The wind blew the curtains in opposite directions, giving way to the view of the night-strewn yard right outside.

Belle rolled over on her cot, which in her perspective, was a prison cell. Just modified to seem welcoming and comforting. Like a home. Which, to her, obviously wasn't.

Many thought she ought to appreciate her home. After all, it was a mansion. Her great Uncle Stoneheart had left her long ago.

Apparently, he had passed away in a cemetery, but there was no knowing for sure, for there had been no corpse, no blood, no evidence. No evidence, no confirmation.

Among the common folk, the mansion was the most valuable shack in town. It had overlarge rooms, oversized rooms and chambers, and double attics and basements. Most folk stay in huts, or small bungalows.

She swore under her breath and heaved herself out of bed, dragging herself down the stairs. Her copper hair, disheveled from her mere three hours of sleep, hung like a mop on one side of her head. Her cheekbones were distinguishable, the deep hollows unsettling to most. They called her "demon child", or "girl from hell." These descriptions were most precise. She often felt as if she had no feeling. It was unnerving, for sometimes, she felt that her heart was just smaller than average. If she had a heart at all, that is.

She slumped against wall, which was bleached and grey. She stared ahead of her, only then realising there was a great large mirror, supposedly glued to the wall. The paste was unevenly layered, as if whoever had stuck it on had been in a hurry. The ornate glass glinted off the dim lights of the chamber, flashing patterns against the bleak walls. The intricate swirls and complex design of the frame was beautifully, obviously well crafted.

This was strange. She hadn't seen this mirror yesterday. Since a few weeks ago, mirrors seemed to appear uncannily in random spots of the enormous mansion. First in the bathroom, then her uncle's bedroom, the attic, basement, and now the large main hall and chamber.

She shook her head, clearing her head. She stretched her stiff limbs and clambered back up into her bedroom. She went straight for her wardrobe, flinging the doors open. She climbed inside and slipped into a black cloak and silk gloves. She donned a cap, which she pulled over her ears.

Before leaving, she stared into one of her many mirrors. She grabbed a comb and started to unravel the knots. When she looked acceptable enough for public, she unbolted the front door, and stepped into the cool night air. It was usually eerily quiet at this time of night. It wasn't exactly what Naustraphia considered normal. She pulled her hood further down her face.

She headed straight towards the only stall in the market that accepted her, which was owned by the only woman who let her in. After all, she was the only one who dared come close to the shack. Through the windows of the bedraggled hut, she could make out a figure of a woman, shoulders folding into her chest. Her spine was curved into a permanent downwards arc. The fuzzy lights cast ghastly shadows, visible to those who came near.

She knocked softly, her knuckles pressing into the hay surface of the door. A rustle, then a patter of footsteps. The hinges squeaked as Mistress Cachia stumbled out the door. Belle caught her, setting her upright.

Cachia clapped her hands like a little girl, and ushered her in. "Oh, my poor darling child. Come now. Hang your cloak on the rack and have some tea."

Belle smiled discreetly, hanging the black material on the peg. Then she sank into one of the hard wooden stools, wincing as one of the splinters of wood sliced at her thigh. Cachia settled herself onto one of the chairs and leaned forward. Her head is rested in her gnarled hands as she says, "How are you doing, Belle?"

Belle shrugs, nonplussed. "Fine, Miss. The normal." She cradled the steaming cup in her hands, savouring their warmth.

"Is anything the matter?", Cachia pressed, resting her elbow on the table, eying the girl.

"No, everything's fine. The usual", was Belle's nonchalant reply. She raised the cup to her lips and took a sip. Jasmine, she realised.

Cachia watched her drink, her slanted eyes a queer grey.

Belle refused to meet her gaze, instead, staring at the orange liquid in her cup. She swirled the contents around in her glass and took a long draft.

"Are you sure?", The old woman asked, daring to venture a little further.

Belle pursed her lips, then said, "Strange things have been happening."

Cachia tilted her head, looking down at the girl. Her thin figure was tense, and she was all limbs. Her eyes revealed no emotion, remaining the same placid blue.

"Yes."

"What makes these things so strange?"

Belle frowned. "Mirrors."

Cachia froze. "Mirrors?"

"Yes." She proceeded to tell of the serpentine swirls of the frame and the shine of its sheen surface."

The more Belle spoke, the more uncomfortable Cachia seemed to get. Belle took note of this and paused, mid sentence.

"Something the matter, Miss?"

The mistress shook her head and muttered, "No. No, no, everything's fine."

She averted her eyes and gazed at the window. She stood up, abruptly.

"Hurry along home now, child. It's getting late."

Belle stared at her curiously. "It's dusk. I usually leave--"

She got cut off as Cachia shoved her, not unkindly, out the door.

"I know. I have some...errands to run. Go now, dear." With that, she turned and closed the door behind her.

Belle stared at the door, her look questioning. Cachia never had errands to run.

She stood there, puzzling over what had happened. Finally, she decided to head home.

But something was definitely wrong. Everything had been strange since her great uncle had mysteriously dropped dead at Roelch's Cemetery.

Keeping her head down and avoiding the accusing glares of the Naustraphian, she silently vowed to find out what was going on. And make it be gone. For good.