We pass a plethora of tents and booths as we make our way deeper into the market. All sorts of gadgets are for sale here, along with a wide variety of food both living and dead. A man in a tan coat and bow tie points a glowing green object, about the size of a pen, at a wire cage, which unfolds into the shape of a snarling tiger. His redheaded companion laughs with delight, while the proprietor beams magnanimously. Farther down the row, a girl with a shock of spiked hair – half bubblegum pink and half sky blue hair – along with a snake tattoo on her neck argues with a shopkeeper over a thick stack of leather-bound tomes. Goblins hawk precious jewelry from a tent ensorcelled to gleam like gold, while food vendors call out to the people passing by. "Chicken legs, certified from real chickens!" "Belladonna tinctures, delicious and nutritious!" "Toasty diracawl slices here, just like your mother used to make!" It's utter chaos, and it's fascinating.

As we turn off of the main road, the din lessens. There's room to maneuver in the streets, and the vendors are a bit quieter. A humanoid with gills and a fishy face gestures for the huntsman to come closer, motioning to a tank full of mermaids with iron collars around their necks. They bear resigned expressions as they float in the placid water, not bothering to glance up as the huntsman passes. He winces, waving away the proprietor's offer to 'try them,' and hurries down the lane.

His steps don't slow until we reach the outside of the Golden Boar, which turns out to be one of the few real buildings in the market. A multi-story construction of creaking wood, its dilapidated façade is a sharp contrast to the rollicking music echoing from within. "I guess this is it," I say, wishing that the huntsman would tip my mirror upwards so I can see more of the building.

"Are ya nervous?" he asks.

Nervous? Why would I be nervous? It's not an emotion that I'm capable of feeling, as far as I know. "I'm simply intrigued by the possibility of finding Quicksilver," I tell him.

He hesitates, running his hand over the top of my mirror. "What if..." He pauses for so long that I'm not sure he's going to complete the question. "What if she's, ya know... dead?" I don't answer, and he hastily adds, "Not that I think she is, or anything. But... would ya be sad?" He sounds like he cares about me for some reason, though I can't possibly fathom why the theoretical sadness of a mirror would matter to him.

Besides, I don't think I'd be sad. Disappointed? Maybe – I would never get to learn how she made me, or why I'm built the way I am. But I wouldn't have a reason to feel sorrow. I don't know her, and if she's dead, I never will. I guess you could call her my mother, but that doesn't sound accurate. My progenitor? More formal, but that still implies a bond. I can't dredge up the slightest shred of memory of my creation or my earliest days; the first thing I remember is that hated question: 'Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?' That particular queen is probably more of a mother than anyone else, though she was a spiteful, smallminded woman who died shortly after I awoke.

Could she have been the woman named Quicksilver? After a moment of reflection, I disregard that hypothesis. She lacked the requisite power, for one thing, and the necessary intelligence for another. Someone strong enough and smart enough to create me would have no need for petty, jealous questions about beauty – she could have simply magicked herself into a more youthful form. No, Quicksilver must have given the mirror to that first queen, then disappeared. Maybe she gave out all the mirrors, scattered throughout the multiverse, or maybe she sold them from a stall here. Either way, she must not have activated them until they left her hands, or I would have seen her.

The huntsman is still waiting for my answer. "I guess I'd be disappointed that I didn't get to meet her," I decide.

He looks worried. "Will ya be alright?"

"Of course." I'm not a child, to throw a temper tantrum because I didn't get my way. Children – indeed, most mortals – may do foolish things when upset in the mistaken belief that it will make them feel better, but I would hope I'm more rational than that. Still, Ben's concern touches me. None of my wielders have ever given a rat's tail about my state of mind.

I shape my mask into a smile. "Truly, I'll be fine. It'll be disappointing, for sure, but we'll find another way to figure out the current state of things. Goblin Market surely has other mages who can help us, after all." Rumor has it that you can find anything here, if you're willing to pay the right price. I'm not sure I'd pay anything, but there's a limit to what someone could practically ask of me, and I'd be happy to trade information for information.

Ben gives me a skeptical look. "Ya sure?" He runs his fingers over my frame. "If I never knew my ma, I'd hate to find out that she was dead before I could ever meet her."

An uncomfortable sensation moves within me. If I'm honest with myself, the possibility upsets me, but that's not a logical reaction. I must be spending too much time with mortals; I'm picking up too many mortal emotions. "Let's go inside," I urge.

The huntsman gives me a small smile and picks up the mirror. "Yes'm." I get the feeling that he's humoring me, and I'm grateful for it.

The inside of the tavern is significantly larger than the outside. A quartet of winged men sits at the table nearest the door, gulping down a pale amber liquid. Breezes stir the feathers of their wings, though the air in the rest of the tavern remains still. At a table farther down, an unshaven man in a pink kimono holds a dish of sake as he chatters animatedly with the slender, white-haired man across the table. A cluster of bodiless skulls hovers on tattered wings in the far corner, sipping out of a large bowl filled with thick crimson liquid – I'm fairly sure it's blood. The huntsman glances around warily. "Ya sure this is the right place?" he whispers.

"Of course it is! Welcome to the Golden Boar!" The booming announcement comes from behind us. I curse my lack of external reflections as the huntsman jumps, nearly dropping me as he spins to see a hulking man wrapped in a bearskin cloak standing in the entrance to the tavern. A massive grin splits his face, revealing multiple layers of shark-like teeth. I've never seen anything quite like him.

"Ah...do ya run this place?" the huntsman asks carefully.

The bear-man's grin widens. "My name's Oriol. It's a pleasure." He thrusts out a hairy hand for the huntsman to shake. "What can I get you? We've got everything from ambrosia to brandy to the finest blood around, though I'm guessing you don't want the latter."

"Actually, we're looking for information," I interject. Oriol's expression hardens. "Do you know anything about a woman who called herself Quicksilver? She apparently set up shop around here for a while."

Oriol slings his arm around the huntsman's shoulders and steers him to a table. "Now, no business before pleasure," he chides. "Buy a drink and we'll talk."

A drink is a cheap price to pay for information; I'll take it. "What do you recommend?" Goblin Market food is real, so the huntsman doesn't need to worry about being trapped here forever if he touches a single morsel. I think it might have something to do with the market's unique status as a confluence of universes.

"For a human?" Oriol's brow wrinkles in thought. "Peach brandy is at its best right now, or we've got a lovely strawberry lemonade." I can see that the words mean nothing to the huntsman, so I suggest the lemonade. Best to keep a clear head. He agrees, and Oriol grins. "Be right back." He bustles off, and I take the opportunity to look around. We're seated next to a booth full of twittering girls wearing white feathered cloaks, who appear to be gossiping about their sister's recent marriage; they're not important. The cloaked figure on our other side is equally unimportant, I assume. People who walk around like that don't take interruptions well, but that means that they don't interrupt others either. I can't even tell if they're humanoid, though I think I can see the gleam of at least four eyes from under their hood.

It can't be more than thirty seconds before Oriol reappears and plunks down a glass of pink liquid. "Drink up." The huntsman takes a tentative sip, then makes a startled face and drinks with more enthusiasm, while Oriol turns to my mirror. "So, mirror. You're looking for Quicksilver." It's not a question. "Why do you want to find her?"

"She might have information that's valuable to me." For some reason, I don't want to explain further.

He snorts. "Obviously, otherwise you wouldn't be looking for her. I hate to tell you, she left a while ago. I don't think she wants to be bothered." He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. "Then again, if you have a good reason to want to talk to her..."

And this is why I dislike bargaining with the fae. Subtle (or not-so-subtle) innuendo, attempts to cajole you into revealing more than you want to show, and more trickery than an argument of lawyers. Still, I don't see how he can use this particular bit of information against me. "I want to find my creator, and Quicksilver might be her," I explain.

"Why?"

"Curiosity." I don't have a better reason that I'm willing to share, and I don't want to outright lie. Mortals go on and on about noble quests for glory, or revenge, or true love, and I'm sure all of those are more heroic reasons for a quest than curiosity. But it's all I've got. I don't want to tell a stranger that something in the multiverse feels slightly off-kilter – even in the unlikely case that he believed me, it would require far too much explanation.

Oriol nods slowly. "What do you think you'll get out of a meeting with her?" He scratches at a faded tattoo of a teardrop on the inside of his wrist.

"Information about my creation." It's true enough, as far as it goes. I do want to know why I was created – doesn't everyone? Am I supposed to spend my life answering idiotic questions for vainglorious queens with a propensity for infanticide? Or is there some higher purpose? I always thought that mortals were foolish for seeking such meaning in their lives, for there's no invisible hand pulling on their puppet strings, but surely I was made for a reason...

But that's not the most important question I need to ask.

I think Oriol can guess some of what I didn't say, for he laughs shortly. "You're on a foolish quest, youngster." In that moment, his eyes look like they've seen a thousand years full of tragedy, infinitely old and full of sorrow. "But I won't impede you. Unfortunately, no one has seen Quicksilver in decades." He pulls out a thin metal plate, and scribbles something with a feather quill. There's no inkwell in sight. "I can send her a message, telling her about you, but there's no guarantee that she'll reply. I don't even know if she can still be contacted like that." He slips the plate back into a pocket of his apron.

I suppose my mask must look disappointed, for the huntsman pats the frame of my mirror comfortingly. "It's something," he tells me.

I know it is, but it's not what I wanted. I tell myself that I'm being irrational to feel disappointed – after all, finding my creator was an idle daydream until hours previously. It doesn't help. Still, I thank Oriol, who gives me a toothy grin. "Cheer up, mirror. You've got a chance. It's more than most get." Yeah, I know. Still doesn't help much. I wonder if Quicksilver, if I can ever get ahold of her, can excise some of these irritating emotions. Surely I don't need to feel things like disappointment to perform at an optimal level. I enjoy the more pleasant ones that I've been experiencing recently, but there must be a way to get rid of the others.

"Is that all for now, milady?" Ben murmurs. I tell the mask to nod. The huntsman smiles, picking me up and tucking me into his belt as he rises. "Oriol, thank ya. I'm grateful for the help, and I'm sure Mary is too."

"Mary... I like it." Oriol claps the huntsman on the shoulder, and he staggers, though he's hardly a lightweight. "Come back anytime, human."