Tonight, she was going to open it.

The rain over the Derbyshire moors had a way of making the ordinary feel ominous. It fell in steady, silver sheets, blurring the lone figure standing at the gate of “6 Alexandra View.”

Eliza spun around. Nothing.

Eliza tried to run, but her feet were rooted. The girl in the mirror reached out a cold, small hand. And for the first time, Eliza recognized the child’s face. It was her own—from a photograph taken at age six. The year before she’d developed a sudden, inexplicable fear of mirrors.

As the footsteps arrived at the door, the last thing Eliza saw was her reflection splitting in two: one version screaming, the other smiling, holding the door open for Arthur.

Her aunt, Lydia, had vanished from this very porch. No note. No struggle. Just a dropped watering can and a single, patent leather shoe.

The mirror began to ripple, its surface turning from glass to liquid mercury. And through it, Eliza saw a narrow hallway lit by gaslight—a hallway that did not belong to 6 Alexandra View. At the end of it stood Arthur, not dead, not kind, his military posture rigid. He was holding a second patent leather shoe.