I make the mask blink slowly, pulling my attention back to the dingy stone room and the irate queen. I can feel my geas start to activate, attempting to compel me to tell the truth, but its slippery strands can't find much to latch onto. For questions like this, where the 'true' answer is subjective, I'm permitted to say anything that might reasonably be considered true. A weighted average of opinions is usually sufficient. Right now, the village gossip seems to think that the daughter is more beautiful than her mother, but a sizable contingent still regards the queen as the fairest. Either answer would be permitted by the geas.

I slide the eyes of my mask open, pretending to consider the question. The queen fumes, pacing back and forth across the threadbare rug, but mercifully remains silent. Do I tell her that she remains the fairest? Eventually, I won't be able to do so any longer; she's no witch, to preserve her beauty indefinitely. Her daughter is just starting to enter her prime, while her own best days are slipping through her grasping fingers. All the tinctures and powders in the world can't conceal that. Would it be merciful to divulge that fact to her now, or let her stew in her illusions a little longer? Which route is better for the daughter?

"Mirror," she warns, whirling with a rustle of silk and lace. "Answer me."

The geas tightens, and that decides me. Better to rip the bandage off swiftly, as the human saying goes, before her envy has time to curdle. "Your daughter is the fairest of them all, my lady," I intone. I don't know what expression would be appropriate, so I keep the mask blank. "She is the most beautiful woman in the kingdom." Such hyperbole is permitted by the geas, so long as the balance of probability favors the statement.

She, predictably, hisses with fury when I give her that tidbit of information. One of my humans – a true witch-queen – spontaneously combusted when I delivered the news. This one, though, merely snarls at me. "Are you sure?"

If I had a body, I would sigh. "Yes, my lady."

She snatches my mirror off of the wall, hoisting it above her head as though she wants to shatter it. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried that, though it never works. But she doesn't give in to temptation. Instead, she snarls a curse and lowers the mirror, tucking it under her arm as she storms out of the room. "Guards! Guards!" Servants scurry out of her way as she rushes through the castle, and I can hear a low hum of gossip start to build. I catch sight of the princess's maid ducking around a corner, and I wonder if she's going to tell her mistress that the queen is angry.

The last time the queen had a temper tantrum like this, she and her daughter ended up in a shouting match that shook the castle walls. The queen eventually confined the princess in her rooms, threatening to lock her up until she was married. In retaliation, the princess ran all the way to the neighboring kingdom, only returning when forcibly retrieved by a guard troop. I hope she has the sense to run now, for the current threat is much more dire.

Considering the queen's rage, a soldier appears with remarkable alacrity. He bows, and she snaps, "Fetch my daughter at once."

He returns approximately fifteen minutes later, shoulders hunched. "She's not in the castle, your majesty. The cook says she fled into the forest around ten minutes ago."

The queen slaps him, raking scarlet trails down his cheek. He bears the pain stoically, and she hisses, "Fine. Get me the huntsman."

Why do they always send for the huntsman? Even in worlds where eating meat is taboo, they have a comparable position – master of the horse or chief woodsman – who they summon. More often than not, the man (they're invariably men) will decide that the princess is too beautiful to kill, and will return to the queen empty-handed. Bringing the heart of a stag is also traditional, and less likely to get them executed.

Of course, the best way to avoid execution is to fulfill the task, but they rarely do that. I think they're suffering from the mortal peculiarity called love, which never fails to surprise the queens who they serve.

This particular huntsman, though, appears to be free of the malady. He bows low to the queen as he enters, and remains down until she orders him to rise. His face is tanned and lined, creased with thin white scars and set in a perpetual scowl. He drops to one knee in front of the queen, and asks, "How may I serve ya, majesty?"

"Find that faithless, treacherous slut who calls herself my daughter, and kill her," she orders, scarlet nails digging into his leather-clad shoulders. "Bring me her heart within the week, or I'll have you executed."

I feel the space between the worlds shiver around me, then settle back into its normal configuration. There was a chance there for her to create a new path, or at least follow a gently-used one, but she didn't, and so the multiverse remains unchanged.

The huntsman bows his head in submission. "Yes, my queen."

Almost as an afterthought, she shoves my mirror into his hands. "This should help you find her. Ask it anything you like; it has to answer truthfully."

Now that's new. I must confess a certain eagerness to see this play out 'in person,' as it were, rather than eavesdropping from surrounding reflections.

"Thank you, majesty." He remains kneeling until the wooden door bangs shut behind her, then rises. The room spins as he turns my mirror over in his hands, treating me to a view of the worn stone floor. I can hear him muttering to himself as he studies me, but I can't make out the words. Then he flips me back over. "Hey, uh, mirror. So, you talk?"

Oh, lovely. Obviously he possesses the same amount of intelligence as most of my wielders – which is to say, not much. Someday, someone with a true thirst for knowledge will pick me up, and things will finally get interesting, but it's clear that today is not that day. Maybe this won't be that interesting after all. "Yes," I tell him.

He jerks backwards, nearly dropping my mirror in surprise. "Damn, ya really do talk!" He peers at the mask floating in the mirror. "Never thought I'd see something like ya. So, mirror..." He pauses. "I guess I can't call ya that, can I... what's your name?"

The question makes me pause. No one has ever asked me that before – if they need to call me something, they call me 'mirror.' Am I supposed to have a name? It's a very mortal conceit, a name; maybe this human doesn't realize what I am. "I don't think I have one," I tell him, cajoling the face in the mirror to display an expression of gentle bewilderment. "Should I?"

I must not be too successful with my mimicry of human emotion, for he regards me with confusion. "Uh, yeah."

How odd. "You can call me 'Mirror.' I suppose that's my name." I shape the mask into an encouraging expression, hoping that he'll accept this and move on. Names might be useful for mortals, but I have no need of one. What would be the point?

He doesn't let it go. "That's not a real name though, not like Alex or George or Mary. Are ya a girl mirror or a boy mirror?"

Another question I've never heard before. Gender is another concept unique to mortals, though its expression across different worlds is fascinating. Most humans only recognize two genders, but species in other universes have words for three, five, or even eighteen. None of them, however, seem to apply to me. "Neither," I reply, after a long moment of silence.

I expected him to argue about this, too, but he just shrugs. "Can I call ya Mary then?" When I don't answer immediately, he hastens to reassure me, "It sorta sounds like mirror, ya know."

"Mary will work." I want him to get to the point and stop asking useless questions, though I can't deny that his odd brand of reasoning is intriguing. Still, if I'm to participate in the destruction of a sentient life force, I'd prefer to get it over with.

(Another one of my mortals, an aqua-skinned empress with webbed fingers, is calling. I send a fraction of myself to deal with her and turn my attention back to the huntsman.)

He smiles. One of his front teeth is chipped; it matches his crooked nose. "Glad to meet ya, Mary. I'm Ben." He fumbles with my mirror as he reflexively extends a hand before pulling it back, looking flustered. "So, uh, did ya hear what her majesty said?"

I tell the mask in the mirror to nod. "You need to find and kill the princess."

It's not a question, but he bobs his head up and down anyway. "Yes'm. Do ya know where she is?" He fidgets awkwardly, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Yes." When the princess was born, her fairy godmother gave her a delicate silver necklace, which she never takes off. Its strands currently reflect a bewildering mishmash of budding foliage, flickering shadows, and flushed skin – she's running through the forest. The gleam of a hawk's eye gives me a glimpse of her current location; it looks like she only left the castle a few minutes ago. I assume that her maid did indeed warn her of her mother's ire. Apparently, she was smart enough to run, but not smart enough to take a horse or any form of supplies – typical.

The huntsman blinks slowly at me. "Um... will ya tell me where she is, milady?"

My geas rouses at that, only to relax moments later. Either 'yes' or 'no' are perfectly valid answers to his question, for I don't have to tell him anything unless he asks the right questions. In the past, I've made a game out of it, seeing how long I can stretch out the questioning before I finally give my wielder the answer they seek. The ones who play until the end, without getting too frustrated or angry, are my favorites. But the allure of such wordplay has dimmed, and I would rather watch the dance of the stars. "She's in the forest."

Much to my surprise, he smiles. "Well, good." He sounds approving, and I don't think it's because of my actions. Is he afflicted with love after all? Or does he simply anticipate an easy end to the chase? This has the potential to be more interesting than I had first anticipated.

He doesn't say anything more, so I let the mirror dim. He breathes a curse when he notices that the mask has vanished. "Mirror? I mean, Mary?"

I make the mask reappear, set in an expression of expectation. "Yes?" Is he going to pester me with more odd questions?

"Oh, good, ya didn't disappear altogether." He heaves a sigh of relief. "Can I take ya with me when I go to find the princess?"

If it gets me away from this stuffy castle and the incredibly boring queen, I'll agree to anything. "Sure."

He grins at me. "Thanks." As he tucks me into his belt, I allow the mask to vanish again. From my current vantage point, I can only see snippets of the stone floor and walls, so I cast my attention outwards. The hawk is still circling, so I hitch a ride with it. The foliage isn't thick enough to completely conceal the princess's passage; every minute or so I can catch a glimpse of her tawny golden hair glinting in the sunlight. Satisfied that I can track her if necessary, I leave a fragment of myself with the hawk, and turn the majority of my attention to the aqua-skinned empress.