His opponent looked down at the board, sighed, and pushed his pawn forward. “I could never get the hang of these new-fangled games . . .”

Alice shook her head, and the image faded away. Her weariness had increased. She felt as though she were wearing her pack, and it had been loaded with lead weights. She took a step forward, putting one hand on the mirror for support, and found the glass cool and slick against her palm.

“What else?” the mirror image said. “We can show you anything.”

“Anything,” the echoes repeated, over and over. “Anything.”

Alice’s mind was as slow as molasses. Her mouth seemed too thick to shape words.

“I want to see,” she said, “my twelfth birthday. My father . . . gave me a present.”

“Of course,” the mirror image said, echoes chattering beside it. “Of course . . . of course . . .”

The mirror showed her father’s study, with its big desk and electric lamp. He sat in his familiar chair, fiddling with the bow on a brown paper package. The door opened, and Alice watched herself enter, wearing a pretty striped dress, a ribbon in her hair, and a blank, porcelain mask.

“Alice,” her father said, smiling the smile she loved so much. “Have you been having a good birthday?”

“Yes!” Alice ran to the desk. “Cooper took me for ice cream and soda, and we watched them fixing the big clock down in the square. I want to learn how to fix clocks!”

Did I really sound like that? Alice had always thought of herself as grown-up for her age, but the image in the mirror looked like . . . well . . . a child. A normal, happy girl of twelve. As opposed to . . . whatever I am now.

Her father looked taken aback, but his smile broadened. “I’m sure you’d make a fine clocksmith. Is that what they’re called? Clocksmiths?” Alice shook her head, giggling, and he cleared his throat noisily. “In any event, I found this in a shop the other day and thought you might enjoy having it.”

He pushed the package toward her, and she grabbed it eagerly. “Can I open it?”

“Go ahead.”

The mirror-Alice worried at the bow, then slid the ribbon off entirely and tore the paper. There was a book inside, of course. It was an old, battered book, the gilt lettering on its spine nearly illegible. Alice remembered it perfectly. A collection of Greek tragedies, printed in the eighteenth century, a fine piece for any library.

“I thought,” her father said, a little gruffly, “that as much as you love books, it’s time you started your own collection.”

“Oh, thank you!” The blank-faced Alice rushed past the desk and wrapped her arms around her father as far as they would go. He hugged her back, then lifted her off her feet, eliciting a delighted laugh.