Free The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures) by P. W. Catanese

in a dozen places and a piercing pain behind his eyes.
    “It was your first lesson. No shame in taking a beating,” Andreas said.
    Will sniffed loudly.
    “Enough rest,” Andreas said. “We should continue.”

CHAPTER 13
    T he hot day became a sweltering night at The Crags. It began to rain, but even that did not cool the air.
    Late that night, when most slept feverishly with their blankets kicked aside, Bert found cool relief as soon as he stepped into the Tunnel of Stars. He carried a bucket of soapy water in one hand and a lamp in the other. Rags were draped across his shoulder. He counted the steps on the way down. There were forty-nine—enough to bring him past the first floor and into the heart of the ledge that lay below.
    There were sounds he didn’t notice when he discovered the chamber the night before. Drops of water splashed into puddles on the stone floor. A faint rush of air played like a flute from somewhere overhead. He raised the lamp and saw tiny jagged holes in the ceiling, and strange stone formations that hung like icicles.
    Bert put the bucket down in front of the mirror. He marveled at the size of the glass. The bottom of it was at his knees and the top was above his head. He grasped it by the sides and tried to lift it, wondering how heavy it was.
Very,
he thought. He inspected the exquisite frame,to make certain it was not merely carved wood that had been gilded. No, he was sure that all of it was truly gold, even the four sturdy feet, which looked like dragon’s claws. The inlaid silver seemed genuine as well. Without question, this was a treasure worth more than anything his parents possessed.
    He dunked a rag in the bucket and wiped the face of the mirror. The coat of dirt eagerly slid off. In seconds there was a filthy pool of water at his feet and a tall, sparkling oval of glass before his eyes.
    It was the most beautiful thing Bert had ever seen. And his reflection—he’d never beheld himself like this. Keeping his eyes locked on the glass, he stepped back. He reached behind him to find the broad arms of the chair that faced the mirror, and sat down.
    He turned his head to examine his profile. He made faces: silly, angry, frightened, serious. He circled his fingers over his eyes like a mask. He stuck his tongue out, and put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers.
    Then he sat back and stared.
Is this the face of a baron?
he wondered, and he winced. He wasn’t so sure anymore. Just like the barony, that face could easily belong to Will.
We really do look alike. Exactly alike.
His father’s words flooded back, and he tried to push them aside.
    He thought of Hugh Charmaigne, greedily prying the precious stones out of the Witch-Queen’s other throne.
Too bad you never found this chamber, Uncle.
Perhaps therewas a way to smuggle the mirror out when he left for home, though he could not imagine how. He’d worry about that later. But he knew one thing: He would never allow Hugh Charmaigne to get his pig hands on this precious thing.
Never!
    Something caught his ear. He sat up and cocked his head to listen better. He still heard the whistle of the wind through the cracks in the cavern’s ceiling. But now another sound accompanied it. And this one had a rhythm.
    It was a long, low sound of gently rushing air. And then a pause. And then the same sound, but softer this time. It would have been easy to miss. But now that he was aware of the sound, it was all he could hear.
    He turned his head to one side, and then the other, listening keenly. He was afraid it would stop before he discovered the source. But it went on repeating like a pair of sighs: low, and lower. Low, and lower.
    Inward and outward.
    Can it be?
The hairs on the back of his neck stood like quills. He stepped out of the chair and put his ear to the cold surface of the mirror. Yes, that was where the sound came from. And he recognized it for what it was.
    Breathing.
    It wasn’t like the rapid, excited breaths that he