by Sylvia Moon and Lillian Hartley
Morning: the House by the Harbour
When I woke, the first thing I heard was the scaffolding.
Somewhere down the terrace a hammer rang twice, followed by the low hum of an electric sander. Lillian was already up — I could smell her coffee, sharp and comforting. The gulls were bickering over the quay again.
“Apologies for the racket,” she said when I joined her in the kitchen. She was wrapped in one of my old cardigans, sleeves rolled to the elbow. “Apparently the builders discovered new rot in the balcony beams. I’ll be here another week at least.”
I smiled. “You make a charming house-guest. The ghosts have taken to you.”
“The living are noisy enough,” she said, and passed me a mug.
The lights flickered then, dimming to amber before reviving. We both looked up. It had been happening for days — the harbour flicker, as the locals call it. Salt on the lines, moisture in the air, the sea breathing through the wires.
Outside, the fog was already thickening, turning the harbour into a sheet of pewter.
Afternoon: Cassandra Arrives
By three, Cassandra was at the door. The mirror was swaddled in heavy canvas, its weight awkward for something no larger than a mantelpiece.
“It hummed all night,” she said, pale but composed. “I couldn’t stay in the same room.”
We cleared a space in the hallway. Lillian tested the lanterns, watching the charge indicators blink to life. “We’ll take it to Mystic Reads,” she said. “Stone floors, fewer memories. Safer.”
Cassandra hesitated. “Do you really think the shop will hold it?”
“It’s held worse,” I said, and the three of us managed a nervous laugh that fooled no one.
Dusk: the Walk up Old High Street
By the time we stepped into the street, the fog had turned golden in the sodium lights. The electricity on the lower quay was still uncertain — a pulse of brightness, then dark — but up the hill the lamps held steady.
We walked slowly, the mirror between us. The town was quiet except for the sea’s long inhalation. Somewhere behind us, a bell rang — not from any church I knew.
Mystic Reads appeared through the haze like a lantern itself, windows glowing amber. I unlocked the door, and the scent of paper and sandalwood wrapped around us like memory.
Evening: The Back Room
We had prepared the space earlier: tables pushed aside, a circle chalked on the boards, salt at the thresholds. Lillian tested her recorder, more out of habit than faith, while Cassandra unwrapped the mirror.
It lay against the far wall, brass frame tarnished to greenish gold. Even beneath the shop’s steady light, the glass moved faintly, as if stirred from within.
“All right,” Lillian said softly. “We begin.”
I lit the lanterns — rechargeable, of course, but their glow looked like living flame. Cassandra placed one on each corner of the circle. The air smelled of metal and seaweed.
We spoke the containment words together — half Cornish, half something older. The mirror shuddered. The lights dimmed, then steadied again.
For a heartbeat, Edward’s voice rose from the glass:
“Don’t close it yet.”
Cassandra stepped forward, eyes wide. “He’s in pain.”
“No,” I said. “He’s remembering.”
The reflection trembled, showing not our faces but the faint outline of a burning house — beams collapsing inward, a figure framed in light. Then the image stilled.
Lillian drew a final sigil in salt. “Now.”
The air released a long sigh. The hum ceased. The mirror dulled, its surface clouding to ordinary glass.
Midnight: After
We left it there, covered and silent. Cassandra will stay with us tonight — she couldn’t bear the thought of going home yet. Lillian’s builders will finish soon, but for now the house by the harbour will have three women and one sleeping mirror.
Outside, the mist has begun to lift. Along the waterfront, the lights flicker less often, as if the town itself is catching its breath.
Still, when I looked at the mirror just before covering it, I thought I saw the faintest ripple — like the sea at slack tide, waiting.
From the notebook at Mystic Reads — where even electricity has its ghosts, and the line between power and prayer is sometimes only a flicker.
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