It is with the mirror, in that moment, that he turns, glistening like the dishes in a coating of bubbles and water and soap.
A stewed rabbit.
“Back away from me, just a little, would you my dear?” he mumbles from behind the safety of the mirror’s pearl backing, pushing out delicately with his big warm paws, “…it’s just that I burned myself, and I don’t want you to see. Back away, yes that’s it, a little more, my girl! There you go, now…”
Is he warning her away?
Strangely, from behind the mirror, little soaps drop from his face onto the red and green grass, like an absurd rain.
Sighing, Flamina takes a step behind, her throat crushing on a hard lump; it could be purple silk, cotton maybe.
Another backward step. Her foot breaks over a little twig- the sound throws her in his suggested direction.
Her scrabbling fingers fit to peels of paint, old dust and leaves, scraping against sharp bits of splintered dry wood. An open window frame.
Ultimately, her bum trips too, and she falls in.