mirror.
As she returned to the sitting room, the fire was beginning to crackle. Saddith rose to her feet. 'With your permission, my lady, I will leave you now. The King speaks truly. You are near to a size with the lady Myste-although,' she commented with a coy smirk, 'she lacks some of your advantages. I must speak with her about clothing suited to your station. And I am sure that she will be able to make some contribution to the things needed for your toilet.'
She looked at Terisa expectantly.
A moment passed before Terisa realized that Saddith was waiting to be dismissed.
This wasn't how her father's servants had treated her. Surprised, and rather gratified, she mustered her courage to ask, 'Don't you use mirrors for anything except Imagery? They don't have to be made out of glass. How about polished bronze?'
Unexpectedly, Saddith shuddered. The Masters say the same-but how are we to believe them? Imagers have not always wished other folk well. Perhaps all Images are dangerous. Everyone knows that it is worse than death to see oneself in a glass. Perhaps the danger is not in the glass, but in the Image.' She made a gesture of refusal. 'We do not take the risk,'
Then how do you see yourself? How do you know what you look like? How do you know you're real?'
At that, the maid chuckled. 'My lady, I see what I need in the eyes of men.'
When Terisa nodded her permission, Saddith moved towards the door. In a moment, she was gone.
Terisa was alone for the first time since she had sat down in front of the mirrors of her apartment.
She was aware that she had some hard thinking to do; but that wasn't what she did. She was overloaded with strangeness, and she wanted to escape. Still avoiding the windows, she went into the bedroom. The air wasn't warm enough yet to encourage her to take off her clothes, so she simply slipped her moccasins from her feet and climbed into bed.
Clutching the coverlet tightly about her shoulders, she curled herself into a ball and went to sleep.
When she awoke, she passed straight from her usual blank slumber into a state of crisis.
There were no mirrors. No mirrors. The walls were decorated with peacock feathers, and she couldn't see herself anywhere. The bed was rumpled; but that had never been enough to tell her who she was, anybody could have rumpled the bed, if she were to see herself now she might bear no resemblance to what she was expecting, that was why she had to find some reflection of herself, had to prove somehow that-
The light had dwindled almost to twilight: it was barely enough to bring back her recollection of this place. With an effort of will, she took hold of her fear. Where she was didn't match the way she remembered it. She had an impression of changes- subtle, insidious, vast in implication-of ways in which reality had been rearranged. The dying of the light was the first one she was able to define; and she clung to it because it was reasonable, an indication of nothing more portentous than passing time.
Then she noticed there was a fire in the bedroom hearth.
It hadn't been set recently: the flames were small over a deep bed of coals; the bars of the grate shone with cherry heat; the air was warmer than it had been.
That, too, could be explained, she told herself, insisted to herself. Judging by the light, she had been asleep for several hours. Someone had come in and lit the fire for her while she slept. It was that simple.
But the idea that people had been changing things around her while she slept was too frightening to be simple.
She pushed her feet out of bed and sat up. The soft, woven texture of the rug under her soles reminded her of her moccasins. She put them on, straightened her sleep-creased flannel shirt, and stood up.
Nothing terrible happened. Her body felt normal. The stone and mahogany and feathers showed no signs of dissolution, of translation. Her panic took
As she returned to the sitting room, the fire was beginning to crackle. Saddith rose to her feet. 'With your permission, my lady, I will leave you now. The King speaks truly. You are near to a size with the lady Myste-although,' she commented with a coy smirk, 'she lacks some of your advantages. I must speak with her about clothing suited to your station. And I am sure that she will be able to make some contribution to the things needed for your toilet.'
She looked at Terisa expectantly.
A moment passed before Terisa realized that Saddith was waiting to be dismissed.
This wasn't how her father's servants had treated her. Surprised, and rather gratified, she mustered her courage to ask, 'Don't you use mirrors for anything except Imagery? They don't have to be made out of glass. How about polished bronze?'
Unexpectedly, Saddith shuddered. The Masters say the same-but how are we to believe them? Imagers have not always wished other folk well. Perhaps all Images are dangerous. Everyone knows that it is worse than death to see oneself in a glass. Perhaps the danger is not in the glass, but in the Image.' She made a gesture of refusal. 'We do not take the risk,'
Then how do you see yourself? How do you know what you look like? How do you know you're real?'
At that, the maid chuckled. 'My lady, I see what I need in the eyes of men.'
When Terisa nodded her permission, Saddith moved towards the door. In a moment, she was gone.
Terisa was alone for the first time since she had sat down in front of the mirrors of her apartment.
She was aware that she had some hard thinking to do; but that wasn't what she did. She was overloaded with strangeness, and she wanted to escape. Still avoiding the windows, she went into the bedroom. The air wasn't warm enough yet to encourage her to take off her clothes, so she simply slipped her moccasins from her feet and climbed into bed.
Clutching the coverlet tightly about her shoulders, she curled herself into a ball and went to sleep.
When she awoke, she passed straight from her usual blank slumber into a state of crisis.
There were no mirrors. No mirrors. The walls were decorated with peacock feathers, and she couldn't see herself anywhere. The bed was rumpled; but that had never been enough to tell her who she was, anybody could have rumpled the bed, if she were to see herself now she might bear no resemblance to what she was expecting, that was why she had to find some reflection of herself, had to prove somehow that-
The light had dwindled almost to twilight: it was barely enough to bring back her recollection of this place. With an effort of will, she took hold of her fear. Where she was didn't match the way she remembered it. She had an impression of changes- subtle, insidious, vast in implication-of ways in which reality had been rearranged. The dying of the light was the first one she was able to define; and she clung to it because it was reasonable, an indication of nothing more portentous than passing time.
Then she noticed there was a fire in the bedroom hearth.
It hadn't been set recently: the flames were small over a deep bed of coals; the bars of the grate shone with cherry heat; the air was warmer than it had been.
That, too, could be explained, she told herself, insisted to herself. Judging by the light, she had been asleep for several hours. Someone had come in and lit the fire for her while she slept. It was that simple.
But the idea that people had been changing things around her while she slept was too frightening to be simple.
She pushed her feet out of bed and sat up. The soft, woven texture of the rug under her soles reminded her of her moccasins. She put them on, straightened her sleep-creased flannel shirt, and stood up.
Nothing terrible happened. Her body felt normal. The stone and mahogany and feathers showed no signs of dissolution, of translation. Her panic took
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