The mirror lied.
Celeste set down her tea, steam curling like phantom fingers toward the ceiling. The antique mirror above her dresser—gilded in tarnished silver, its glass warped with age—showed her reflection in fragments. Her violet eyes, the sharp line of her collarbone, the restless tap of her fingers against porcelain.
Then it flickered.
For one heartbeat, the woman in the glass wore a gown the color of dried blood, its sleeves torn at the wrists. Gloves stained crimson. Lips parted in a silent scream.
Celeste lunged forward, her real fingers smacking the glass. "What the hell—?"
The vision shattered. Her own face stared back, pale and wide-eyed.
The tea had gone cold.