Her Medieval Mistake

Chapter One [Noami] If I see one more man grope his girlfriend’s ass in public, I might file a petition with the state of Massachusetts. I mean, look at this guy, hand plastered to his girlfriend’s jeans like it’s superglue, her fingers hooked around his neck like she’s afraid someone will steal him away in the middle of the museum. They’re whispering and giggling like the rest of us don’t exist, and the security guard over there is pretending to check his phone while giving them the side eye. This is utterly ridiculous. I didn’t come all the way to see this. They really should be kicked out. I scoff under my breath, pretending to study the glass display case in front of me. Some broken Roman pottery from the first century, shards of clay that probably held wine or olive oil once upon a long long time. Sexy stuff, really. Definitely sexier than two overgrown teenagers dry humping next to the Mesopotamian section. I am disgusted…this is disgusting. This is… “Oh God,” I mutter under my breath, as he buries his head into her neck. I tilt my head to the side, hands folded, eyes totally away from the broken Roman pottery. I watch as he rolls his tongue around the nape of her neck…as he presses his hand hard against her back. There’s a large grin on her face, but it’s quite evident that she’d rather have her mouth in the shape of an ‘O’, with that annoying sound that every female makes when she’s about to have her whole body shattered. Not me though…definitely not me. I don’t make that annoying sound that every other person makes. Really though, even if I want to…even if I want to make that annoying sound, I really can’t. Why would I? I haven’t even been touched like that in years. Like, actual years. Not since college. And even then, it wasn’t that great. No it wasn’t. The two fumbling and only encounters that happened in my entire life that made me swear off men and hookups altogether keeps ringing in my head every now and then. It’s like my body just decided; nope, we’re not doing this anymore. I’ve buried myself in books, research, and museum tours instead, and convinced myself I don’t care. I really don’t care. I don’t care how good it might feel being the one touched by Mr. Handsy right now…I don’t want to care even with his head buried in her neck. It isn’t that good. It can’t be that good…right? I shake off the almost gross thought that I feel is starting to well up within me and tug my jacket tighter around me. I almost didn’t make it here today…the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. I had almost told my postgraduate supervisor that I’d rather spend my day at the cafe opposite my apartment’s building and keep drinking several cups of ginger tea as I watch the final season of The Originals. Yes, being here would boost my marks, but still, I had felt the least motivated earlier this week. But I’m more than glad I’m here now. This exhibit seems worth the trip…well, of course except from the two gross humans that would rather have their clothes torn in the Mesopotamian section. I roll my eyes away from the frustratingly annoying couple and try to shift my thoughts towards why I’m here today. Why in the first place, I’d have business with anywhere like this. Why I’d even be interested, or should be interested in this… The Medieval Europe Collection. Artifacts from castles, cathedrals, battleground, pieces of a world I’ve studied since undergrad. I got my history degree, then went for a master’s because, apparently, I like being broke and overqualified at the same time. Right now, I’m working as a research assistant at Columbia. Which is just a fancy way of saying I chase down old documents, check facts, and dream about one day publishing a paper that doesn’t get buried in the archives. So that’s why I’m here…that’s why I should have any business with somewhere like this. The group moves down the corridor, our tour guide waving his little flag like we’re on some international vacation instead of shuffling through dusty displays. I pause in front of a painting. And suddenly, my whole body goes still. The man in the portrait stares back at me like he’s alive. Dark hair falling to his shoulders, a scar slicing down his jaw, eyes so sharp and black that I almost look away. He’s not smiling…he doesn’t need to. His presence fills the frame, the way a thunderstorm fills the sky before a downpour. I know a lot of faces in history. Kings, queens, generals, rebels, I’ve seen a dozen historical paintings in several other museums, even today at this museum, the museum guide had stopped us in front of eight other paintings. In the past, I’ve memorized hundreds of paintings and portraits for exams, written essays about them, even argued over them with professors. But this man? I’ve never seen him before. I lean in, squinting at the little plaque under the portrait. The lettering’s too faded to make out. I don’t like that. I pride myself on knowing these things, on recognizing the who’s who of history. “Caught your attention, hasn’t he?” I jolt. Professor Leclerc is suddenly standing at my elbow, smiling faintly like he’s been watching me. He’s one of the lecturers from Columbia…French accent, white hair, glasses perpetually sliding down his nose. I force a casual shrug. “I just don’t recognize him. Which is weird.” “That is because few people do.” He adjusts his glasses, leaning closer to the painting. “He is said to have been a warlord in Northern Europe. Late twelfth century. Some claim he was second in command to the king of a kingdom long since erased from maps. Others insist the kingdom itself was never real at all.” “A ghost story?” I ask, trying to mask the weird flutter in my chest. Wondering why someone from a likely ghost kingdom would even be here in the first place. “Perhaps.” The professor’s lips twitch. “Or perhaps simply forgotten. Records were scarce. Myths were plenty.” I look back at the portrait. Forgotten or not, supposed to be even here or not, there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes my skin prickle. Like he knows something I don’t. The tour guide calls us forward, voice bouncing through the corridor. “Alright, everyone, next stop. One of our most unusual artifacts…The Mirror of Orvalis.” Our group shuffles along, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. I hang back, still feeling that man’s eyes burning into me as I force myself to move on. My brain is cataloging what Professor Leclerc said, twelfth century, warlord, forgotten kingdom. Why doesn’t that show up in any of the dozens of history books I’ve studied? Why does it feel like he’s someone I should know? We turn the corner, and then my eyes rolls over to a mirror. I’m guessing the Mirror of Orvalis or whatever the museum guide just said a couple of moments ago. Tall, oval, the frame is somewhat dark and old looking. I move past most of the folks in the group, my attention totally fixed to the patterns on the frame. They appear really strange…the patterns. It doesn’t look like it belongs in the room, not in the way other artifacts do. It’s… unsettling. “Now, legend says this mirror opens once every thousand years.” I turn around to see the museum guide in the middle of the room, pointing to the mirror, a large grin on his face. “That if someone touches it at just the right moment, they might find themselves… elsewhere.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course, myths are myths. Don’t worry…no one’s ever disappeared. You’re all safe.” The group laughs politely. I don’t. Not while I’m trying to figure out what the strange carvings in the mirror frame is really about. We shuffle past the strange mirror, and within minutes, the museum guide is leading us towards two more artifacts…explaining the story behind them. One of the two artifacts is some kind of golden cup, a lecturer behind me murmured the word, “gilded goblet.” I notice that the cup…goblet, or whatever it is been referred to, is cracked down the middle but still obnoxiously shiny. The tour guide goes on about how it was used in coronation ceremonies somewhere in France. I nod along, pretending to care, while really I’m staring at the way the glass case reflects the people next to me. I’m wondering if anyone else is dying of boredom. Or maybe at least, is in need of some iced tea or something. The other artifact is a rusted sword, long as hell, the blade eaten up by time. Someone in the group whispers “cool” like we’re on a field trip in middle school. I cross my arms tighter. It is cool, sure. But not as cool as… Shit! I’m about to mutter out the words, “that portrait,” Why are my thoughts going back to that damn portrait? Yeah sure, it’s a face of a strikingly good looking man who looks pompous as hell…a warlord who probably never lifted a finger in his time, but took all the credit for everything…most probably some ceremonious dude…if he even ever existed in the first instance! I shrug, hurrying along much faster with the rest of the group. We move towards a section of the gallery we’ve walked into and then my eyes lands on it again…the mirror. “We have so much more to show you all. Next, would you like to see the armor that was rumored to have once belonged to a lost prince in Saudi Arabia?” the museum guide’s voice ripples through my ear. But I could care less right now to be honest. I really could do with that iced tea instead, or at least, look at the carvings on that mirror’s frame…again. Yes, the frame. The dark wood frame with carvings that matches nothing else I have ever seen before. It looks so wrong. Like it doesn’t belong here, like someone shoved it into this museum by mistake…or even this world. I edge close, aware that I’m moving away from the rest of the group. Infact, i don’t think the rest of the group is anywhere near again. They’ve probably gone on to another section…Good, I could do with some alone time anyways. As I move closer to the mirror, I notice that there’s a sign on the pedestal: Do Not Touch. Of course. The exact invitation to touch it. My hand hesitates mid air, but only for a second. Then I let my fingers brush the carvings. The wood is colder than I expect. Almost damp. I jerk my hand back, heart jumping. Right. Of course. Just a creepy mirror. I shake my head, roll my eyes at myself, and dig my phone out of my pocket. If the frame has strange inscriptions or patterns, I can zoom in and study them later. That’s what I’m good at…obsessing over details until they make sense. I hold my phone up. Snap. The picture comes out blurry. My reflection’s warped in the glass. Ugh. I adjust my grip, step closer. Snap again… And I freeze. For half a second, the surface of the mirror ripples on my screen. Not my reflection. Not glass. Like water. I check my phone for any filter effect or something like that. There’s no filter. “What the…” My hand stumbles, my phone slips from my grip, clattering to the floor. The sound makes my chest tighten. I look up at the mirror. Still. Perfectly normal.There’s no ripple. But then again, I know what I saw. I saw something… Slowly, like I’m testing my sanity, I reach out again. My fingertips skim the carvings. My breath catches. Did this mirror just move under my touch??! I yank back, but then somehow, I move forward again…it’s like something in me is pushing me forward… I stretch my hand towards the mirror, my eyes widening as I’m realizing something. My right hand…it’s going into the mirror…it’s f*****g entering. Isn’t this a damn mirror? “What the hell…” I mumble out. My lips shaking. What is happening… Something is tugging at me…my chest is beating really fast. “This is crazy, am I loosing my mind?” I whisper, attempting to pull out my hand. Wondering if I had hit my head on something much earlier. But it’s not working…my hand isn’t coming out. My other hand catches the edge of the pedestal, the mirror ripples wider, grabbing more of me. I can feel my chest beating even much faster. “No, no, no…” I yell out, but my feet skid against the polished floor, and then I’m falling. Wait…I’m falling?