Most mirrors are made of glass.
Most mirrors will bear the sight of you picking spinach out of your teeth without much fuss—thank goodness—but there are others out there that have a little magic mixed with their mercury. To various effects. Some will answer the call mirror, mirror on the wall and act as windows. Others may show you your parallel reflection—a life you would have lived in a different world. There are even a rare few that serve as doors. Every one of these enchanted mirrors has a memory.
A memory that can be called upon, with the right spell.
On the night of May 29, 1913, a magical mirror was shattered in the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. Most of the pieces that fell to the dressing room floor were too small to show anything, but there was one that spun beneath some hanging slippers—a single shard. A glimpse of what really happened at The Rite of Spring.
Mirrors do not have ears, so you cannot hear the clamor of Stravinsky’s score. You cannot hear the ballerinas’ tutus rustle as they step aside for the Ballet Russes performers, who stomp their way to the stage. You see only fragments of this exchange—tulle and hairpins and white-swan limbs. And then? A pair of wings. The Sanct bursts backstage. She almost looks like a dancer herself, all those peacock colors fanning out. Teal and purple feathers. A matching deep aquamarine light swims across her face. You cannot help but be mesmerized as you watch.
Then your breath catches.
Hers must too.
All that the glass shows of the Sanct’s attacker is a single hand. A black… glove? It wraps around her throat and does not stop. What first were fingers become claws. Claws turn to vines—dark and choking. The Sanct struggles. Bruise-colored feathers drop from her wings, blowing away like autumn leaves. She withers, until there is nothing left but bone.