The mirror was easy. That was the problem.
It was a jagged, antique thing, vibrating with the trapped screams of a banshee caught in the glass during the 1920s. Castor held it out, and I didn't even have to touch it. I just looked at the dissonance in the glass, the jagged, shrieking sound waves trapped in the silica, and I smoothed them.
It took ten seconds.
The screaming stopped. The glass cleared, turning from a smoky grey to a pristine, silvery pool.
“Magnificent,” Castor had whispered, his eyes gleaming. He left the mirror as a gift, a token of good faith, and promised to return with "more interesting puzzles."
That was two weeks ago.
Now, I sat in the conservatory, surrounded by the smell of jasmine that was so thick it tasted like syrup in the back of my throat.
I hadn't eate
