Chapter 1: The Glowing Mirror

Meme Framboise looked at him, her Mauricio, and he, he looked at her.

They were a happy couple, and they both knew that with their undying passion for one another, they would live gaily ever after.

THE END

Steven Baker, editor in chief of Delaperle Press, passed a hand through his balding head and adjusted his large spectacles along the bridge of his nose. Taking a deep breath, he repeated the horror he had just read: 'They were a happy couple, and they both knew that with their undying passion for one another, they would live gaily ever after.'

Steven heaved an exasperated sigh as he studied the author of these words. There she was, sitting a few feet away from him in a bright blue coat, white boots, a white scarf and white gloves. With her auburn hair falling loose till her shoulders, she bit her glossy red lip in uncertainty, and fluttered her long lashes at the older man before her, Steven Baker, her editor.

'What is that ending? That's crap, Harlette. Find another way to end that story.'

'Wha-what?' she let out. 'What's wrong with the ending?'

He spoke to her affably, but nonetheless laconically. '"they were a happy couple?" how can a "happy" couple understand the meaning of passion? Passion is about sex and anger. A "happy couple" equals boring, to our readers. After all this couple've been through they are "a happy couple"?' he sputtered a laugh, 'if I'm one of these traitors I-read-no-books-I'm-aTV-fan, and I base my narrow, uncurious opinion solely on your last sentence because I can't be arsed to pay for the whole book and hence support the writer and publishing house for their fine work, I'll think you are some innocent teenager writing her first romance novel, blushing all the while having to spell the word nipple.'

Harlette tried to put a word in but he beat her to it: 'and "gaily"? What's up with that?'

'Well, I wanted to avoid repetition. You know, I said they were a "happy couple"; I can't use the word "happy" again in that sentence_'

'Screw the "happy couple", Harlette!"

Silence.

Steven pursed his lips and leafed through the manuscript. 'I like your story, Harlette.'

The young woman, who had been sitting up straight, leaned back on the recess of her chair. That was a relief.

'However,' Steven pointed out, a warning tone at the back of his voice, and that caught Harlette's worried attention. 'I need you to change that last sentence. That won't sell.'

Harlette nodded.

'And,' he added, 'when will I see the other manuscript that you are currently working on?'

'Love with a Stableboy, you mean?' she clarified questioningly, only to have her editor huff and nod at her useless input. 'Oh, in two weeks. I'm not done with it. I still have the ending to write.'

'Did they have sex yet?'

'No. Not yet.'

The brief silence breezing through was enough to show Harlette that she had done badly.

Steven let out a small growl. 'You are miles away from the great finale then. Hurry up. Change the ending for The Lovely Temptresses,' he began, proffering her the manuscript, 'and finish Love with a Stable boy. I want everything in by two weeks. These books have to be ready for Christmas. With winter coming, libraries will be filled with ladies looking for something nice to keep their imagination warm at night, and I don't want them to lack your writing.'

Standing up in a composed manner, Harlette accepted the stack of papers and shoved it in her glittering blue bag. Her eyes met his, and a smiling Steven placed both hands on her shoulder just like a proud papa would do to his little baby girl. 'I love your books, Harlette. This is why I want to push you to write faster. Now go and finish those stories.'

Harlette left Steven Baker's office, and trotted down the carpeted corridor, humming contently to herself.

With her gloved hand sliding down the railing and her heels clanging against the metal steps, Harlette descended the curling staircase. She crossed the parlor-hall to the glass door and set foot into the rainy and cold outside. The sound of sputtering vehicles, of talking folks and of other things related to a busy town announced in some way that it was past midday.

Late autumn's breath slapped against Harlette's face, and tightening her scarf around her neck, the willful romantic novelist mingled with the many passers-by threading up and down the street.

Harlette. Nineteen years old and still single. Nineteen years old, still single and still living with her parents and nineteen-year old sister, Christine. Well, foster parents and foster sister; Harlette had been adopted and had never met, or even asked about, her biological parents. Oh, but Harlette was not to be pitied; She was a happy young woman, with a family that gave her all the love and care she needed, so why pester her mind with searching further? That was Harlette's logic.

Harlette was a young published writer, a romantic novelist. In between the age of eighteen and nineteen, she had already published five books: Love in His Arms; Love Me; Love You; True Love in the Afternoon; and Baby Love. Being a romantic novelist had its ups and its downs. The good thing was that writing romance was what Harlette loved, the bad thing unfortunately was that it was hard to be taken seriously by people. That genre of literature was not considered very elegant at social gatherings, and it labeled Harlette as loose and even silly. No matter, Harlette did not mind the attention, be it positive or negative.

Her heels clicking on the pavement, Harlette made off, eager to return home, yet that eagerness melted away when she found herself nose to nose with the display glass of her favorite lingerie boutique. Despite knowing all too well she had to stop being such a spend thrift, Harlette stepped inside, determined to be generous with herself. Why? Only because she had come to the conclusion that, perhaps, sexy lingerie would make her feel more confident and therefore enhance her chances of finding Mr Right. Or not. Honestly, loneliness and writing romance all day long was driving her slightly desperate.

An hour passed, and Harlette left the boutique, two bags flooding with underwear and all manner of accessories. A large smile plastered on her lips and guilt flashing in her eyes, she walked rapidly through the streets and into the forest as she headed home.

Walking through a narrow, earthy path, the sound of chocking engines was heard less and less till it was heard no more. A couple of birds were perched on branches, looking down curiously at the joyous young woman, singing to herself.

Harlette's house was in fact a small chalet made of wood, with enormous pines towering over it, casting it into shadows. Harlette was not eternally found of this silent atmosphere, and many a time had she asked her parents to move, but they always refused.

Harlette's parents were historians, and they preferred to live hidden from the world, labeling it as dangerous, ugly and noisy. Never had they encouraged Harlette or Christine to travel abroad, and having Harlette write books made them happy for such a job did not require her to move away from the nest. Once, and only once, Harlette had claimed her possible wish to be a singer; her parents had immediately reprimanded her, telling her that touring and going out there was too dangerous, and a waste of time. Anyway, there was plenty of singing to be done in the shower, and Harlette had contented herself of that for nineteen years now.

Opening the door, Harlette stepped inside and rejoiced at the warmth greeting her as she whipped her feet on the rough carpet. It took no time for her to quickly go up the red-carpeted stairs to enter her own private space; with baby blue wall paper, shelves laden with romance books and jewelry, a large bed with leopard-printed duvets and pillows, this was Harlette's bedroom. There was a red-velvet chair at the corner of the room, right next to a large window framed with red drapes, and on it sat a plump white cat looking at her with confident, large blue eyes, her fluffy tail flipping from side to side.
Bernard was a stray female that had wandered into Harlette's room three years ago. Yes, Bernard was a female cat; Harlette, since very young, had sustained the ambition of calling her future dog Bernard. Yet, as it was a female feline who had strolled into her life, Harlette bestowed that name upon her.

'How you doing, sweet Bernard?' Harlette greeted, slapping her plastic bags on the bed and reaching inside them. The cat meowed at the annoying sound of the ruffling of paper. 'I did quite badly today,' Harlette confessed with a pout, 'Steven isn't too pleased with my performance; he didn't like my ending for The Lovely Temptresses. Well, I must say, the writing was pretty bad,' she winked at Bernard who only hearkened. 'Anyway, he wants the two stories in two weeks. Oh well,' she began dismissively, 'look what I've bought!' Harlette declared as she waved a pair of lacy black and red underwear.

With a giggle, Harlette undressed quickly and slipped into the newly purchased material.
She admired her features and feminine body in the long mirror on the wall. She grinned appreciatively at herself and placed a lock of hair behind her ear. 'What do you think, Bernard? Do I look fantas─'
The mirror started to glow, the glass rippling like water.
'What on earth is that?' Harlette moved towards her blurry reflection and dared put a hand inside it. The texture was that of satin ribbons sliding through her fingers, kissing them with warmth.

Her look searched Bernard's, whose mood had remained gentle and unconcerned. How odd...a smile even seemed to crawl on the feline's furry pink lips.

Giggling dumbly, Harlette dipped her arm inside the mirror anew, trying to reach out for something, anything. 'That is so cool! I wonder─'
Before she could make sense of what was happening to her, her hand was abruptly pulled by a strange, invisible force hidden within the glass. Harlette screamed for it to let go of her, but to no avail. She was drawn into the mirror.

When she fell down and down in endless blackness, Harlette not only bellowed her horrified surprise, but chided herself for having been so bold with the unknown.

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I do not own any of Tolkien's characters; I only own the ones I created.

Thank you very much for reading...have a wonderful day!