Free An Innocent Fashion by R.J. Hernández

a dainty pedestal. Aside from my own reflection, the only visible sign of a human presence was a pair of feet below, sheathed in patent nude Ferragamo ballerina slippers, each with a chunky one-inch heel and matching grosgrain bow on the front.
    â€œWhy do you always let the Powells trap you?” came the voice. “It’s all money talk with them—brokers and blue chips . . . it makes me want to just—” the voice faltered under her reflective burden, “— scream .” This last word resounded as the bearer of the mirror teetered like the poor, unpracticed cousin of world-bearing Atlas. My reflection swerved toward me. With a clatter of heels, the patent-sheathed feet staggered dangerously backward near the landing’s edge .
    â€œCareful!” Reaching out I caught a slender forearm, and the floating mirror swayed blindly toward safety. “Can I help you with that?”
    My voice evidently was not the expected baritone. “Oh!” the mirror exclaimed, “I thought you were . . .” She poked her head out from behind the glass.
    My heart, which had just a moment ago been racing, came to a halt, like a galloping horse suddenly digging its hooves into theearth. My grasp on her arm reflexively tightened. The mirror’s clawed feet pawed the hallway in a series of scrapes, then gave in at last with the crunching finality of wrought iron on stone tile.
    The girl blinked her blue eyes, spread apart across exultant cheekbones. Her jaw was wide, almost square, with a shadowed cleft in her chin. A long, unbrushed tangle of thick blonde hair dangled like raw silk around her face.
    My grip on her arm slackened. “I’m sorry.” I jerked my hand back toward my own body, where I struggled to find an appropriate place for it, and after patting the length of my suit jacket—I must have appeared to have lost something—I gulped, and jammed it awkwardly into my front pocket.
    Her hands were on either side of the mirror. Her grip relaxed, and her palms slid down the length of the oval as she cocked her head and drew her gaze toward the orchid on my lapel. Her shiny lips split open like two halves of a ripe, pink fruit, and she burst into a laugh that filled the air with color.
    Her eyes wandered next to the buttons on my suit. “Double-breasted!” she remarked. She had a small gap in her front teeth.
    With a sidestep from behind the glass, she revealed herself in a toile-patterned sundress, with a knee-grazing skirt blossoming outward from a black satin bow around her waist. She extended her hand toward me. “I’m Madeline,” she said, the syllables falling like raindrops onto a lily pond.
    â€œElián,” I managed with a gulp, slipping my hand into hers. I was overwhelmed by the sensation of her pulse against my fingers.
    â€œEthan?” In the absence of her supervising grasp, the mirror pivoted absently on its hinge like an hourglass. A sudden flash, as the surface caught a sunbeam through the window.
    â€œDid you say—Ethan?” she repeated. But downstairs the entryway door swung open, and suddenly voices were floating upand down the steps again, all the hellos and how are yous , inquiries about names and hometowns—then someone was upon us: Daddy, or, as I’d come to learn, Mr. Dupre.
    â€œDarling, you’ve gone up too far,” he informed her. With his tucked-in shirt and tasseled loafers, and his blonde hair swept neatly to the side over one ear, he was one of those “ locos ” who had earlier so amused my father. “This is the fourth floor. Your room is on the third.”
    Madeline turned to him—her hand was still in mine—and started, almost accusingly, “But the Powells . . . I didn’t . . . how was I to know?” Then a silly laugh.
    He hoisted the mirror onto his chest. “Good morning,” he nodded at me, and faced downstairs.
    Attempting a noble gesture, I broke the