The Mirror Maker

Everyone in the city knew about Liesel's mirrors. They were beautiful, silver-backed and framed in carved walnut, and they had one peculiarity: they showed you as you truly were. Not your face, exactly. Your heart.

Most people bought one once, looked into it, and hid it in a cupboard.

The stranger came to her workshop during the winter carnival, when the whole city wore masks. His was black velvet, plain and unadorned, and he did not take it off.

'I want a mirror,' he said, 'but I don't want to look in it. I want you to look in it, and tell me what you see.'

It was the strangest commission she had ever received. She took it anyway.

She worked for three weeks. He came every evening to watch, standing by the furnace in his velvet mask, asking questions about sand and fire and silver. He had a low, careful voice and kind hands, and he made her laugh when the glass cracked and she wanted to cry.

When the mirror was finished, she hung it on the workshop wall and looked into it, as he had asked.

She saw him without the mask. Not his face. His heart. It was nervous and hopeful and gentle, and it was, she realised with a jolt, turned entirely towards her.

'Well?' he asked. 'What did you see?'

'You,' she said, 'looking at me.'

He took off the mask. His face was ordinary, and kind, and pink with embarrassment. She liked it very much. She liked it even better up close, in the warm glow of the furnace, as the carnival bells rang across the city and he kissed her for the first time.