He dreamed of teeth.

Not his own. They hung from the ceiling of a room made of bone. White. Smooth. Cold. He reached for them. They were warm. They tasted of iron.

He woke with a mouthful of blood.

The mirror in the dressing room was cracked. A spiderweb fracture ran from the top left corner down to the center. He looked at it. He looked at his hand. The blood was gone. He wiped his lip. Nothing.

"Mr. Hale."

The voice was thin. Like dry paper tearing.

He turned. Silas stood in the doorway. Silas was small. He wore a suit that was too big for him. The collar swallowed his neck. His eyes were red. Not from crying. From lack of sleep. From fear.

"Sir," Silas said. "The Duke is waiting."

"Go away."

"He will not wait long."

Hale looked at the mirror again. The crack seemed to pulse. Or maybe his eyes were playing tricks. He was a man of business. He dealt in grain. In wool. In land. He did not deal in ghosts. He did not deal in dreams that left blood in his mouth.

"Tell him I am busy."

"He knows you are busy. He says it is time to settle the account."

Hale closed his eyes. The smell of the room came back. Damp stone. Old wood. The metallic tang of the dream.

"Tell him I will be there in ten minutes."

Silas nodded. He did not leave. He stood in the doorway. A silhouette against the dim light of the hall.

"Mr. Hale."

"What."

"Your hands."

Hale looked down. His fingers were trembling. He clenched them into fists. He hid them in his pockets.

"Go, Silas."

The boy went. The door clicked shut. The sound was final. Like a coffin lid.

Hale stood in the center of the room. The mirror watched him. He could not look away. The crack in the glass was a vein. It was a wound. It was a promise.

He thought of the contract. He had signed it three months ago. It was simple. He would provide the gold. The Duke would provide the silence. The war was coming. The armies were massing on the border. The price of silence was high. The price of gold was higher. Hale had paid. He had paid with his last reserves. He had paid with his soul. Or so the stories said.

He was not a man of stories. He was a man of ledgers.

He put on his coat. The fabric was heavy. It weighed him down. He felt the weight in his chest. In his ribs. In his spine.

He walked to the hall. The floorboards creaked under his feet. The house was old. It had been old before his father. It had been old before his grandfather. It held things in its walls. Things that did not want to be let out.

The Duke’s study was at the end of the long corridor. The doors were black oak. They were carved with faces. Screaming faces. Hale had always hated them. He had always wanted to burn the house down. But he could not. The house was the anchor. The house was the proof that he existed.

He knocked.

"Enter."

The voice was deep. It vibrated in the floor.

Hale opened the door.

The room was dark. Candles burned in the corners. The light was yellow. It made everything look sick. The Duke sat behind a desk. He was a large man. His face was hidden in shadow. Only his eyes were visible. They were bright. They were wet.

"Thomas," the Duke said. "You are late."

"The road was bad," Hale said.

"The road is always bad in this house."

Hale stepped inside. The door closed behind him. The latch clicked. He felt the trap spring.

The Duke leaned back. He crossed his arms. He looked at Hale. He looked at Hale’s hands.

"You have the gold," the Duke said.

"It is in the vault."

"No. I mean the price. You have paid the price. Do you not feel it?"

Hale frowned. "I feel tired."

"Tiredness is the first symptom. Then comes the hunger. Then comes the loss."

"Loss of what?"

"Of yourself."

Hale laughed. It was a dry sound. A barking sound. "I am here. I am breathing. I am paying my debts. What more do you want?"

"I want the truth."

"The truth is in the ledger."

"The truth is in the mirror."

Hale looked at the Duke. "The mirror is in my room."

"Every mirror is a window. You look into it. You see what is there. You do not like what you see. So you break it. But the glass does not stay broken. It mends. It remembers. It waits."

Hale felt a chill. It started in his toes. It climbed his legs. It settled in his stomach.

"You are speaking in riddles," Hale said. "I am a businessman. I do not deal in riddles."

"No. You deal in survival. You survive by forgetting. You forget the war. You forget the dead. You forget the blood. But the blood remembers."

Hale looked around the room. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. They looked like hands. They looked like fingers. They were reaching for him.

"I will pay again," Hale said. His voice was steady. He forced it to be steady. "Name the sum."

"The sum is not money."

"Then what is it?"

"Your memory."

Hale stared at him. "I do not understand."

"You remember the night the bridge burned. You remember the boy. You remember the sound he made. You have forgotten it. You have buried it. But it is still there. Under the floor. Under the foundation. It is rotting the house."

Hale’s heart pounded. He thought of the bridge. He thought of the smoke. He thought of the scream. He had not thought of it in years. He had buried it deep. He had covered it with grain contracts. With land deeds. With silence.

"I did not kill him," Hale said.

"No. But you let him burn. You held the gate. You did not open it. You chose your gold. You chose your safety. You chose to live."

The Duke stood up. He walked around the desk. He moved slowly. Like a predator.

"I am not a monster," Hale said.

"You are a mirror. You reflect what is there. You are the crack in the glass. You are the shard that cuts. And you are the hand that holds the shard."

Hale looked at his hands. They were still trembling. He looked at the Duke. The Duke’s face was clear now. In the candlelight, it was not shadowy. It was pale. It was young. It was not the Duke’s face.

It was Hale’s face.

The room tilted. The floor fell away.

Hale fell.

He landed on the cold stone floor of his bedroom. He was on his knees. The mirror was in front of him. The crack was gone. The glass was smooth. It was perfect.

He looked into it.

He saw his face. It was old. It was tired. It was full of grief. He saw the blood on his lip. He saw the tears in his eyes. He saw the truth.

He had not paid the gold. He had paid himself. He had sold his humanity. He had sold his conscience. He had sold his soul to keep the war away. To keep the blood out. But the blood was inside. It was in his veins. It was in his bones. It was in his mind.

He reached for the mirror. He touched the glass. It was cold. It was solid.

"Silas!" he shouted. "Silas!"

No answer.

The house was silent. The candles in the hall were out. The darkness was total.

He stood up. His legs were weak. He swayed. He grabbed the dresser for support.

He thought of the boy on the bridge. He heard the scream again. It was not a distant memory. It was a present reality. It was in his ears. It was in his skull.

He had to do something. He could not live with this. He could not carry this weight.

He looked at the window. The moon was out. It was full. It was bright.

He walked to the window. He opened it. The cold air rushed in. It smelled of pine. Of snow. Of death.

He climbed out.

The ground was far below. He looked down. The garden was dark. The trees were like ghosts.

He jumped.

The fall was short. It was quick. He hit the branches. He hit the ground.

He did not wake up.

He did not dream of teeth.

He dreamed of nothing.

Silas found him in the morning. The body was broken. The head was open. The blood was dark. It stained the snow.

Silas knelt beside him. He did not scream. He did not cry. He just looked. He looked at the face. It was peaceful. It was empty.

Silas stood up. He walked back to the house. He opened the door. He went to the dressing room.

He looked in the mirror.

The glass was cracked. A spiderweb fracture ran from the top left corner down to the center.

Silas looked at his reflection. He was small. He was weak. He was afraid.

He raised his hand. He touched the glass.

It was cold.

He smiled.

He closed the door.

The house stood. The snow fell. The war came.

And the mirror watched.