She holds your gaze and holds onto her smirk. Barely. "It could be! "But I'm not sure it's entirely related, hmm? Trust me, there wasn't a breakup because of mirrors."
"I think you'd be surprised." You place your hands in your pockets. "Trust me."
She glances down at her cloak, adjusts the clasp. You stand stock-still. "Alright, alright," she says finally. "It's not that exciting. But keep it to yourself, yeah?"
"Who'd I tell?"
"Er…" She scratches her chin. "Good point. Come on, my legs are killing me— let's find somewhere to sit."
Smugly, you trail behind Eloise, who ends up finding a rocky outcropping around the side of the cave entrance. You kick a couple inquisitive crabs off it, then sit.
"How much do you know about glass?" she starts. "I know it has to be some. You're off Pillar 6, and those guys were super into it; you're from way high up, I think your daddy was in law… you picked up a little, yeah?"
You sidestep the obvious question of 'how do you know all this' (obvious answer: it's Eloise) and play along instead. "It's illegal. You're not supposed to know about it. It's extrareal, which means it does… bad things... to reality. Really bad things."
"About what I expected, then. Alright. Yes, glass is extrareal— as in it's actually realer than reality. It accomplishes this by sort of, eh, sucking out the reality in its surroundings. Which is not great for the surroundings, naturally."
She explains it better than Richard does. "Right. So what does this have to do with—"
"I'm just making sure you've got the appropriate background. Anyways, he comes to me in a tizz, and he goes 'Eloise, have you got any mirrors?' And I go, 'uhh, yeah, here's my steel one.' And he says 'no, no, a proper mirror, a glass one.'"
"This was three months ago?"
"Yeah, something like that. Anyways, I go 'well, I don't have a glass one; I'm not suicidal; are you crazy?' And he says, and he's got this kind of wild look in his eye— not that he doesn't always, but you know, a wilder one— 'Am I?' Like he doesn't know, himself." Eloise stops to gather the hair out of her cloak, and looks at you sharply. "Exactly like that, I swear. So I go 'are you okay?' And he says— I mean it, exactly like this— 'I don't know. I don't know. I think I might not be.' And he's kind of stalking back and forth, with his coat kind of billowing behind him. I'm just sitting here at my workbench. And I go, 'god, uh, am I the best person to talk to about this?' And he goes—"
It's growing dark. "Could you get to the point?"
"I'm telling you a story, Charlotte. For free. No complaining. He goes, 'I thought you might have a mirror.' And I think, because I'm interested, now, and I say 'I mean, I can probably get one.' So that's how it started."
"Did you get a mirror?"
"Sure. I have contacts. So a couple days later, I bring him it, and he sort of looks at it, then looks at me, then looks around his tent— it's full of paper, you know, the man writes like a madman. And he plucks a note off the wall and gives it to me, kind of drops it in my hands. And he says 'Can you read this?' I can't read it. And he says 'I can't either.' So I'm thinking, do I know any handwriting tutors? But then he goes 'I woke up the other day and I realized I couldn't read a single godsdamn thing I'd been writing for weeks. But I could when I was writing them, is the thing. Give me the mirror and the note.' So I give him the mirror and the note. He holds the note up to the mirror, and he says 'can you read it now?' And I look in the mirror, and it's totally normal, it looks like a diary page or something."
Trying to keep up with all this is proving difficult. "Wait, so that's not a code? It's… mirror writing?"
Eloise nods. "Backwards and upside down. If you haven't been around a lot of mirrors, I guess you wouldn't recognize it. Anyway, so, I tell him I can read it. And, swear to god, it looks like I just shot his dog. 'Shit. Are you sure?' is I think what he said, and I'm all 'yeah, want me to read it to you?'. And he says 'no,' and just kind of stares at the ground. I'm making to leave when he says 'how could I not notice?' So I stop, and I go, 'that you've been writing mirrored for weeks?' and he nods. And I say 'that's a damn good question.' Just like that. 'That's a damn good question.'"
"So?"
"So what?"
You can't help like feel she's avoiding the actual question. "What were the results? Do mirrors have special properties?"
Eloise rests her cheek on her hand. "Not really."
?Charlotte.?
No.
?Charlotte, listen.?
You've been handling this.
?No, you've been suckered into listening to a shaggy dog story. You're trying to untie the Gordian knot, Charlie; she can go on like this all night.?
The what knot?
?The Gordian knot. Once upon a time, there was a king, and he had his servants tie him the greatest knot there had ever been. No man could loosen it— ten men couldn't loosen it. And the king said whoever could untie the knot would be king in his stead.?
?Many try, but none can untie the knot. Until one day, a man with a sword comes along. And he looks at the Gordian knot, and he takes his sword, and he slices the knot in half. And he becomes king.?
Eloise has continued talking, you think. You don't really care. You think the man with the sword was a cheater.
?He was pragmatic. You ought to be pragmatic, Charlie. Let
Fine, you think, and the instant you do there's fire in your throat and— you blink hard— your eyes. ?Good. Try again.?
"Eloise," you say aloud, with a tenor and richness that certainly doesn't belong to you. She pauses mid-sign. "Just tell me the God-damn results like you said you would, okay?"
It's clear she can tell something's different, but can't identify precisely what. She seems to vanish back into her cloak. "Geez, kid, you should've just said so."
"I tried—!" You stop yourself short. "Please."
She sighs. "There's no physical difference— it's just glass with a backing. There's probably a psychological difference, depending on the person."
?You're welcome.?
The fire recedes, leaving your throat dry and achy. "Wh— that's it? What kind of psychological—"
She places a finger to her lips.
>[1] Write-in.
You furrow your brow and turn to look behind you. The cave mouth is empty. You turn back, confused.
"Oh," Eloise says, "oh, sorry, that was a 'I'm not telling you,' not a… aw, don't worry about it. We should go before it gets dark."
You should. Just because you haven't run into any panthers recently doesn't mean they're not out there, as evinced by the maulings people whisper about in town. And you haven't brought a light.
What if Margo left the cave and you didn't even notice? It's a troubling thought, but not one you can give practical voice to. And going with Eloise is likely the best way to avoid panthers and Margos— if nothing else, you can hope she trips over the cloak.
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>[1] Head back.
>>[A] How does she know all these things about glass?
>>[B] What kind of "source" provides mirrors?
>>[C] What's her opinion on Ellery's behavior?
>>[D] Don't converse— just keep an eye out.
>>[E] Write-in.
>[2] Stay here until Margo comes out, just to be safe.
>>Same options as above.
>[3] Write-in.
"I don't suppose you have a light?" You dislike relying on her for this, but you have little choice.
She rustles around in her cloak, eventually producing an unassuming paper cube the size of your palm. She tosses it to you. "Shake it."
You do so. It flickers, then begins to glow a hot white. You clutch it gingerly. "Is it safe to hold?"
"Safer and brighter than foxfire. Doesn't last too long, though, so let's get a move on."
You lead the way back to the trail, keeping a wide berth around the mouth of the cave. Margo has yet to reappear. Maybe an alligator got her?
?Wondering is useless. Move.?
Eloise clambers after you, surprisingly agile given the cloak. You turn the cube over in your hand. "Is this real?"
"Why would it be?"
This is a good question. "Well, you pulled it out so fast."
"Paper's the easiest thing in the world to make, and light was already the topic of conversation." Eloise tosses another cube into the air. "It's just quick thinking."
?And practice. But she's not wrong. Paper is the base state of the unreal.?
"Huh." You scratch a fingernail against the side of the cube. "Interesting."
"Right?"
You walk at a steady clip, but the trail still dissolves into sameness. Haven't you been around this bend before? Didn't you see this mangrove with the X in its bark five, or ten, or fifteen minutes? Or are you remembering dozens of prior trips, is all? You have to trust yourself— the trail doesn't loop, and you'd be able to tell if you were off it by the fact of being waist-deep in sludge. But, by God, the dark makes it difficult to.
Overthinking is the death of the night traveler, it's been said, so you busy yourself instead with badgering Eloise. "Hey," you say. "What kind of source got you a mirror?"
Eloise raises her eyebrows.
"For safety reasons," you hasten on. "I don't want to meet the kind of guy who who deals in… that."
"Sure, sure." She seems amused. "You know, it'd be fine even if that weren't the case. Not that it isn't, of course."
"Safety reasons," you repeat.
"Gotcha. Madrigal's a smuggler."
You stop dead in your tracks. "What?"
"Well, middleman— smuggler middleman? Just a middleman? Middlewoman? Whatever. She used to be a smuggler, anyhow, and now she manages a trading business on the side. She knew a guy; I cashed in a favor."
You're aghast. You cup your face with your hand. "She's a… God, does Monty know?! Shouldn't she be arrested?"
"By whom?"
"By… the authorities? The Wind Court, I guess. I— seriously, does Monty know? Do I have to tell Monty that the quartermaster's a criminal? She— God, I should've known this the second I saw her. The scar— the whorish—"
"Hey, hey, it's okay." Eloise takes you by the wrist. "'Course Monty knows— she told him. I mean, she tells everybody. 'Hi, I'm Madrigal, did you know I smuggled things? I got a scar from it, look at my scar, it's so cool…' Did you not get the speech?"
"Uh…" You can't recall. "I don't think she likes me very much."
"Oh, well, shocking. If it helps, I don't think she likes me much either."
It doesn't help. "She probably likes you more, though, right? I mean, she called me a bitch."
"We-ell," Eloise says. "I mean, she's not wrong. You're just not very good at it." She knocks you on the shoulder. "You go for it, then you backpedal. You gotta commit to being a bitch, catch my drift? Nobody'll like you, but at least they'll respect you."
?Finally. This is what I've been saying.?
You rub your shoulder. "I'm not a bitch."
"Whatever you say, Charlotte." She's grinning again. God-damnit. "And I'm not a snoop, right?"
You ignore the question. "Now, I don't want this. But if I did want to interact with Madrigal... civilly… how might I go about that?"
"Oh, you punched her, right? Nice!"
You stick your hands in your pockets. "That may or may not have occurred. Would you answer the—?"
"Oh, no, you're asking the wrong person. Like I said, she doesn't like me." Eloise shifts her posture. "It's some combination of the architecture and the rumors, I think. And I make fun of her scar. Don't make fun of her scar, is a good start."
"Okay, don't…"
"Be direct, I guess. She likes it when you get to the point. Don't do the thing where you pretend to care about ethics, she hates that." She thinks. "Oh, uh, because she doesn't care about them either. If she claims she does, that's total gull, got it? It's the results that matter, not how you got them."
"And she'll like me, then?"
"Who said anything about liking you? No, she's still gonna hate your guts. I mean…" Eloise gestures broadly at your clothes. "…you're prissy. But she won't punch you, probably."
You smooth down your coat. "I'm not prissy. I'm fastidious."
"Yeah, don't say that to her."
?This woman has a good head on her shoulders.?
You walk and walk, and walk, and walk. It's hotly debated whether distances underwater actually grow in the dark, or whether it's just imagination. Hotly debated between newcomers, usually. Anyone who's been down here any length of time will readily tell you: well, of course it's your imagination. That's what makes the distances grow. Dumbass. And then they set to debating: well, is it the distance that grows, or is it the time? And is it the world that changes, or your perception of it?
Miles (yards) later, or possibly hours (minutes), you pipe up again. "So, about the mirror writing thing. Did you ever figure that out? Like, what could've caused that—"
"It's not really my area of expertise," Eloise says. "I don't like to speculate about people's—"
She's still evasive. You change tack. "Fine, whatever. What'd you think of him, though? Like, how he was acting."
"Well, I mean…" She rubs her forehead. "The first and second times I met him, he spun on his heel and walked out on me, so it can't get a ton worse. He was pretty freaked, though."
"How so?"
"Well, I told you, right? Lots and lots of pacing, muttering, uh… he kept picking at his skin. I had to tell him that was gross. But none of that is the weird part, you get me? The weird part is, I go check in on him a week later, and he's absolutely fine."
"So he got over it?"
"I guess so? I'm serious, totally fine. He greets me, he thanks me for working with him, he tells me he's doing better. Not a single twitch. I think he trimmed his beard, even. It was creepy. Oh, hey, my table!"
Lo, your hiking has brought you back to camp. Eloise's "installation" squats in the reeds to your right. She pats its top.
You swivel your head in an attempt to find meaning in the table-with-grass-on-it. None arises. You go for your second bet. "Uh, does it mean something?"
You're not expecting the answer. "Probably? Yeah, probably, you know, nature overtaking mankind. I just made it because I had a dream about a table, though."
"Is that… art?" That can't be art.
"Why wouldn't it be? Anything's art if you hang a plaque on it." She strokes the table lovingly. "Besides, I like making people wonder."
>[1] That seems like a good place to leave things. Go to sleep.
>[2] That seems like a good place to leave things. Attempt to sneak into Ellery's tent.
>[3] Wait! You have more things to say to Eloise! [What?]
>[4] Write-in.
You rub your sleeve. The mirror shard has lightly embedded itself into your arm, it feels like. "...I better be going."
"No! Commit! Say 'Ahem! I'm leaving now, peon!' or whatever it is you're thinking. Come on."
"Um, I wasn't—"
"Oh, you're no fun. See you around, Charlotte." She waves you off.
BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #10
this video. It's a Russian cover of an Irish folk song, which is possibly the least interesting way to describe it, but I fear saying any more at risk of spoiling the pure ????? factor. Seriously! It's only 1:30 long! You have no excuse!