In the hall behind the store, Charlie turned left toward the stairs leading up to the apartment and paused in front of the large, rectangular mirror that dominated the space. The mirror needed no external light source to cast a reflection and although the background was a familiar expanse of Jack’s golden scales to scale, it had, to Charlie’s surprise, not changed a thing about her Docs, cargo pants, and leather jacket. Even her Dresden Dolls T-shirt had made an appearance.

Her eyes were still Gale gray, her hair dark blonde and barely long enough again to tie back. She’d gotten the small scar through her eyebrow when she was seven and pitched headfirst out of the treehouse. Had her Uncle Tomas, Allie’s father, not made an impossible catch, she’d have probably broken her neck. The shiny, quarter-sized scar on her jaw had been a burn last year and to this day Charlie had no idea if Auntie Gwen’s and now you know what happens when you get too close to a dragon had been a comment on only the flame.

She’d shut down “Ring of Fire” hard enough to hear strings snap.

Allie, who had a degree in Art History she’d actually got to use for a while before the grant paying her salary had run out, had declared the mirror to be an 1870s Renaissance Victorian original. Charlie, who almost had a degree in Sociology, Music, Drama, and/or English depending on how almost ended up being defined, considered it more a friend. Auntie Catherine, as willing as any auntie to take credit where credit may or may not have been due, had found it and hung it but denied having anything to do with its working.

As she watched, a red-brown stain spread out over the fabric covering her reflection’s heart.

“It wasn’t that bad. I’m fine.”

The stain split to show a gaping wound with a fleck of gold in its depths.

“You’re a romantic. I swear, it wasn’t that bad.” One hand on the heavy walnut frame, Charlie leaned in and rested her forehead against the glass. The mirror knew because the mirror always knew. She didn’t know why it had chosen to keep her secret, but she was grateful. Considering the shit she’d given Allie about the angsting she’d done over her entirely unrequited and borderline cliché feelings for Michael, her gay best friend, Charlie was fully aware that payback would be a bitch.

At least she wasn’t angsting. Running, sure. Angsting, no.

“So, any idea what’s up with Allie?”

When she leaned back, her reflection wore a hazmat suit and stood knee-deep in dirty diapers.

“Did Jack try to feed the twins raw liver again?”

The pile grew.

“I’d ask if you knew something I didn’t, but since you usually do, I’m going to go upstairs and take my lumps.”