She's about to turn the corner and leave Le Village Saint-Paul for home when she notices the battered sign on the little door. It's odd that despite her frequent trips to the Malais district, she has never come across this particular store, and curious, she takes another good look at the door.
"Miraculous," the sign reads in spidery handwriting. There's a small red stamp in the lower right corner that looks vaguely Oriental.
Miraculous? She wonders to herself, and squints harder at this shop-that-really-shouldn't-be-there. Saint-Paul is known for its quirky brocante, but even the most ridiculous store cannot possibly top the sheer insanity of this antique shop. The way the stone above the little door seems to jut out of the building surface like a gabled roof practically defies architectural physics.
She has the sudden urge to go inside—just a look, a small voice in her head cajoles, it won't take long, dear—but it's getting late and she knows that her husband will take notice of her absence if she's not home in time for dinner. It's a stifling event that either she nor her little son enjoy, punctuated only by the soft clink of dinnerware and the masticating of jaws, but Gabriel insists on it, nevertheless, if only for the sake of appearances in front of the servants. There was a time when such things mattered far less to him—when he was just Gabriel, her Gabriel, and not the cold, reserved Gabriel Agreste whose face she only saw at dinnertimes.
Not anymore.
She takes a look at her watch. 17:00 stares up at her in bright neon characters. Just a peek, the voice pipes up again, and she reaches out to touch the door of the shop. It's made of some kind of dark lacquered wood that looks like molten metal and feels as smooth as glass.
The door swings open, to her surprise.
It's dark and cool inside the little shop and for a moment, she stands still, entranced at the trinkets that surround her. Delicate butterfly pins flit around on night-dark wings dotted with stars; glittering brooches hang on gossamer shawls that hover over mannequins' shoulders like ethereal clouds. Right next to the mannequins, she notices a plaster bust of a beautiful boy crowned with an olive wreath. Its blank gaze slowly turns toward her direction and with a little smirk on its lovely lips, it very deliberately opens and closes one eye.
This is an adventure, she thinks excitedly, something as wonderful and strange as the fairy tales little Adrien loves.
"Welcome," she hears someone say as if from a distance, but she's too busy weaving stories to take back to her little son. Gabriel will be scouring the mansion and the First Arrondissement for her at this point, but her minor transgression will be worth seeing her son's smile.
She startles when an old man quietly materializes in front of her eyes. She blinks, stunned for a moment, and the man smiles gently at her. "Th-that was like magic," she breathes out. The old man seems amused.
"It was," he says. "Magic still exists in this world, Madame." He smiles, and with a polite "Please feel free to look around the shop," he leaves her gaping after him like a fish.
She forgets all about the mysterious owner in her excitement over the goods in the shop. The butterflies trail behind her as she pores over dusty tomes filled with indecipherable symbols. She marvels over the stone Chinese dragon that sniffs before it deigns to huff out a small flame through one nostril for her amusement; the spark hovers in the air before fizzling out like a firecracker.
Wandering further into the shop, she peers into the cavernous depths of a wishing well. Finally, she comes across a long, oblong object covered by a veil. She pushes aside the cloth to find a cracked mirror. Engraved around its edges is looping script that she deciphers, after a startled pause, to be written in English. "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on whosi," it reads. After a few half-hearted tries, she gives up trying to decipher its meaning and instead stares at her own reflection. The slender woman reflected on the silvered surface blows her a kiss and winks roguishly with an almond-shaped green eye before turning and motioning for someone out of sight to come closer.
When he steps into the frame, her heart stops.
It's a man: tall, thin, handsome, with peppered hair, that is her husband and not-her-husband at the same time. Mirror-Gabriel gives her a hesitant nod before turning towards Mirror-her and embracing her mirror self. Her real husband would never be caught in the hideous checkered shirt and baggy khakis that his mirror image is wearing (are those hand-me-downs that the Gabriel Agreste is wearing?), but they go well with the soft smile that oddly suits Gabriel Agreste's face. Her reflection giggles and gives Mirror-Gabriel a peck on the cheek. Not-Gabriel smiles wider and holds her mirror image closer to his chest.
It looks… nice, the air of domesticity that the two of them share, and her chest tightens. She doesn't realize that she's leaning in too close to the mirror, fingers a hair's-breadth away from the silvered surface, until someone abruptly yanks her back.
"Gabriel!" she screams, before the mirror is covered again with the veil.
She crumples to the floor and cries, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. When her sobs have subsided, a wrinkled hand offers her a handkerchief.
"Apologies, Madame," the old man says quietly. "I neglected to mention that mirror has a certain effect on my customers. I am terribly sorry for not warning you beforehand." She's still hiccuping, and she knows that she must look awful, with reddened, puffy eyes and snot running from her nose. 'It looks unseemly when you cry. Stop it,' Gabriel's cold, clinically detached voice sneers in her mind and it triggers another volley of tears. When she looks up, the old man is back with a tray loaded with a bright blue teapot and two chipped bowls.
"Tea?" he offers kindly, and she acquiesces with a weak nod. She feels better with something hot in her stomach ("Sugar?" "Yes, please."). They sit in silence for a while in companionship, sipping tea from ridiculously large bowls.
"Where do you get the objects in your store?" she asks the old man (Master Fu is his name, she learns). Master Fu gives her his trademark enigmatic smile.
"I don't," he replies. "They come to me, and I help them find proper homes. Magical objects choose their owners, you see." He sips from his bowl. "But I'm afraid that particular mirror, Madame," his voice sharpens, "is not for sale. An old friend of mine has asked me to keep it in a safe place for the time being."
She flushes, embarrassed to have been so transparent. Master Fu pats her hand. "It isn't your fault, my dear," he says kindly. "Besides, I have something to give to you. You wouldn't have been able to see the shop if I didn't, after all." He disappears with a distinct popping sound. After a moment, he reappears with a small black jewelry box in his right hand.
"I hear that you have a hobby of making dolls, Madame Agreste," Master Fu says. She nods. At this point, she isn't even surprised at his knowledge (but she does briefly wonder how he's managed to read her interview with Conde Nast from long, long ago). He opens the top of the jewelry box; there is a silver ring and a pair of polka-dotted earrings nestled on top of the black velvet. He takes out the silver ring and places it on her palm. "The best dolls have some sort of charm sewn into them," he tells her solemnly. "This is my gift to you, and to your son."
He catches her glance at the earrings, and his smile broadens. "Ah, those are for another special young miss," he chuckles. "Her mother will be coming soon to pick these up for her. I hope she and Adrien will become good friends."
They chat like old friends as they meander through the store. When they reach the front of the shop, he opens the door and holds it for her. "Goodbye, Madame," he says as she steps out the door, with a rather sad look in his eyes. "I have a feeling that we will not meet again for a long, long time. Please take care."
There's a whirring sound and a feeling of being sucked into a vacuum tube and suddenly she finds herself back in her room, tucked neatly in bed. She blinks, disoriented. She looks at the clock on the nightstand cluttered with pill bottles and tonics. 17:00, the digital clock reads. 17:00? This was ridiculous. She even walked all the way to the Malais district to buy fabric for Adrien's rag doll! She looks around for the telltale sign of a shopping bag to no avail.
Frustrated, she tears away the sheets to look at her legs and…has to turn away. They're spindly, and so, so weak. Too weak for her to walk, let alone support her weight.
It was just a dream, after all. A dream where she could be free of the stifling cage that was the Agreste mansion, the Agreste name, the Agreste brand.
And those stupid, stupid dinners with a man that no longer loved her.
She burrows her face into the pillows to muffle the sound of tears and sorrow, of heartbreak and loneliness.
She doesn't find the silver ring underneath her pillow until much later.