And it is about Time, the Mirrors muse as they bounce the Lord and his Granddaughter’s Nurse around between them. The pair will reach their destination soon enough, a dry place stuffed with markets and stalls filled with every sort of sundry.
It is about Time.
Suddenly, their great sharp-bellied lump of stumblebum and his raisined major domo are crumpled into sharp edges, like a paper ball, and thrown through a reddish doorway onto the fine grey sand of…
The Mirrors decide they’ll have no more to do with these two- the agreement is met. So long have they waited, so long have they knelt in slabs of unmoving metal that they step from their moorings in the ancient stone floor and descend immediately on naked feet and naked limbs and trunk of glinting life, consumed by a longing for the sights of younger places. They fancy a trip, a spree, a lengthy family vacation. A relaxing getaway.
Although, to lessen the chance of being stolen again, they will, collectively, avoid Museums.