Waking.
Not that Mirrors of any sort 'wake' or 'sleep' of course, but supposing They could, perhaps those simple designations wouldn't be made necessarily by the atmosphere or degree of sunlight around Them, but instead by the state of the person who gazes with bleary eye and heavy heart into Their glass.
In the summer of some recent year, the Mirror found Itself in some drab closet (as has recently become customary but what was utterly disrespectful at that time) on some wizard's ground floor. The closet itself was a bit too disorganized to be called 'posh', but its contents were a bit too fine (counting the Mirror as well, because a great third of the wealth in the place was comprised of Its inlay and history) to be called 'clutter'. The term most appropriate, perhaps, would be 'delightfully kitsch'. This, of course, wasn't the point.
A fourth of the remaining two-thirds wealth belonged to the flawless four-carat diamond set in the golden ring on the floor. Or, rather, belonged to the woman whose finger was wearing the ring (although one could never be sure). It took a frightfully long time for this woman to wake, and when she did, the Mirror slowly discovered essential facts about her: her name was Felicée, she was married, although 'they' (it's always a 'they' with rich folk, never a singular person) had dismembered her husband and two of three children in front of her; she enjoyed walks in their orchards outside and she wanted her little Reinette to come back to mummy, please, darling Reinette, if you're in the house anywhere, please.
She bloodied her fingers with clawing at the wood of the heavy door; she wept for her family and for the splinters under her nails and for ruining her sister's dress, which was only leant to her two days past for their masquerade. She'd tried using the diamond against the wood, knowing it wouldn't break, but a person can only work so long without food or any help to get out of the ridiculous corset that kept a person from breathing, and she would never wear a corset again if she ever got out of here, and she'd never make Reinette wear one and, oh, god... why, why, oh, why.
It took three days for Felicée to talk to the Mirror with every amount of seriousness, as if the Mirror were sentinent. As if by somehow talking to the children and husband she saw in there, whole and clean and smiling, would make them appear. As if -- as if when she put her ruined fingers against the glass and pounded palms weakly against it, let the grease from her unwashed hair and the caked makeup from her cheeks smear across where little Darien's knees had mainfested themselves in front of her, she might just... might.
She jumped as much as her body could when the lock started to click, when she heard muffled voices outside of the door. She'd grabbed the heaviest object she could lift (a hatrack; the Mirror knew she wouldn't ever get to use it in her state), and stood her ground on legs that were so shaky she had to lean against the chiffonier. When the doorknob turned the slight way it had when she was thrown in bleeding from her shoulder and the bludgeoning began (for the door stuck), she sobbed. She slid a bit, but tightened at her knuckles.
The hatrack fell from her grip when the door opened, though. A mother, when faced with the choice of holding her three little children or a hatrack, will always drop the hatrack. Like the Mirror had been for so many months, the hatrack was quickly forgotten. It was her husband that picked her up from her knees, and it was her husband who sold the Mirror not but three days later for a handsome price to a shady-looking man to pay for the bills to nurse his wife from her scare. She'd expressed a desire to keep it [sic] around, just in case something like this had ever happened again, but her husband could see no reason, as nothing, in his mind, had happened at all.
In the summer of some recent year, the Mirror found Itself in some drab closet (as has recently become customary but what was utterly disrespectful at that time) on some wizard's ground floor. The closet itself was a bit too disorganized to be called 'posh', but its contents were a bit too fine (counting the Mirror as well, because a great third of the wealth in the place was comprised of Its inlay and history) to be called 'clutter'. The term most appropriate, perhaps, would be 'delightfully kitsch'. This, of course, wasn't the point.
A fourth of the remaining two-thirds wealth belonged to the flawless four-carat diamond set in the golden ring on the floor. Or, rather, belonged to the woman whose finger was wearing the ring (although one could never be sure). It took a frightfully long time for this woman to wake, and when she did, the Mirror slowly discovered essential facts about her: her name was Felicée, she was married, although 'they' (it's always a 'they' with rich folk, never a singular person) had dismembered her husband and two of three children in front of her; she enjoyed walks in their orchards outside and she wanted her little Reinette to come back to mummy, please, darling Reinette, if you're in the house anywhere, please.
She bloodied her fingers with clawing at the wood of the heavy door; she wept for her family and for the splinters under her nails and for ruining her sister's dress, which was only leant to her two days past for their masquerade. She'd tried using the diamond against the wood, knowing it wouldn't break, but a person can only work so long without food or any help to get out of the ridiculous corset that kept a person from breathing, and she would never wear a corset again if she ever got out of here, and she'd never make Reinette wear one and, oh, god... why, why, oh, why.
It took three days for Felicée to talk to the Mirror with every amount of seriousness, as if the Mirror were sentinent. As if by somehow talking to the children and husband she saw in there, whole and clean and smiling, would make them appear. As if -- as if when she put her ruined fingers against the glass and pounded palms weakly against it, let the grease from her unwashed hair and the caked makeup from her cheeks smear across where little Darien's knees had mainfested themselves in front of her, she might just... might.
She jumped as much as her body could when the lock started to click, when she heard muffled voices outside of the door. She'd grabbed the heaviest object she could lift (a hatrack; the Mirror knew she wouldn't ever get to use it in her state), and stood her ground on legs that were so shaky she had to lean against the chiffonier. When the doorknob turned the slight way it had when she was thrown in bleeding from her shoulder and the bludgeoning began (for the door stuck), she sobbed. She slid a bit, but tightened at her knuckles.
The hatrack fell from her grip when the door opened, though. A mother, when faced with the choice of holding her three little children or a hatrack, will always drop the hatrack. Like the Mirror had been for so many months, the hatrack was quickly forgotten. It was her husband that picked her up from her knees, and it was her husband who sold the Mirror not but three days later for a handsome price to a shady-looking man to pay for the bills to nurse his wife from her scare. She'd expressed a desire to keep it [sic] around, just in case something like this had ever happened again, but her husband could see no reason, as nothing, in his mind, had happened at all.