"Mirror" by Carla K. Anderson

      The mirror sat quietly under the eaves, dusty, its frame tarnished, the glass warped but unbroken. The family had kept it for a century, a sign of their unbroken luck. Yes, the Torres family had been lucky. Their line began with the disinherited son of a dead family—a word I use in the sense of old aristocracy, fallen, nothing but a name, a faded sense of glamour. He left the high mountains of his home and made his own fortune, in ways I wouldn’t dare repeat in polite company, and he lasted more than most would in his trade. He traveled widely between the Americas and around Europe, an expert captain with friendly officials at every port and women in every town, until he met his future wife. From the moment he saw the slim, strong woman by the docks, he knew he would have her.

      Their romance was turbulent and against the wishes of her parents, who considered him nearly as bad as a chispero, a gypsy, but Gabriel Torres and Liani were finally wed. With Gabriel’s amassed fortune the couple settled down in a modest manor on the Galician coast. The mirror began its life then, commissioned by Gabriel to adorn the sitting room and please his wife. In time, Liani bore two sons and one daughter. Both sons continued in their father’s trade, and both seemed to share his luck.

      I am of the Torres line. Over time, through careful investment, we have become richer through less dangerous methods, but our luck has held for dealings ill and fair. The mirror still hung in the sitting room when I was a child, and was polished once a week by my younger sister’s hands. My mother Elisa often despaired of me, and said I was much like my ancestor Gabriel. She told me often that I must learn to settle down, and not trust my inherent luck too much. My face, which is somewhat angular for a woman’s, resembles my forefather as well. There is a small daguerreotype sitting on the shelf above the fireplace of Gabriel Torres, and although it is slightly faded and brown, I can see myself in him.

      Every time my path took my past the mirror in our house I would glance in it before walking past. In the twisting gold frame, set with our family crest of a tower on a mountain, I was beautiful. The mirror seemed to appreciate my attention towards it, and glistened accordingly. Nowhere else have I found a mirror of such luster, such brilliance, a mirror that creates such a different reflection.

      Perhaps it is just my imagination. My lover Isidro told me often how beautiful I was, but I could hardly believe him. When I left my home, I rarely looked in mirrors except when it was necessary to see my face. Always the colors seemed duller and the images fainter. They lack spirit, these small, sad, mirrors. Regardless of this, I had never broken a mirror, not even in anger. I feared the results of what may happen if I did. I and my family: parents, brother, and younger sister, attended church every Sunday as was expected, but I have never been a particularly religious person, influenced, perhaps, by my father and my ancestors in this. The mirror of our house, however, was sacred in its own way. No longer, it seemed.

      When I returned home after years of traveling, upon hearing the news that my father recently died, I found all to be different. Oh, our manor is still impressive, although perhaps slightly in disrepair. When my mother died and my sister had left home to marry a respectable young man of noble blood, my father had closed up most of the rooms of the house, and had the mirror moved up to the attic. Couldn’t you see, father? How could you move our mirror, let it sit uncared for? Why else could your health have failed?

      I went to the attic after my first restless night in my old bedroom, and found the mirror there. I was afraid to move it, almost afraid to wipe away the dust. Would I still be as beautiful as I remembered? I left it sitting there instead, under the eaves, and went back downstairs to begin unpacking.

      Isidro was to join me in a few days, after he had tied up his business in León and sold our small apartment. It is no small irony that I, nearly disowned by my parents, I, who brought scandal to the family, will now live alone in our house with a wanderer, a chispero much like my forefather. We are a match for each other, Isidro and I. Although we rarely fight, we have the same fierce, sudden temper, the same passion for life.

      We met in Paris, years ago, when we were both studying at university. Also a Spaniard, he had been in the city a year longer than I and took it upon himself to show me the sights Paris had to offer. We spent evenings in taverns with other young students, and I listened to their hot-headed arguments about politics, classes, and love. I had wanted only to study the dance, but I found myself drawn to those smoky, loud evenings, just as I was drawn to Isidro. Refusing my parents’ orders to return home after my second year of studies had ended, I remained in Paris, studying art and the French and spending my nights with Isidro.

      In time, just as my schooling had ended, I received a letter from my father telling me that my mother had died. He also told me that I had brought disgrace upon the Torres house, running around Paris with a man with no noble blood and keeping company with his companions. He accused me of sleeping with whoever asked it of me, and finally ordered me once more to return home immediately. Mourning my mother and weary of Paris, I prepared to return to Galicia.

      Isidro chose to sail home with me, but before we reached my home port our ship foundered, leaving us stranded at Vizcaya while shipwrights worked to repair the boat. By the time I reached my home province, the funeral had ended. When I and Isidro arrived at my childhood home, my father, weary and bent with grief, met us on the grounds. Looking at Isidro, he said coldly that I would never again set foot inside the house as long as I was accompanied by the chispero. Without further words I turned my horse and led Isidro away.

      We traveled for days, wandering aimlessly, until at last we reached León. It was not by the water, but the city was beautiful, and with the funds Isidro had saved and the money that remained to me from my parents we bought a small apartment and settled down, he teaching young students attending a school and I dancing or singing in taverns for pay. It was nearly a year later that I heard from an old family friend that my father had died, and my brother had granted me our ancestral mansion.

      On the fourth day of my stay Isidro arrived, tired and travel-worn from his long journey. I was at the door to greet him and we fell into each other’s arms almost immediately. Come what may, we were together again, and to me, that was all that mattered. The mirror remained unmentioned in the attic, collecting dust, although occasionally in the quiet of the afternoon siesta I ventured up to the small garret to consider the dulled surface and the shadow I could see in the depths.

      It was not long—a few months perhaps—when Isidro began to grow restless. In our small, traditional village there was no place for a man of his knowledge and skills. I was content to live quietly in my house, cleaning and trying to restore it to its former beauty, singing occasionally or dancing for Isidro, but my lover was not so settled. He went often to the nearby seacoast, drinking with the sailors who stayed for a few nights on leave. At first, attempting to calm his restless spirit, I went with him on some of those visits, adding one more reason for the families in our province to be scandalized, but my efforts had no effect.

      We began to fight over even small things, our two fiery tempers clashing to the sound of shattered vases and slammed doors. I suspected he had another woman, one he kept in the small seaside town not too far from the Torres manor. He spent less and less time at home with me, and I roamed the house restlessly in his absence. Was I still beautiful? I did not know, now. I carefully avoided the attic, afraid of what I might find, and nursed my resentment.

      This morning I woke to find Isidro gone, his clothes and the money he had won gambling in the taverns also missing. I ran downstairs, my heart filled with ice, but I was not surprised to find the manor deserted. My fear turned to anger. How could he leave me? He had loved me, and I had loved him. We had made a life together. Or had we, really, ever? I was no longer sure of anything. There had always been a part of him that was secret, truly his, like the spirit of a wild animal.

      Filled with the heat of my fury, I rushed up the stairs to the attic, found the mirror in the corner. Using the edge of my robe I wiped the glass clean of the layers of dust and knelt to look in the mirror at last. My face, pale and set, stared back. I was beautiful still, and the mirror’s warped edges seemed to ripple like loving waves. How could Isidro leave me? No. How dare he leave me? My anger rose. He had denied me? Had denied this? I raised my hand, unthinking, formed a fist and smashed it against the surface of the mirror, putting all of my anger behind the blow. The mirror cracked where my hand had landed, a spider-web spread of thin fissures distorting my face. My heart leapt, my breath stopped, my head began to pound. What had I done? I tried to stand, back away, but faint whispers filled my mind and I felt myself fall as the world grew black.

      And then I looked out upon a silvered, fractured world, saw my body lying in front of me…