Florence had never broken a rule in her life. Not a serious one, anyway. So as she slipped out the side door of Pinewood Middle School while everyone else was filing into their fifth-period classes, her heart pounded so loudly she was certain someone would hear it and stop her.
No one did.
The rain had stopped, but the September air remained damp and cool. Florence pulled her navy blue hoodie tighter around herself and began the fifteen-minute walk home, constantly looking over her shoulder. Each car that passed made her hunch lower, certain it would be Principal Grayson or, worse, Aunt Judith somehow discovering her truancy.
You're being ridiculous, she scolded herself. Aunt Judith is at the library where she works. Uncle Morris is at his office in Denver. No one will be home.
Still, she took a circuitous route through Riverdale's quiet streets, cutting through the small park and skirting the edge of town before doubling back to Maple Street. By the time she reached her house, her sneakers were soaked through from the wet grass and her glasses kept sliding down her nose.
Florence stood across the street from the neat two-story colonial, watching it as if it might suddenly reveal its secrets to her. It was the only home she'd ever known, and yet suddenly it felt like a place of strangers—a place where she didn't belong.
Stay away from mirrors today, if you can.
How had Aunt Judith known? And what else was she hiding?
Taking a deep breath, Florence crossed the street and approached the house. She fished her house key from her backpack and unlocked the front door, wincing at the familiar creak as she pushed it open. Inside, the house was silent and still, smelling faintly of furniture polish and the cinnamon candles Aunt Judith liked to burn.
Florence stood in the entryway, uncertain where to begin. She'd never gone through her aunt and uncle's things before—it had never even occurred to her to do so. They were intensely private people who valued order and boundaries, and Florence had been raised to respect those values.
But now something in the mirror knew her name. Now her aunt was warning her away from reflective surfaces. Now she was certain that whatever strange things were happening to her were connected to secrets about her parents—secrets her aunt and uncle had kept from her for thirteen years.
I need to find the key, she thought. But what key? And where would she even start looking?
The most logical place would be her aunt and uncle's bedroom. Steeling herself, Florence climbed the stairs, her wet shoes leaving faint marks on the carpeted steps. At the top of the stairs, she hesitated, looking down the hallway. To the left was her own bedroom. To the right was the master bedroom, where her aunt and uncle slept. Straight ahead was Uncle Morris's home office, a room Florence had rarely entered.
The office, she decided. If there were important documents or information about her parents, that's where they would be kept.
The door was unlocked, which surprised her. Florence stepped inside, immediately struck by how sterile the space felt. A large oak desk dominated the room, its surface bare except for a desktop computer, a desk lamp, and a calendar blotter. A matching filing cabinet stood against one wall, and bookshelves filled with accounting references and business manuals lined another. There were no personal photographs, no mementos, nothing to suggest that the office belonged to a man with a family and a history.
Florence started with the filing cabinet, pulling open the top drawer. It was filled with neatly labeled folders: "Taxes," "Insurance," "House Maintenance," "Investments." Nothing about her parents, nothing about her.
She moved on to the next drawer, and the next, finding only more mundane household records. The bottom drawer was locked.
Florence tugged on the handle, but it didn't budge. This had to be it—the locked drawer, the hidden secret. But how was she supposed to open it? She didn't have a key, and she certainly didn't know how to pick a lock.
Frustration welled up inside her. All these strange things happening to her, all these mysteries surrounding her parents, and she couldn't even get past a simple filing cabinet lock.
"Open," she muttered, giving the handle another futile tug. "Just open!"
And to her astonishment, something clicked inside the lock mechanism. The drawer slid open with ease.
Florence stared at it, mouth slightly agape. Had she done that? Added to her list of strange occurrences: apparently she could now unlock things just by telling them to open. What was happening to her?
But there was no time to dwell on it. Heart racing, she peered into the drawer. It contained only a single folder, unlabeled. Inside was a thick manila envelope with "FLORENCE" written across it in bold black marker.
With trembling hands, she pulled out the envelope and opened it. Inside were several documents: her birth certificate, which she'd seen before; her parents' death certificates, which she hadn't; and a curious document titled "Guardianship Agreement" that bore her aunt and uncle's signatures and those of two witnesses whose names she didn't recognize.
Florence scanned the legal text, trying to make sense of it. Most of it was standard guardianship language, but one paragraph stood out:
"In the event that Florence Eleanora Wells begins to display signs of her hereditary abilities prior to her sixteenth birthday, Judith and Morris Harker agree to notify the undersigned immediately and to follow the contingency protocol outlined in the sealed addendum to this agreement."
Hereditary abilities? Contingency protocol? Sealed addendum? Florence frowned, flipping through the papers again, but there was no sealed addendum included.
She set the documents aside and continued searching through the envelope. At the bottom was a small, leather-bound journal that had clearly seen better days. The cover was worn, and several pages appeared to have been torn out. On the first page, in a flowing script she didn't recognize, was written: "Property of Eleanor Wells."
Her mother's journal.
Florence's hands trembled as she opened it. Most of the entries were mundane—notes about research, grocery lists, appointments. But scattered throughout were strange symbols and diagrams that meant nothing to Florence. And then, about halfway through, the entries became more personal:
March 15, 2011
J says I'm being paranoid, but I know they're watching us. Ever since we discovered the reflective properties of argentum-infused glass, the Conclave has been monitoring our every move. They want to weaponize it, of course. They always do. But they don't understand what we've found—what exists beyond the glass. It's not a weapon. It's a doorway. And doorways open both ways.
April 3, 2011
Florence spoke her first word today! "Mama." I cried, of course. J just rolled his eyes and said all babies say that first, but I know my little girl is special. Already I can sense it in her—the same affinity I have. When she looks in mirrors, they respond to her. Today her reflection waved at her when she wasn't moving her hand. She laughed, delighted. But I was terrified. If she already shows signs, how will we keep her safe?
April 29, 2011
We've made the decision. It's not safe for Florence to remain with us while we continue this work. The Watchers are getting closer. Last night, J thought he saw someone—or something—moving in the bathroom mirror. We're taking Florence to Judith tomorrow. She's not happy about it—she and Morris never wanted children—but she understands the danger. They've agreed to raise her as a normal child, away from our world, away from magic. It breaks my heart, but it's the only way to protect her until she's old enough to understand and control her gift.
May 12, 2011
It's done. Florence is with Judith and Morris now. We've placed protective enchantments around their home that should mask her presence from those who would seek her out. J has modified the Reflection Key to serve as a lock instead—a barrier between Florence and her abilities. It should hold until she's sixteen, by which time we hope to have neutralized the threat. If we fail, the Key will find its way to her when she's ready. The Mirrored realm has its own will, its own way of setting things right.
I miss my baby girl every moment of every day. But I know she's safer not knowing who she really is—who WE really are—for now. Someday, I hope she'll understand why we had to leave her.
The next page had been torn out. In fact, the rest of the journal was missing—at least a dozen pages ripped away.
Florence sat back on her heels, mind reeling. Magic? A mirrored realm? The Conclave? The Watchers? None of it made sense, and yet... it explained everything. The strange occurrences that had followed her all her life. The mirror in the bathroom speaking to her. Her aunt and uncle's secretiveness about her parents.
Her parents weren't dead. They had given her up, hidden her away to protect her from something. They were researchers, yes, but not the kind she'd imagined. They studied magic—or at least something her mother called magic.
And Florence herself had some kind of "gift" or "hereditary ability" related to mirrors.
She needed to find this "Reflection Key" her mother had mentioned. It seemed to be the key to understanding everything—perhaps literally the key the mirror had told her to find.
A car door slammed outside, jolting Florence from her thoughts. She scrambled to her feet and rushed to the window. A familiar blue sedan was parked in the driveway.
Aunt Judith was home.
Panic surged through Florence. She hastily shoved the journal back into the envelope with the other documents and returned it to the file drawer. But as she was closing it, something fluttered out—a small, cream-colored envelope that must have been stuck between the pages of the journal.
Without thinking, Florence stuffed it into the pocket of her hoodie just as she heard the front door open downstairs.
"Florence?" her aunt called out, her voice sharp with suspicion. "Are you home?"
Heart hammering, Florence quickly pushed the drawer closed. The lock clicked back into place.
"Coming, Aunt Judith!" she called back, trying to keep her voice steady.
She hurried out of the office and down the stairs, hoping her face wouldn't betray her. Aunt Judith stood in the entryway, still wearing her coat, her expression a mixture of anger and fear.
"Why aren't you at school?" she demanded. "The principal called me at work. Said you never showed up for fifth period."
Florence's mind raced for a plausible lie. "I wasn't feeling well. After lunch, I got dizzy, so I came home to rest."
"Without calling me?" Aunt Judith's eyes narrowed. "You know the rules, Florence. If you're sick, you go to the nurse, and the nurse calls me."
"I know. I'm sorry." Florence hung her head, partly to look contrite and partly to hide her face. "I wasn't thinking clearly."
Aunt Judith studied her for a long moment. "What's going on with you lately, Florence? This isn't like you."
You have no idea, Florence thought. Aloud, she said, "Nothing's going on. I'm just not feeling well."
"Did something happen at school? Something... unusual?"
There it was again—that loaded word. Unusual. The same word her aunt had used that morning when telling her to call if anything strange happened. Before telling her to stay away from mirrors.
Florence considered telling her aunt about the mirror in the bathroom, about the message it had left her. But the thought of the journal entries she'd just read stopped her. Her parents had hidden her away from something. They'd placed her with her aunt and uncle to keep her safe, to keep her "normal." If Aunt Judith knew that Florence was experiencing strange things, would she contact whoever was mentioned in that guardianship agreement? Would she follow the "contingency protocol"?
"No," Florence said firmly. "Nothing unusual happened."
Her aunt's shoulders relaxed slightly, but her expression remained worried. "Well, you should rest. Go up to your room. I'll bring you some tea."
"You're not going back to work?"
"No. I think I should stay home with you today." Aunt Judith's tone made it clear this was non-negotiable.
Florence nodded and headed upstairs, mind racing. Once in her room, she closed the door and sank onto her bed, pulling the cream-colored envelope from her pocket.
It was addressed simply to "Florence," written in the same flowing script as the journal entries. The envelope was sealed with dark red wax, stamped with a symbol she didn't recognize—a circle containing what looked like a stylized eye.
Florence's hands trembled as she carefully broke the seal and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of the same cream-colored paper, covered in her mother's handwriting:
My dearest Florence,
If you're reading this, then you've begun to discover who you truly are, and the protective measures we put in place are weakening. I hoped this day wouldn't come until you were older, better prepared, but time is not always our ally.
You must have questions—so many questions—and I wish more than anything that I could answer them for you in person. Perhaps someday I will. But for now, know this: You are special, Florence. You were born with a rare gift—the ability to perceive and interact with what lies beyond reflective surfaces. We call it the Mirror Realm, though that's a simplification of something far more complex and wondrous.
This gift runs in my family line, passed down through generations. But it makes you vulnerable to those who would use it—and you—for their own purposes. That is why we had to leave you with your aunt and uncle, why we had to bind your abilities until you were ready.
The binding is breaking now. The signs will be unmistakable: mirrors will respond to your presence. Glass will vibrate when you touch it. Your reflection may act independently of you. You may even hear voices from the other side.
Do not be frightened. This is your birthright, your true nature emerging.
But you must be careful. There are those who have searched for you since the day you were born. They call themselves the Watchers of the Glass. They believe our family's ability is meant to serve their order, to further their understanding and control of the Mirror Realm. They are not evil, but their dedication to their cause blinds them to the damage they may do.
And there are others—beings from beyond the glass—who may seek you out. Some are benevolent. Others are not. Trust your instincts about which is which.
To help you navigate what's coming, you will need the Reflection Key. It's both a tool and a guide—something I created to help you understand and control your abilities. I've hidden it where only you can find it. Look to where light and shadow meet, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary. The Key will reveal itself to one of our bloodline when the time is right.
I wish I could tell you more, prepare you better. But some knowledge must be earned through experience. Some truths can only be understood when you're ready to receive them.
Know that everything your father and I did was to protect you. We love you more than words can express, and we have never stopped watching over you, even from a distance.
Trust yourself, Florence. Trust your gift. And when the time comes, trust those who truly see you.
With all my heart,Mom
P.S. If you need immediate help, find the antique shop on Briar Street called "Reflections & Refractions." Ask for Madame Orlov. Tell her you're Eleanor's daughter. She'll know what to do.
Florence read the letter three times, her heart pounding harder with each reading. Her mother was—or had been, at least when this was written—alive. She hadn't died in a car crash. She'd been hiding, protecting Florence from something called the Watchers of the Glass.
And Florence herself had some kind of magical ability related to mirrors—an ability that was apparently getting stronger as the "binding" her parents had placed on her weakened.
It was all too fantastical to believe. And yet...the mirror in the school bathroom. The way it had known her name. The way it had reached for her.
Find the Key, it had said.
The Reflection Key her mother had mentioned in both her journal and this letter. A tool of some kind that would help her understand her abilities.
Florence glanced around her room, looking at it with new eyes. Look to where light and shadow meet, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary. What did that mean?
A soft knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. Florence hastily shoved the letter under her pillow as Aunt Judith entered carrying a steaming mug.
"Chamomile tea," her aunt said, setting it on Florence's nightstand. "It should help with the dizziness."
"Thank you," Florence murmured, not meeting her aunt's eyes.
Aunt Judith hesitated, hovering at the edge of the bed. "Florence, I... I know things have been strange lately. And I haven't been... forthcoming with you about certain matters."
Florence's head snapped up. Was her aunt finally going to tell her the truth?
"Your uncle and I, we..." Aunt Judith seemed to be struggling for words. "We were asked to raise you a certain way. To keep you... separate from certain influences. For your own protection."
"What influences?" Florence asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Protection from what?"
Aunt Judith's gaze darted around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "I can't say more. Not yet. But things are changing, and I... I need you to trust me, Florence. If anything unusual happens, anything at all, you must tell me immediately. Promise me."
Florence thought of the letter hidden under her pillow. Of the mirror in the school bathroom. Of the journal entries she'd read. Her aunt knew far more than she was letting on—had always known. Had been complicit in keeping Florence in the dark about her own identity, her own abilities.
"I promise," Florence lied, meeting her aunt's worried gaze steadily.
Aunt Judith seemed satisfied with this. She nodded once and turned to leave. At the door, she paused. "Get some rest. I'll be downstairs if you need me."
As soon as the door closed behind her aunt, Florence pulled the letter out from under her pillow and reread the postscript.
Reflections & Refractions. Madame Orlov.
Florence had lived in Riverdale her entire life, but she'd never heard of an antique shop called Reflections & Refractions, nor anyone named Madame Orlov. Then again, she'd never had reason to pay attention to antique shops.
She reached for her laptop and opened a search engine. "Reflections & Refractions antique shop Riverdale Colorado," she typed.
To her surprise, several results came up. The shop existed, and it was indeed on Briar Street—barely a mile from her house. According to the website, it specialized in "vintage mirrors, optical instruments, and curiosities from around the world." The proprietor was listed as "V. Orlov."
Florence stared at the screen, a plan forming in her mind. If her aunt was going to stay home with her for the rest of the day, she wouldn't be able to visit the shop now. But tomorrow was Saturday. She could make an excuse to go out—say she was going to the library to work on a school project. Instead, she would find this Madame Orlov and learn what she knew about Florence's mother.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd find some answers about what was happening to her.
Satisfied with her plan, Florence closed her laptop and leaned back against her pillows, sipping the tea her aunt had brought her. The chamomile was warm and soothing, but it couldn't calm the storm of questions raging through her mind.
Her parents were—or had been—alive. They hadn't died in a car crash. They had given her up to protect her from something. She had some kind of magical ability related to mirrors. And there were people—or things—looking for her because of it.
Everything she'd believed about herself, about her life, was a lie.
Florence set down her mug and pulled out the small notebook where she'd been documenting her strange experiences. She flipped to a fresh page and wrote:
September 25: Found Mother's letter. Parents alive? Magic is real? I have powers related to mirrors. Need to find the Reflection Key. Will visit Madame Orlov tomorrow.
She paused, then added:
Can't trust Aunt Judith and Uncle Morris. They've been lying my whole life.
As she closed the notebook, Florence caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror hanging on her closet door—a mirror she'd looked into thousands of times without incident. But now, instead of showing her reflection sitting on the bed, it showed her standing at the window, looking out.
Except Florence wasn't standing at the window. She was sitting frozen on her bed, staring at a reflection that wasn't reflecting her.
As she watched, her reflection in the mirror turned to look directly at her. It smiled—a smile Florence wasn't making—and lifted a finger to its lips in a universal gesture for silence.
Then it pointed to the floor beneath Florence's bed.
Before Florence could react, the reflection vanished, replaced by her true reflection—a wide-eyed, terrified girl sitting rigid on her bed.
Florence's heart pounded in her chest. Had that really happened? Or was her mind playing tricks on her after everything she'd read in her mother's journal and letter?
Only one way to find out.
Slowly, Florence slid off her bed and knelt on the floor, peering underneath. At first, she saw nothing unusual—just the usual dust bunnies and forgotten socks. But as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she noticed something: a floorboard that didn't quite match the others. It was slightly darker, slightly newer-looking.
With trembling fingers, Florence pressed on the edge of the board. It tilted upward slightly, revealing a small, hidden compartment beneath.
And inside that compartment was a small wooden box, carved with the same symbol that had sealed her mother's letter: a circle containing a stylized eye.
Florence reached for it, her breath catching in her throat. As her fingers touched the smooth, dark wood, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass through her—not painful, but powerful, like recognition.
The box was locked, with no visible keyhole. But as Florence ran her fingers over its surface, tracing the carved eye symbol, she heard a soft click. The lid sprang open.
Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, was a silver hand mirror, about the size of her palm. Its handle was intricately wrought, twisted silver forming patterns that seemed to move when she wasn't looking directly at them. The glass itself was unusual—darker than a normal mirror, with a strange, smoky quality to it.
As Florence lifted it from the box, she felt another jolt of energy pass through her. The mirror's surface swirled, like mercury in motion, before settling into a reflective surface once more.
But it didn't reflect the room around her. Instead, it showed a landscape she'd never seen before—a vast, crystalline plain stretching toward mountains made of what looked like glass or ice, all bathed in a strange, silvery light.
And standing in that landscape, looking directly at her, was a woman with Florence's gray eyes and dark hair.
"Florence," the woman in the mirror said, her voice filled with emotion. "You found it. You found the Key."
Florence nearly dropped the mirror in shock. "Mom?" she whispered.
The woman smiled, tears glistening in her eyes. "Yes, my darling. It's me. And we have so much to talk about."
And just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. The mirror's surface clouded over, becoming once again just a strange, smoky glass that reflected nothing.
Florence sat back on her heels, the mirror clutched to her chest, her mind reeling. Her mother was alive. And somehow, she was in that strange, crystalline world beyond the mirror.
The Reflection Key her mother had mentioned in her letter wasn't just a metaphorical key to understanding her abilities. It was this—this mirror that could somehow connect her to another realm. To her mother.
Florence didn't know how it worked or how to make it show her mother again. But she was certain of one thing: tomorrow, she would find Madame Orlov and learn everything she could about this Mirror Realm, about her abilities, about the truth that had been hidden from her all her life.
Outside her bedroom window, the afternoon sun broke through the clouds, casting long shadows across her floor. One shadow in particular caught her attention—the shadow of her window frame, crossing perfectly with the shadow of her desk lamp, forming a distinctive "X" on the floor.
Look to where light and shadow meet, her mother's letter had said.
The hidden compartment had been directly beneath that meeting point of light and shadow. Had it always been there, waiting for her to notice? Or had it somehow appeared when she needed to find it?
Florence carefully placed the mirror back in its wooden box and returned it to the hidden compartment. She would take it with her tomorrow when she went to see Madame Orlov, but for now, it seemed safest to leave it where it had been hidden.
As she replaced the floorboard, Florence couldn't shake the feeling that her entire life had been building to this moment—this discovery. That everything strange that had ever happened to her was leading her toward understanding who she truly was.
And something told her that this was only the beginning.
Downstairs, she heard her aunt moving around in the kitchen, preparing dinner perhaps. The sounds of normal, everyday life continued, even as Florence's understanding of reality had been completely upended.
She crawled back onto her bed and picked up her mother's letter again, reading it one more time, committing every word to memory. Then she folded it carefully and tucked it into her notebook, which she then hid in her usual spot beneath her pillow.
Tomorrow, she would begin to uncover the truth. Tomorrow, she would take the first steps into a world her parents had tried to keep her from—a world that apparently was her birthright.
Tomorrow, Florence Wells would begin to discover who she really was.
But for now, she had to pretend that nothing had changed. Had to sit across the dinner table from the aunt and uncle who had lied to her for thirteen years and act as if she still believed those lies.
Florence wasn't sure she could do it. But as she caught sight of her reflection in the closet mirror—her normal reflection this time, watching her with her own eyes—she felt a strange new confidence growing inside her.
Trust yourself, Florence, her mother had written. Trust your gift.
Florence nodded at her reflection, and for the briefest moment, she thought she saw it nod back at her.
She was no longer just Florence Wells, the quiet, practical orphan from Riverdale, Colorado.
She was Florence Wells, daughter of Eleanor and James, born with the power to perceive and interact with the Mirror Realm.
And nothing—not her aunt and uncle's deception, not the mysterious Watchers of the Glass, not even the strange beings from beyond the mirrors—would stop her from discovering the truth.
As she left her room to go downstairs for dinner, Florence didn't notice the small cream-colored envelope that materialized on her pillow—an envelope identical to the one she'd found in her mother's journal, bearing her name in the same flowing script.
Another letter from nowhere, waiting to be found.