Your fingers rush over the keys, faster and faster before your eyes. Any moment now, the speed of your typing will make them whirl off or burst into bloody chips of flesh.
You cry out and draw them away. A curse slips from your lips—
“May this book be forever cursed to remain in this chamber!”
Oh! Your hand is at your mouth now. Did I really say that? Already the words and the volition to say them are fading. You lie the book back on the desk, as steadily as you are able, and take a deep breath. This really is becoming absurd. More and more ridiculous.
That scent of roses catches you unawares. It reminds you of cotton candy and summer evening bottled; boy, the fresh air would be comforting now. What a shame that it escapes you.
Something skirts your cheek, and you spin, reaching for the brush of air, though it is no longer present. A breeze. No. Impossible.
You spin, eying what you can only describe as a wall as still as the very bones of the mansion. You swallow, and frown at it. With every rotation, the world blurs; with every rotation, something changes focus and it produces from the wall a panel you’ve not yet seen. It’s been…in the wrong focus all the time, just as when the door managed to shut itself and become one with the wall.
A mirror. How curious. You scoot forward, you eye it. A hand up to feel the power radiating beyond the façade of glass and steel. Beyond your blurred face is a realm of magic and the power of riches that you cannot quite reach--the film under your eyes as if it were.
“Hmm,” you remark aloud. Something about the mirror…
It ripples with the quaint breeze that skims its surface from nowhere; you hear pages flipping, and, as if pixies turn it with their tiny hands, the book commands your attention. But you don’t move. Why should you? This mirror is brighter than crystal in your eye at the moment. You nod to your reflection.
It refuses to nod back, stony-faced. Step by step, you edge away, until your fingertips are at the table on which the book sits.
The words on the front are clearer now, forming on the front cover in dark ink, faintly recalling to you the colour of Jabberwocky blood…though, you are not sure how you know that. It’s been years since you’ve read Alice Through the Looking Glass:
Through the Looking Panel.
And that’s where you go.