Mirror, Mirror

By Jill Gregory

Beautiful healer Fiona cherishes the small golden mirror that once belonged to a witch of legendary power. But when trouble comes to her home at Bitterbloom Cottage, she must learn to use the magic of the mirror as she protects a wounded knight who could make all of her dreams come true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Gregory
• Release date: Feb 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463311684

Book preview

Prologue

Dovenbyre Castle,

Grithain

As a full moon swam high in a midnight sky above the castle, the king of Grithain lay dying. He had survived countless battles and wars, two attempted poisonings, and a stabbing. All had been endured with stalwart strength. But now his heart beat faintly, and his shrewd, deep-set eyes were closed. In a velvet chair near his bed of ermine pelts and silk linens, the old witch, Ariel, huddled in a forest-green cloak, nearly as weak as the king she had served most of her days.

The boy, Ariel … what will become of … the boy? he managed to gasp, though his eyes remained shut.

He will be king — or not, the witch answered in a hissing whisper.

All this time … I kept him far from me all this time … so that he might live …

He might yet. But danger draws near. Too near, Ariel muttered. She would not lie to the king, nor to herself.

At this moment the danger to Branden, Prince of Grithain, was greater than it had been at any other time since he had first been smuggled in secret away from the castle only two days following his birth. And her powers, needed now more than ever, had never been weaker.

She was old and drained, beaten by an unseen foe, a faraway demon-wizard who had somehow poisoned her with a slow-acting spell, one so rare it went beyond her powers, nearly all of them, attacking her from some distant, unknown place. He had found a way to tap them, draw them from her, and yet leave her alive to know what was happening, to feel the power ebbing, the weakness overtaking her. It had been a slow, cruel, torturous death. The only thing she retained was her mind, her thoughts. Those he could not breach. But now she feared that he and his master were closing in on the prince — and only one man could save him. One mortal man …

No! A shudder wracked the old witch in her chair, and King Mortimer’s eyes painfully opened upon the candlelit chamber. He ignored the servants hovering about his bed with medicinal draughts and golden goblets of wine and frightened faces, and directed his words to Ariel.

What, witch? What makes you cry out? Is my boy dead?

No … not dead … but they are coming … lying in wait … Conor! The witch screeched.

Tell me what you see -- is all lost?

Help … he needs help … Conor, no! The witch hugged her spindly arms around herself, rocking her withered body in the chair as the visions, faint but certain, hammered in her head.

Suddenly her gaze flew to the window, and she stared at the full pearl of a moon.

Midnight … ’tis nearly midnight …

Ariel! The king’s voice was weaker now, his breathing ragged. Can you … save my boy …

Hynda, yes, I hear you, Ariel whispered, as if she was no longer aware of the king. She rocked harder in her chair, her voice low, desperate. I hear you, my sister, but … she is only a girl, a mortal girl … yes, the mirror. The Midnight Mirror. If I can only … summon the strength … He has taken it, all of it … almost all …

She rocked, back and forth, back and forth, muttering words under her breath, gathering the last frayed threads of what had once been a great blanketing power.

Ashwer quinkling sep moregose. Can argg hana swey.

The mirror. The girl. The moon. Midnight.

She felt a spark, one last spark— of light, of power, of magic. It splashed through her like the dizzying surge of a cool mountain spring as the king’s eyes closed again and her body twitched and shuddered.

The mirror, she thought on a gasp of final effort. Let your power awaken, mirror … mirror …

The seconds crept closer to the hour of midnight. All of her energy flowed across Grithain to a distant cottage on the border of an ancient forest— to a girl and a cat and a mirror …

Let what was hidden be seen.

Let what was dark glow with light.

Let the mirror speak, its silence end.

At the stroke of this midnight.

Ariel sank back, spent and gasping, as King Mortimer of Grithain drew one final breath.

There is hope for your son, my king, she whispered as the flames of the candles fluttered and the king’s heart at last set him free. Hope for Branden, within the mirror. We shall see … Majesty, we shall see …

1

The cold seeped ruthlessly, like an intrepid enemy, through the walls of Bitterbloom Cottage that dark winter’s night. Despite the brave blaze of the fire and the winking candles Fiona had lighted and set upon the table and upon Hynda’s old bronze chest, it squeezed through the cracks and chinks, whistled across the floor, and chilled the air like puffs of snow.

Seated on the bench before the hearth, searching through the old wooden box Tidbit had just discovered and dived into with a screech, Fiona shivered in her unadorned gown of blue wool. This was one of the coldest nights she remembered since coming to live at the cottage twelve years ago. Icicles dripped from the trees beyond the window, and though there was little snow to be seen, all was blanketed in a deep, frigid silence — but for the desperate rush of the wind and the occasional howl of wolves from the bowels of the Dark Forest.

The cold was strong and bitter, like a living thing — powerful and relentless, an icy force that commanded notice in all surroundings — including this otherwise cozy parlor.

Here, Tidbit, settle before the fire. It’s too cold for your wanderings tonight, Fiona advised the dainty black cat whom she’d lifted from the box and who now prowled the room, displaying the same restlessness that Fiona felt within herself.

Tidbit had slipped out earlier this evening and returned nearly frozen, yet she couldn’t seem to settle down. Almost as if she sensed something in the air, something … or someone … coming …

But that couldn’t be, Fiona told herself as she picked up an old tangled nest of wool from the wooden box the cat had climbed into— a box Fiona hadn’t noticed in ages, hidden as it was in a dark corner beneath a low bench.

No one would venture forth tonight, she told herself, not in this cold. Even the duke would not leave the castle on such a night. For once, she need not fear to find him at her door.

She was lonely, had been lonely ever since Hynda had died, but she wasn’t that lonely. If she never saw the duke again, it would most certainly be too soon.

She pushed away the sense of aloneness that was almost as oppressive as the cold and concentrated on unraveling the tangles of wool, on turning them into something useful. She would knit mittens for Gilroyd. The boy was constantly losing his, and she suspected that he gave them away to the poor children of the village, those whose parents had barely enough wool to fashion tunics for their children, much less cloaks and shoes and mittens.

The Duke of Urbagran kept his villagers poor and dependent on his good graces. While he, who was born noble, had no heart that Fiona had ever glimpsed, Sir Henry’s youngest son, Gilroyd, small and straight and only ten seemed to have more than his fair share, certainly more than any other child she had ever seen. It was only one of the things she loved about him, and only one of the reasons she would stay alone at Bitterbloom Cottage for as long as was necessary, making sure to do all she could to protect his life.

She bent her attention to the wool, but she’d scarcely succeeded in unsnarling the first few strands when the entire tangled ball suddenly slipped from her icy fingers as if by its own will and dropped back into the wooden box. She reached for it with a sigh, and that was when she spotted something shiny at the very bottom of the box.

It was a mirror.

It lay face-down, half hidden by another skein of wool, some tattered remnants of silk, and several musty leather pouches, no doubt containing old herbs and powders. Hynda had given her this box shortly after she’d first come to live at the cottage.

For your treasures, Hynda had informed her solemnly. At one time Fiona had kept in this box every odd and end and bauble she’d received or found, including the little packets of healing herbs and powders Hynda had first shown her, the most elemental stuff of healing. And somehow the mirror must have ended up in here, too, a trinket from her childhood, forgotten, abandoned — until now.

With a small smile, Fiona reached for the small golden mirror whose handle and oval frame were studded with bits of amber. Hynda had given it to her within her first months at Bitterbloom Cottage, telling her that it was a magic mirror, a gift she herself had received from her sister, Ariel, a witch of legendary power.

She’d told Fiona, It holds powerful magic.

Captivated, and a little afraid, Fiona had asked, What sort of magic?

If you gaze into it at midnight on the night of a full moon, it might show, when it chooses, some event of great joy or great evil or great import, from past or present or even future. It has the gift of sight bestowed upon it by its maker, Ariel. She gave it to me, and I give it to you now.