The Wistful Mirror
The glass was not a window. It was a mouth. Elias stood before it. He had been standing there for three days. Or perhaps three weeks. Time in the house of Arthur Vane did not flow. It pooled. It stagnated. The mirror on the wall of the study was the size of a door. It was ornate. Gilded. Heavy with the dust of a century that had not yet ended. It reflected Elias. It reflected the room. It...
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