London, March 2018

The mirror was an old one. Miguel had brought it back from Paris, from an antique shop he'd found, thinking that she might like it, which she did. Nineteenth century Louis XVI, or so he'd told her. Antiques were not Chrissie's strong point, but she had a strong feeling that she'd be horrified if she knew what it had cost. Better not to think about it, she decided. It was a mirror, it was pretty, and it hung on the wall of the little room… the dressing room, they called it… that she'd claimed as her own personal space.

There was a little table under the mirror. That was antique as well, and probably just as horrendously expensive. On it, she kept a selection of knick-knacks and feminine bits and pieces. Makeup, a jewellery box… costume pieces, of course; all the real ones were locked away in the safe. Her favourite perfumes, hairbrushes, deodorant and so on. A vase with colourful flowers fresh-picked from the garden. And a photograph from her wedding day – her second wedding, naturally, because her first one was nothing she wanted to remember.

She was still not sure if she loved Miguel. She cared for him, definitely, and was content with him. It was love, she supposed, albeit not the bright, all-consuming passion, the Flechazo as the Spanish called it, the arrow, presumably Cupid's. Such things were over-rated, she thought with momentary bitterness. She'd thought she was in love with Diego and look how that had turned out. Miguel had never hit her, never harmed her, and she could not deny that he was attractive. Oh yes, he was definitely attractive.

Tall for a Spaniard, with black hair worn a little longer than was considered respectable, he was lean with well defined muscles. The dark stubble on his face, combined with the black leather jacket he habitually wore, gave him a 'bad boy' aura that was undeniably sexy – the five-o-clock shadow as she'd heard it called, although there was nothing nine-to-five, nothing routine about the work her husband did. A security specialist he called himself, and although he'd never said so, she knew the skill that made his business so successful had been gained on the wrong side of the law. When she'd married Diego, she had been young and naïve, never suspecting that he was not the businessman he'd claimed to be – at least, he was, just not a legitimate one. Import and Export he'd told her. It hadn't technically been a lie, but as time passed, she'd come to realise that the vast majority of the goods moved by Martinez Enterprises were not of the legal variety.

Whatever else Miguel might be, he was a good husband, and a good father to her children. He had saved her, quite literally. She'd been afraid of him for so long although he'd always treated her with polite respect. Still, there had been something cold and calculating about his dark, Spanish eyes, and she was sure he kept a gun hidden under that leather jacket he sported. That was absolutely not legal. He could be special forces, she supposed, or some sort of plain-clothes police officer, but considering the illegal nature of the family business, she had reason to believe it was something more sinister.

Catching his cousin in the act of abusing her, he'd killed him – and he had done so right in front of her, with a cold, ruthless efficiency that had informed her all too vividly of his skill and experience in that area. That he had killed before, probably many times, was all too obvious. She should have been horrified, but battered and bruised, she had been emotionally numb and in too much pain to feel anything but relief. It was over, and Diego would never hurt her again. Afterwards, he had taken her and the children to safety, and in gratitude, she had married him.

Those were bad memories and not wanting to dwell on them, she turned to the mirror, studying her appearance. It would do. The black dress she'd chosen was elegant in its simplicity, one of those versatile outfits which could be dressed up or down as the occasion warranted. Miguel would be home soon to pick her up to take her to some big charity gala. His company was providing security, and as a result, they'd been given VIP tickets. It was a high-profile event and he'd want her looking her best. She sighed. What a waste of an afternoon; she'd much rather be wearing jeans and a hoodie and working with her students in the college garden. She'd managed to procure a small piece of land and had started gardening and horticulture classes for inner-city kids, some of whom had begun with no idea that vegetables came from anywhere but the supermarket. Seeing their wonder when the first tiny leaves emerged from the warm soil, when flowers opened, when they dug into the earth to discover potatoes or carrots… now that was worthwhile.

With another sigh, she pulled her hair back into a neat bun and applied some makeup. Just a tiny bit of eyeshadow and some lipstick in a neutral, barely-there colour. With some discontentment, she allowed her mind to wander, thinking as she often did, of that other Chrissie, the one who was her, but not her. The one she saw occasionally in her dreams, the one who had lived through the unimaginable horror of an alien invasion and had married one of the invaders. Was she even real, or nothing more than the product of some very odd dreams? Common sense said so, yet the existence of the statue in Saint Philippe sur Loire said differently. A third sigh escaped her. She could not live her life wondering about some alternate version of herself. Her life was not so bad, and she would be home soon enough from that stupid gala and back in her garden where she belonged. There would be a lot of very rich people there, she reminded herself, looking for a cause to support and if she was lucky, she might be able to secure funding for an expansion of her little outdoor school.

The Chrissie in the mirror echoed her sigh. She blinked. Had her reflection moved just the tiniest fraction of a second later than it should? Surely not. She was being silly and fanciful again. Studying her reflection carefully, she moved again, lifting her hand and waving at the image in the mirror. It waved back. There was no doubt about it… it had not mirrored her action but responded to it.

Wondering if she was going ever-so-slightly insane, Chrissie reached out to touch the mirror. Her hand touched the glass and as it made contact, the world tilted sideways.


So far zero interest, no readers and no comments but still, here is scene 2. In case anyone does read and wonder what is going on, the key to understanding who is who, is to look at the date and location given at the beginning of each scene. Yes, there is more than one version of some characters - those who exist in the world where the Klingons invaded Earth (see The First Heart), and those who live in 'our' world, where that invasion never happened.