( december 7th )

[firegap]

The hallways of the west wing are abundant with mirrors. Like portraits of the current, among hundreds of pictures in crackling paint of former inhabitants who look aged now, when bathed in sunlight, worse so when shrouded in night.

For every mirror she passes, it fogs up, vapour wetting its surface, droplets sliding down the glass and leaving trails behind that lead nowhere. She carries onwards relentlessly, following in her own footsteps a century back and stopping only briefly by the hole in the line-up, framed girls in profile against dark backdrops. Someone has hung a mirror where she should be.

The waters of the moat have filled it, so she sees nothing but mire and mud.