Just as Anger, finding no further business at hand, made to take his leave, a figure appeared in the hall, and the entire atmosphere shifted.

  The guests, who had been scattered in twos and threes before the various mirrors, began to converge towards the centre of the room, forming a loose circle. Two attendants in white gloves were manoeuvring another Twin Mirror—identical to the one he had seen earlier—from the wall to the very centre of the hall, positioning it directly opposite its counterpart already placed there.

  The two mirrors faced each other, about ten feet apart.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," the figure began. "Welcome to this month's Moment of Vertigo."

  The host's voice echoed in the hall. "As you are aware, tonight we shall recreate a study into a psychological phenomenon based on temporal perception dislocation. When two mirrors capable of reflecting the deeper self are set in opposition, a unique cognitive effect manifests between them."

  Scientific mysticism. A forbidden experiment.

  So this was the true modus operandi of the Reflection Salon. Ordinary observation could not sate the refined—or rather, warped—appetites of this aristocracy. Hence, such taboo experiments were born.

  "We require a participant to stand between the mirrors," the host said, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "A fresh face is preferable. New consciousness. New material."

  Several pairs of eyes settled on Anger.

  Anger instinctively took half a step back, only to find his retreat silently blocked by other guests.

  "Sir," the host smiled. "As our newest guest this evening, would you be willing to contribute a set of genuine data for science? For the shared experience of this salon?"

  "I refuse."

  Anger said it aloud, offering no face to anyone in the room.

  The host's smile did not waver. "I'm afraid that is not an option, sir. You have already engaged with a single Twin Mirror. Without completing this calibration in a controlled environment, you may experience unpredictable temporal perception dysphoria upon leaving. Such as suddenly losing hours of memory on the street, or repeatedly dreaming of a childhood you never lived."

  The threat was wrapped in a cloak of concern. A rather transparent lie. Yet the nobles around him seemed to accept it readily.

  A devil’s brood. They simply wish to see others suffer. Their ‘dedication to science’ is nothing but a craving to feast on another’s agony, like a pack of ghouls.

  Anger scanned the room. Over thirty pairs of eyes watched him. A few held curiosity, but most wore expressions of indifference or thinly veiled schadenfreude.

  "I refuse again. You have no authority—"

  "We have a compact," the host interrupted, producing a card from his breast pocket. "Every guest who steps into the salon is, upon entry, deemed to have acknowledged and consented to participate in experimental psychological observation. The doorkeeper should have informed you: the mirrors reveal truth only to those who are prepared. And you, sir, have seen."

  Anger recalled the doorkeeper's words. The trap was set from the very beginning. No wonder it sounded so profound. They spared no method, however underhanded.

  "And if I insist on leaving?"

  The host sighed. He raised his hand slightly. Two attendants stepped forward.

  Anger's eyes activated of their own accord.

  The two attendants were shrouded in countless shackles. Chains, piercing forth from the void itself, transfixed their skulls and hearts. The reason they still lived and moved was likely because they were puppets, animated by those ethereal chains.

  Anger surmised these two were no longer complete men, but senseless marionettes. Fighting was impossible. Drawing his pistol? Even less feasible.

  "Please." The host gestured towards the space between the two mirrors.

  ******

  Anger knew this was essentially an invitation akin to being trussed up on a spit. Clenching his teeth, he walked step by step towards the space between the two mirrors.

  The guests, with impeccable civility, obligingly parted to clear a path.

  When he came to a halt precisely at the midpoint between the mirrors, a peculiar sensation washed over him with violent intensity.

  From the lefthand mirror, he saw himself beginning to age—just as before, only seemingly more ferocious now. From the righthand mirror, the reflection began to warp.

  The image of himself within it gradually shrank. His overcoat became absurdly oversized and illfitting. His face shed its adult angularity, revealing the softer, somewhat boyish contours of adolescence.

  The background shifted as well. The salon walls melted into the stone walls of his old home in the North. The chandelier transformed into the leaping flames of a winter hearth.

  Sixteen.

  The Anger in the mirror was about sixteen, wearing an excessively thick wool jumper, seated on the rug before the fireplace.

  Then another figure appeared within the glass.

  Ben.

  Young Ben. Grownup Ben. Returned from his aunt's house.

  Ben’s face lacked its usual air of frivolity; his eyes shone like stars. He laughed, clapping Anger on the shoulder, and handed him a cup of tea laced with honey—the only warm drink Anger remembered Ben’s mother ever knew how to make.

  The teenage Anger in the mirror accepted the cup. Though he frowned at the suspiciously viscous, steaming liquid, the corner of his mouth betrayed an unconscious upturn.

  The warmth of that moment pierced through the glass, transcending time and parting. Anger, standing now between the two mirrors, felt a profound, piercing solace. Ben grew up. His smile is happy. He must have been well looked after at his aunt's.

  "A lovely memory, is it not?" The host's voice came from what seemed a great distance. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Twin Mirrors excavate the most potent emotion from the participant's subconscious—typically either supreme joy or profound trauma. It appears you belong to the former category. Cherish it. Now then—"

  Before his words fully faded, the space between the mirrors began to churn violently. The boundary between the aged image on the left and the childhood reflection on the right blurred, projecting before Anger's eyes a hallucinatory overlay of multiple timelines.

  He saw his own aged hand attempting to stroke the hair of the teenage Ben by the hearth, its fingers passing through nothingness.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  He saw his sixteenyearold self turn its head, the eyes reflecting not the firelight, but the swollen face of the boy lying in the mud of a drainage ditch.

  He saw his aged self and his young self open their mouths in unison:

  "If only I hadn't—"

  "—let him walk home first that day—"

  A splitting headache seized Anger. Time itself seemed to have unravelled into threads, binding him fast to the spot. The beauty and the trauma within the mirrors became filaments of time, caught and savagely pulled taut by an invisible vortex raging between them.

  "Interest…" a voice hissed within the maelstrom.

  "Name…" chimed another.

  "Give me the name…"

  ******

  The third voice sharpened to a piercing shriek.

  A triple whispering now emanated from three mirrors. There had only been two. A third had somehow manifested. No—Anger was certain, utterly convinced, that third mirror was not real. He knew it wasn't. Yet he could not deny the phantasmal reflection, this mirage spawned by the resonance of the two real mirrors. That distorted space was speaking.

  Anger's breathing grew ragged. He didn't understand what this was.

  Name. Name.

  His mind was invaded, colonized by that single word.

  Anger Hastings. No. That couldn't be given. He needed a name that wasn't truly his own.

  "Annie Chapman."

  The name left his lips.

  The vortex between the mirrors ceased abruptly.

  The scene shifted.

  It was no longer the hearth of his northern home. It was a filthy apartment room. The air smelled of mouldering potatoes. A little girl of five or six crouched in a corner, clutching a rag doll missing an eye.

  Little Annie looked up. Her eyes were wide with the hollow look of hunger long familiar. She murmured to the empty air, "Mum says if I'm good, there'll be bread tomorrow."

  The image shattered.

  Reformed. Annie, now about twelve, in a textile mill. Her finger was pricked by a spindle, blood staining the cotton thread. An overseer roared behind her, calling her clumsy fingers a waste of good material.

  Shattered again.

  Annie at seventeen, in a dimly lit alley, nervously twisting the hem of her skirt.

  Each scene was brief, fragmented, yet carried a sting. Anger felt the pang of each stage—truly felt it.

  Stop. Stop it. His consciousness screamed at the visions.

  The phantasmagoria continued, even accelerated, finally freezing on one tableau.

  A hand holding a strange surgical knife reached towards a terrified Annie. A low, male voice whispered in her ear, calling her by her true name. Annie Chapman.

  He had to break free. Had to.

  His vision, under extreme duress, erupted once more.

  Anger saw the distorted energy flows between the two mirrors. He saw the streams of time, saw chains running from one glass pane to the other in a dreadful, mutual pilgrimage.

  He didn't know what it was, but he understood: he had become the freshest crop in this harvesting system. He watched as those threads, those chains, began to slice into his very being.

  Rage overpowered fear.

  With every ounce of his strength, he began to pull away, tearing himself from the connection that bound him between the mirrors. Inch by agonizing inch, he wrenched free. First an arm, liberated from the cutting filaments. Then, with the force of his entire body, he drove his elbow into the junction where the mirror frame met the wall.

  Crack.

  A clean, sharp sound of shattering glass.

  ******

  A deep crack split the mirror's backing panel. A large fragment broke away, clattering onto the marble floor.

  The hall fell into a dead silence.

  The host's face flushed with unmistakable fury. "You—"

  "I've had quite enough of your experiment." Anger straightened up, breathing heavily, the shattered backing at his feet. From the fissure in the panel, a corner of what appeared to be human skin parchment had slipped out, revealing the edge of an anchor insignia.

  "This is no psychology apparatus." Anger lifted his gaze to the host. "You're stealing time. Trading in agony."

  The host's cheek muscle twitched. As he began to speak, another voice, cold and authoritative, cut through from the staircase at the hall's side.

  "Enough, Herbert. Stand down."

  Lorenzo Bellatus descended the stairs slowly. He had changed into casual attire.

  "Mr. Bellatus, he damaged the frame—"

  "I saw." Lorenzo raised a hand, silencing the host. His eyes settled on Anger. "I believe we've met somewhere before, sir. At Hearn's, was it? You seemed to have a... particular interest in that GreenEyed Maiden."

  Anger offered no reply.

  Lorenzo seemed unbothered. He strolled over to the broken backing, looking down at the exposed corner of skinmap. "This anchor insignia... is a very, very ancient thing. It belongs to a seafaring family long since vanished. We have spent years searching for it. Who would have thought it would surface so... unexpectedly."

  "The mirror is broken. The secret is out." Lorenzo announced his find plainly. "We have sought this mark for many years. Tell you what—you give me one item you deem most... peculiar as compensation for my research. If I find it sufficiently valuable, tonight's unpleasantness is forgotten. You may even walk away with every impression you've gleaned concerning this anchor."

  He was offering Anger a clear way out, a gracious exit. The assembled company seemed to find this arrangement perfectly acceptable. After all, he hadn't demanded something of great monetary value. The term 'peculiar' was wonderfully vague—anything could be 'peculiar' if he acknowledged it as such.

  Anger, too, seemed to grasp the situation. This Salon clearly did not care for unvetted strangers, especially one who had appeared so abruptly. No one knew his true purpose here, yet the Salon's own rules likely prevented them from simply ejecting him.

  "It seems I should accept your generous offer," Anger said. "Prudent retreat can sometimes be its own form of progress."

  He studied Lorenzo for a few seconds, then reached into his overcoat's inner pocket. He produced a small glass vial containing metallic particles collected from the latest Whitechapel crime scene. It was something he'd meant to give to Watson for analysis, but had forgotten.

  He had weighed his options. This was, currently, the item least connected to his own safety. He handed the vial to Lorenzo.

  Lorenzo accepted it without immediate inspection. He first gave Anger a long, deep look. Only then did he hold the vial up to the flame of the nearest gas lamp, turning it slowly. As he peered, his pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. A single word escaped his lips, barely audible. "Swarm."

  "Swarm?"

  Lorenzo carefully pocketed the vial. "Compensation accepted." He waved a hand, signaling the attendants to withdraw completely. "Regarding the anchor insignia—it belongs to a family believed to have sailed the Wuhai. The sea charts they left behind are said to guide one to places of... profound flux. There is also a place called EightFathom Shoal."

  He seemed about to let Anger leave, then turned, as if struck by a sudden thought. "It has come to my attention that you have some... association with Lord Arthur Vinter. The new railway section his company is constructing... rumours abound concerning its nocturnal activities. Let me offer a piece of friendly advice—do not get too close to the Viscount."

  He said this without lowering his voice, unconcerned with the other nobles present. It seemed a further attempt to establish a connection with this stranger, Anger. Otherwise, why mention Arthur or his rumours at all?

  Anger did not understand the man's full intent, but he certainly would not take the words at face value.

  "Tonight's... experience is concluded, my good sir," Lorenzo said. "The mirror requires repair. Other matters need tidying." He stepped aside, gesturing towards the door. "After you."

  Anger complied, walking through the silent hall, past the guests with their varied expressions, towards the entrance he had used earlier.

  He pushed the door open and stepped out. The night fog hung thick and heavy.

  ******

  Upon returning to the Scotland Yard office, Anger found it long deserted. Hendrick had likely gone home, or was dozing off in some records room. He sat at his desk, staring at the items he had brought back. Each one was profoundly abnormal.

  The New World. The Wuhai. EightFathom Shoal.

  Just after daybreak the next morning, the station received an urgent letter. Carter was summoning Anger to Whitechapel. A third victim had been found.

  When will these cab fares be reimbursed? Anger thought wryly. The cost of this daily backandforth is no small sum.

  At the divisional office, Carter wasn't in uniform. He wore a rumpled shirt with his tie hanging loose around his neck. He looked terrible, the bags under his eyes so deep they resembled a pair of fresh shiners.

  "Hastings. The Parish has already been."

  "When?"

  "Twenty minutes ago. A whole squad in black robes, with a writ from the Tribunal. Barged into the morgue right after the body was found and hauled it off." Carter fished a slip of paper from his pocket. "This is the chit they left."

  Anger took the paper. It stated: Presumed demonic possession / contamination source. Requires urgent purification.

  "Did they say anything?"

  "Not a word. The head priest just flashed the document, then waved his men to load the body into a leadlined coffin and cart it away."

  "Cremation," Anger said, his eyes fixed on the chit which clearly outlined their procedure: direct incineration, followed by further purification rites from the Parish.

  "Most likely not even the ashes will remain. Seen 'em do it before. Case last year in the East End. Whole family of five dead in their home, bodies arranged in some ritual pattern. The Parish showed up with the same excuse. They burned the bodies and the whole damn house together. Even doused the foundations with holy water."

  Carter gave a cold, knowing smirk. "That family weren't any heretics. Just regular dockworkers who couldn't pay off a loanshark. There was something under the land their house stood on. Someone wanted the plot but didn't fancy going through proper channels."

  Carter's tone revealed his grasp of Whitechapel's underbelly. This was his patch. He knew the truths behind many things, both overt and covert. Whether this was truly about 'heretics' or not, he had his own clear ideas.

  "Give me the scene notes," Anger said.