It was a very good disguise albeit a bit strange. 'Now I'm curious. How do you get away from them?'
'Easy. I'm a chameleon. I've had more than a lifetime of experience playing around with my appearance. If I want to, I am very good at hiding. Anyway, they always give themselves away.'
'How?'
'They're never alone. There is always some kind of strange beast hanging around with them.' Marilyn lifted her head and nodded with her chin at something behind Anaïs. 'Just like that one over there.'
Confrontation
A sly smile contorted his face. This was too easy. He let his hand drop and ran his knuckles over the dog's hard head. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth. Tilting back his head, he shot a jet of blue smoke into the air.
He weighed the situation. This time it was different. They were in a group. A big target. They had no transport. Even if they separated and went in opposite directions, he would still catch one of them. One shade was better than none at all.
The girl had aged. It had taken him by surprise. Her face was the same. A little more elongated and thinner, but it was definitely her. Before he left, they had said she was special and to be prepared for the extraordinary. A pity they could tell him no more. At least he now knew one thing. She was not a natural, that was a certainty. He could discount her. He was not there for her. She was not a shade. Don't get distracted again. She is only bait.
Just as before, the way she had been communicating with them had given them away. He ran his eyes over the group. The cross-dresser, or whatever it was, and the old woman. They were apathetic and lethargic. They had to be shades. He was not sure about the other one, the one wearing the fluffy coat. She certainly dressed a lot like the bearded one, but she was not a shade. She was also strangely familiar. Had he seen her before? No matter. Chances were she was a natural. More animated than the others, she did not have the vacant stare of a shade. She was alive and kicking. He could forget about her. Whoever she was, it was irrelevant. She was not a target.
He drew deeply on the cigar and exhaled, letting the smoke pour out through his nostrils. The rather robust shade, the thick set woman, would not be able to move fast. The transvestite would be hampered by those incredibly high heels. Excellent!
He smirked again. He was in control. It was a good feeling. He studied the girl and had a passing moment of sympathy for her. She was very young. He was not entirely comfortable with the fact he was dealing with a child. The shades did not matter. They had squandered their chance at life. Their time was over. A child still had something to live for. Even if it was not entirely natural. Not that he had been tasked with getting rid of her. What happened to her was not his concern, although deep down it troubled him. Whenever possible, he was tasked with protecting the innocent.
Stop thinking like that. Do your job, he reassured himself.
He shook his head to clear it, furrowed his brow and focussed on the group across the street.
Right, let's get down to it then!
He twisted the dog's chain tighter around his palm. He took a last long pull on the cigar, dropped the butt at his feet and ground it into the pavement. This time he would not wait for them to make the first move. He had the advantage of surprise. He checked for traffic and stepped out onto the road.
* * *
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* * *
Anaïs looked around frantically. How had he got here? She thought he was gone forever. She needed a distraction, anything, something to slow him down. A gust of wind whipped up a piece of paper and blew it across the street. It hit the Inquisitor in the leg and flapped around his boot. He stooped to pull it off. Then the thought struck her. She had something. She had recently played with it in Amsterdam. The weather there was perfect for it. There was always a breeze whipping across the flat plains in the Netherlands. She reached deep into her beret and pulled out a child's plastic windmill.
Why hadn't she thought of it before?
She pulled the beret down snuggly around her ears. She spread her legs, widening her stance. She leant forward slightly and set her weight against the windmill and gripped it with both hands. She blew softly through the vanes.
The windmill slowly began to turn. She blew again and it sped up. It began making a whirring noise. The blades of the toy became a solid circle and she could no longer make out the individual vanes. Little sparks of light started to flicker on the circumference until there was a completely stable ring of light.
She turned her attention to the man and his dog crossing the road towards them. She adjusted her stance and directed the toy at them. The first indication of its effect was when the dog's fringe parted on its snout. The fur flapped back up over its broad skull and exposed its bright red eyes. She ignored them and focussed on the toy in her hands. She willed the windmill on. It increased in velocity and with it the whirring sound amplified. It emitted an almost hypnotic drone. A halo of light grew around it.
Loose rubbish lying on the road between her and the Inquisitor fluttered. Flapping first at the edges, it then became airborne. A plastic bag flew at the Inquisitor and wrapped itself around his face. He tore it off and didn't break stride. More rubbish levitated into the air. Caught in the unseen wind it flew towards the Inquisitor. Each piece which struck him, he wrenched from his body and discarded. This was until an entire movie poster extracted itself from a nearby fence and soared across the street. It hit him, covering him from head to foot, stopping him in his tracks. The edges of the poster shredded and wrapped around his legs, torso and head. He fought vainly to rip it off but the paper was too thick.
More and more discarded wrappers, paper bags, bits of plastic and other packaging added to the coating around his body. Eventually the Inquisitor was completely wrapped in refuse. He continued the fight to free himself, thrashing his arms until they too were pinned to his body. The heavy bulk of trash forced him backwards. He took one step and lost his balance, his legs tangled in a mass of rubbish. He fell.
He slid along the ground away from her, packaged like a colourful Christmas present, dragging the dog with him. It too struggled, its claws digging deep into the asphalt. It could not compete with the invisible wind and the added weight of the Inquisitor. The wrappers drove them back to where they had first stood and then beyond, towards a high, metal fence surrounding the basilica's building site.
A movement halfway up the closest steeple caught her eye. A figure, dressed entirely in black, in a long coat and sporting a fedora, stood on an exposed staircase. It held onto a railing and leaned out of the tower. It watched the scene play out below. Its attention was focussed solely on the Inquisitor. Above the church a thick, dark cloud was forming. Its blackness dominated the sky. Anaïs heard the rumble of thunder. Then something else distracted her. A hand gripped her shoulder.
The hand pulled her backwards, guiding her around a corner and into the neighbouring side street. The last she saw of the Inquisitor, he and his dog were a great ball of paper plastered against the metal fence.
The hand spun her around. She looked at the face of its owner. Her initial irritation melted and turned to joy. A broad smile lit up her own face. It was one face she was more than pleased to see.
La Farmàcia
'Wow! You have a great setup here,' said Anaïs.
'It's ok, I suppose,' muttered the Apothecary. 'But I miss my sound system.'
'Why don't you get a new one?'
'I will, once I can work out how to ask for one in Spanish.' He scratched his head. 'I only just got here.'
'Why did they transfer you?'
'They thought it would be good for me. A change of climate, I guess. Nice weather and all that. I couldn't care less. I hate the sun.'
Anaïs grinned at him. 'Yeah, a lot of good that does you now. It's the middle of winter. Even here the sun doesn't shine.'
'Good, I hope it stays that way, although I'm not holding my breath. It's gonna get hot, really hot.' He sighed. 'That's what bothers me the most. At least there's air conditioning. That is, if I can find the remote control.'
'Shall I help you look?'
'Nah, it'll show up. I hope.' He flicked his head over his shoulder. 'What was going on out there by the way? Who was the skinny dude with the dog?'
Back out on the street, the Apothecary had been the one gripping Anaïs's shoulder. By chance his new post was hidden beneath the building they had been standing in front of. In the side street the Apothecary had ushered the group through the entrance of a real pharmacy. The shop was closed for the midday siesta and vacant. They were therefore not disturbed by the owners. Hidden at the back between tiers of drawers in a storage room was a lift. It was similar to the one in Amsterdam. They had been transported down several floors. Anaïs, the Apothecary and Immi had practically frozen to death, crammed into the small lift with the two shades. Even now their body temperatures were fighting to return to normal levels.
The Promptuary Page 11