Seeking the sun, she found the meadow. Clouds still covered most of the sky, but already she felt her breath thawing in the thin fingers of sunlight that reached out to her and pulled her from the heavy canopy of trees.
The color of the meadow was muted and pastel in the shaky light, not quite free of the frozen morning dew even though the day was already half spent. Winter had come early this year.
It was then that she saw the cottage at the far end of the meadow; colorful and understated, solid but inviting. It was the most beautiful thing in the world to Rhosyn, who had not expected to find any kind of comfort so deep in the forest, so far from everything she knew.
Smoke curled from the chimney. The wind blew it toward Rhosyn, who grew suddenly afraid. The warmth of the smoke didn't linger, but its promise did. She had no option but to ask for help and mercy. She prepared words of her sorry tale and braced her hands into fists to knock on the door. Every step in its direction was slower, heavier.
Still twenty steps away, the door opened. A young woman emerged, her smile bright as spring as she called something back inside. She had long light brown hair that disappeared beneath a woven hat, and fair skin covered with warm furs. Her arms were full of laundry to be washed. There must be a stream nearby.
Rhosyn froze, wishing she could fade. Laughing, the girl almost didn't see her. When she did, and noticed Rhosyn's thin dress and unkempt hair, the laundry tumbled forgotten to the ground.
She felt herself led to the door. The girl talked, asked questions, commanded unseen people, but Rhosyn heard none of it. Then there were others suddenly standing around her, offering food and water, a blanket, sleep. When she accepted nothing, the girl lowered her into a chair by the fireplace. Other hands lowered a blanket around her shoulders and pressed a bowl of steaming broth into her hands. Still more hands spooned broth down her throat until her voice was thawed. The girl shooed away the other hands and knelt in front of her.
"What is your name?" she asked gently. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Rhosyn," she whispered. Her voice was a croak. Numb fingers found the wooden spoon and she fed herself. "My name is Rhosyn," she repeated, louder.
"Tethys," the girl said, pointing to herself, and she smiled. Rhosyn could only nod. Tethys pulled a chair from the nearby table to face Rhosyn better. She pried the empty bowl from Rhosyn's fingers and took her hands.
"You are warming, at least," she said, satisfied. She leaned back. "But what are you doing out here? Where are you from?"
Rhosyn didn't answer. She rocked idly in her chair, staring into the flames. Tethys gave up.
"You are safe here," she said simply.
There was no sign of the other hands that had helped her, but they must have been around. She glanced around the cottage, at the woven rug on the hearth, the dried flowers on the mantelpiece, the table with four sturdy chairs, the stairs leading up, the hangings on the wall…
Rhosyn froze. She fell off her chair, stumbling backwards. She scrambled into a corner, curling into herself, trying to hide from the mirror on the wall.
"She can see me. She'll find me," she whispered, sobbing. Tethys tried to calm her, but Rhosyn couldn't say anything else. "She'll find me," she insisted, rocking in torment. Finally Tethys seemed to understand.
"This?" she asked. She removed the small oval from the wall, studying it. Shrugging, she stepped closer to Rhosyn, still holding it. "This is only a mirror," she said, holding it in front of Rhosyn's face. Rhosyn saw searching, frantic eyes and a face that was not her own.
"Get it out," she wept, covering her face and turning away. Fingernails dug into hard-packed earth and sturdy walls. "Get it out, get it out, get it out."
The glass turned grey, the color of the clouds outside. Panicked, Rhosyn slapped the mirror from Tethys' hand, slamming it to the floor. She exhaled sharply as she heard it shatter and gasped as a shard sunk into the flesh of her hand.
"Hold her back," she heard Tethys saw. "Don't let her cut herself again."
The hands returned. Strong arms wrapped around her, holding her firmly back. She fell into them, sobbing. She didn't notice when Tethys pulled the glass from her palm, or when the strong arms carried her away.
The mirror was in pieces, but Vanora's eyes were everywhere. She was always watching.
"Who was that girl? Who were you talking to?" Vanora asked as Rhosyn passed in the hall beyond the room. Rhosyn stopped, surprised. Her mother must be talking to her, but she had not taken her eyes from the mirror. She spent most of her days in her parlor room, watching herself.
Rhosyn stood on the threshold, not wanting to take the step that would place her in direct sight of her mother. She would not even wait in the larger antechamber. She could see the blue sky through the windows on either side of the mirror; that must have been how Vanora saw her on the grounds.
"Just a friend of mine. She's the gardener's new assistant. She was teaching me about different types of flowers." She hid her hands, still dirty from working in the greenhouse.
"A gardener's assistant is not your friend," Vanora murmured. "There is no reason for you to see her again."
Rhosyn twisted her face into a stoic mask and nodded, but Vanora didn't see. She was playing with her hair, twisting one strand at a time, shifting angles often to determine the best look.
"Mirrors see everything, you know," Vanora said. She caressed the polished brass frame, fingers lingering on every engraved detail. She seemed to have no memory of the conversation she had just shared with her daughter, continuing in a velvety tone. "They are the truest of friends, the only ones you truly need. You can hide nothing from them. They are honest, objective…perfect."
The last was spoken to herself as she observed her own visage: flawless ivory skin tinged with shades of rose at cheeks and lips. She had ebony-black lashes and brows above storm-grey eyes, and a curtain of starless midnight hair that framed her face and fell gracefully down her back. She compared her reflection to that of her daughter, who she could see in the mirror even though Rhosyn couldn't see herself over her mother's shoulder.
"Your face is filthy," Vanora observed at last. The words were cold and empty when they reached Rhosyn. She rubbed at her face—evidence of an enjoyed summer day—but only smeared it further in deep brown streaks. Vanora cast her aside to the wall, ashamed that her precious mirror should be so sullied. The glass itself was unblemished—she made certain of that—but its image was obscured now by the dirt, tarnished and shamed.
"Go upstairs and wash," she murmured to her daughter's reflection. Vanora closed her eyes and did not open them until she heard Rhosyn close the door behind her.
Rhosyn found a clean corner of her autumn smock and wiped away her muddy handprint from the doorknob. She turned to the stairs, though her tears had already cleansed her face with ribbons of salt. She did not know how she could have expected anything different. Her mother had not changed, no matter how she wished it. And now she had deprived Rhosyn of the one friend who hadn't been taught to avoid her. Why had she changed so?
Vanora's words followed her up the polished marble staircase. "Make sure you get it all. I'll be watching."