The Third Uncle

Chapter Eight: Something Wicked

 Chapter Eight: Something Wicked

   ‘Daring, darling, darling, what are you doing?’

    Francesca turned the mirror to see her reflection, and shushed it. ‘Shhh! I am looking at these boots in the window, I think they’d go really well with my blue dress, the one with the silk bow ...’ She turned the mirror toward the boots. ‘What do you think?’ The Specchio was silent for a minute, and then tutted, with a click of her tongue.

   ‘Yes,’ She answered. ‘They are nice dear, that I can’t deny, but no, they would most definitely not go with your blue dress.’ The Specchio paused a moment, uncharacteristically thinking, before she burst out laughing. ‘I see I’ll have to teach you a thing or two about co-ordinating your wardrobe!’ Francesca’s cheeks turned quite pink, and she spluttered.

   ‘Teach me a thing about co-ordinating my wardrobe?! I beg your pardon, but when was the last time you had a wardrobe?!’ Her reflection smiled infuriatingly back at her her.

    ‘Me?! I have a wardrobe bigger, and more elegant than yours, now stop being a brat and start thinking about why we’re out here in the middle of the night!’ 

                                    Francesca was turning purple.

  ‘More elegant,’ she choked. ‘Than MINE?! Oooh!’ She stomped. ‘I have half a mind to smash you -’

  ‘Can’t be done, go ahead and try.’ The mirror paused, hoping she wouldn’t actually try, as she was fibbing of course. It could be done. She decided she was safe and smiled her most infuriating smile back at Francesca. ‘I dare you.’ 

   Francesca stood at the side of the shop window, her knuckles turning white as she squeezed the handle of the mirror harder and harder before she finally screeched and thrust it back into her bag with an oath and stalked off toward St Etienne du Mont. 

   Her reflection in the shop window did not, however, follow her along the imperfect surface of the shop window. It stayed fixed to the glass, watching, as if waiting for something to happen, and then, as Francesca rounded the corner, her reflection turned away and slowly disappeared from the window. It rippled away like a rock had been dropped into a small silvery pool, and slowly, the light all around the shop - the candles behind shutters, the lamps at the street corners and even the glow of the moon seemed to fade, and extinguish for a moment, before an incandescent line grew out of the darkness in the air. 

                                                   It sparked.

  Little filaments sizzled in the darkness, and then they spiralled round and round until it became an invisible outline that resembled nothing less than a small girl, a young girl, a girl with long, curly, dark hair. 

   An unmistakable transparent facsimile of Francesca appeared on the pavement in front of the shop and smiled. The apparition spun, arms out, fingers slicing through the warm night air, pirouetting where it stood, electrifying the evening. The sudden smell of cordite permeated the breeze and it laughed, a soundless laugh that could be seen in the open mouth, in the soft creases around its eyes, and in the delight of its step as it suddenly ran from the window, spinning and dancing beneath a great oak that hung over the glistening cobblestones. It stretched out its long transparent fingers and caught some fireflies that had been resting among the branches and watched them as they pulsed softly over her palms.

   The flies illuminated the veins, the muscle, and the tiny bones in her hands. She stared, transfixed, as the little creatures navigated over her flesh, crawling over the tiny newly formed hairs on her arm, tasting the perspiration that rose to the surface.