Mirror Mirror
a sequel to One Year
The knock at the front door echoed down the entry hall a second time, winding the black beast up in a frenzy all over again.
“Bartholomew, no! Sit. Sit!” Chloe yelled, tugging against his leather harness.
Three inch claws rattled across the hardwood as he pranced—the rug had been tossed two months ago—scaly head swinging from the door to Chloe, to the door, back to Chloe, his forked tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in nervous excitement. His log of a tail swung, bopping the settee backwards four inches, the living room lamps—the only glass left in the room—rattling. The harness groaned, her fingers smashed between it and Bartholomew’s scales as he stretched his wings beneath the leather’s restraint—Lord, bless Jeremy for that bit of genius handwork! She yank the beast backwards harder, accidently stepping on his foot—though he either didn’t feel it or was far too excited about the visitor at the door to care—managing to drag him back into a sit.
“Stay. Staaaay!” Chloe shuffled sideways toward the door, watching the dragon the whole time. He sat, and mostly stayed, though his front feet danced anxiously, tail sweeping back and forth across the floor, scattering her dumped handywork throughout the living room. At least it was just knitting—she’d tired of hunting for tiny needles and patchwork squares.
One final command to stay and she turned, quickly smoothing the front of her housedress, holding herself as if the scent of dumped tea and a hem singed from barfed brimstone was all the rage this year.
She eased the door open, smiling at the sharply dressed delivery boy standing primly in the blanket of white snow, while listening to every shuffle in the living room behind her, feet wide so as to slam the door shut should the visitor’s presence become too much. The delivery boy, unaware of how complicated his day could become at any second, held out a small yellow envelope with no hesitance and a beaming smile.
“Telegraph for Mr. Jeremy Kneller.” His words hung in a soft cloud.
“He’s out at the moment.” Chloe braced her shoulder against the door as she reached, sincerely hoping she wouldn’t have to shut her arm in the door again. “But I’ll see that he gets it.”
The young man tipped his hat and hurried off.
The door clicked shut. Chloe eased out the massive breath she had been holding. Bartholomew whined in disappointment and flumped down onto the floor, lamps jingling again.
She had a mess of yarn to clean up, hadn’t dusted in weeks, and really should do something about her dress, not to mention all the sleeves of Jeremy’s shirts that needed patching and replacing. But, at least she didn’t have something shattered the entry hall again.
“Good boy, Bartholomew,” she sighed, turning.
She paused, her reflection in the mirror catching her eye. The sing-song fairy tale rhyme echoed in her head. Nobody would be calling her fairest. Well, maybe Jeremy, but husbands were biased like that.
She looked… not old, really. More like how Nancy looked after six months of dealing with Grace’s colic. The dim light of the entry didn’t help, washing her out even more, and a whisp of hair stood out four inches from her right temple; not in a gracefully disheveled Gibson Girl fashion, but in a ‘in serious need of hair oil and a nap’ kind of look. All the tell-tale signs of a mother with infant. Only…
She glared at the three month old dragon that filled half of her living room.
“No,” she said soundly. No way on earth.
Bartholomew’s eyes locked on to her, that stupid tongue lolling out again, the tip of his yarn wrapped tail flicking back and forth.
She scowled, but couldn’t help the tiny flicker of something in her chest, the way her mouth pulled up on one side.
Nine months to go.