On the Day I Died (10 page)

I studied Blanche’s delicate neck. A charming picture sprang to mind.

Earlier that morning at breakfast, Blanche had haughtily announced, “I have decided on our itinerary.” She had dropped the thick handbook onto the linen-covered table, causing Mother’s bone china to rattle. “We will take in the lace and embroidery demonstration at the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, followed by a lecture about silkworms at the Horticulture Building, and then refreshments in the ladies’ tearoom at the Woman’s Building. Afterward we will tour the Palace of Fine Arts, where some of the fair’s most culturally significant exhibits can be found.”

“That sounds very sensible, Blanche,” Father had said, bestowing an indulgent smile on her. “An enlightening day indeed.”

“What about the chocolate Venus de Milo?” I had asked. “What about the eleven-ton cheese?”

Blanche had pretended to be shocked. “Really, Evelyn, those sorts of exhibits are for the riffraff. We are going to the fair to absorb its grace and refinement.” She gave a superior-sounding laugh. “Sometimes you can be so common.”

“But … but …,” I had stammered.

“Mind your sister, dear,” Mother had said. “She’s been studying the guide. I’m sure she is only interested in elevating your aesthetic sensibilities.” Mother had been listening to Blanche’s plan with a rapt expression. Why didn’t she ever look at me that way?

“Indeed, Evelyn,” said Blanche, a snakelike smile
slithering onto her face, “when it comes to erudition, I
do
know best.”

Gritting my teeth, I lifted my butter knife and hacked my hard-boiled egg into pieces.

Hours later, the morning’s breakfast conversation still rankled. Grudgingly, I quickened my pace. Blanche and I walked directly into the wind, weaving in and out of the crowd and crossing an ornate footbridge. As we passed a fountain of Pegasus, colored water spewing from its mouth, the wind gusted again. Water sprinkled over us, tickling our cheeks and freckling our dresses. I squealed with delight, but Blanche looked as if she had just swallowed a sour grape. “This wind is absolutely maddening. Just look at what it’s done!”

She was still grumbling and brushing at the red silk skirt she had so fastidiously picked out in the morning, when we arrived at the Palace of Fine Arts. The guarding stone lions observed us as we climbed the steep marble stairs and entered the columned exhibit hall.

Even inside, there was little escape from the wind. Doors and windows shook. Walls groaned. At any moment, I thought, the place could crumble as easily as one of Mother’s sugar cookies. I looked up to the ceiling, to the sweeping gilded cupola that had been imported all the way from an Italian monastery. I imagined it crashing into a golden heap on the marble floor, leaving one of Blanche’s lace-gloved hands jutting from the rubble.

Blanche’s hand.

I suppressed a giggle.

Blanche moved through the massive exhibition space, taking in Winslow Homer’s swirling seascapes and Mary Cassatt’s tender portraits as if she was searching for something. No doubt it was some wearisome objet d’art she had read about in her precious handbook. I could just hear her bragging to our parents, “And did I tell you I saw Daniel Chester French’s
The Angel of Death and the Sculptor
? I admired it ever so much. Sadly, Evelyn appeared unmoved.” She’d roll her eyes. “I believe she even yawned.”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

And Blanche rearranged her expression. That searching look disappeared, replaced by a perfect imitation of the intent, absorbed expression worn by the other art lovers. Feigning sophistication, she glided about, peering at canvases and into glass cases. But she was fully aware of the admiring looks several of the young men in the hall were giving her. I was disgusted to see her widen her eyes and tilt her head. She posed prettily, utterly pleased with herself.

No one admired me, of course. Who would, with Blanche around? Turning away from her, I drifted toward the grand staircase. “Don’t get separated,” Father had warned before we left. “Be sure to stay together.”

But some demon was tugging at me, urging me to be perverse. Deliberately, willfully, without even a backward glance, I climbed to the second-floor landing.
A suit of armor guarding the long corridor stared down at me accusingly as if it sensed my oozing, spiteful mood. I stuck my tongue out at it, then headed down the corridor—farther and farther away from Blanche—through a seemingly endless array of bucolic landscapes and elegant portraits. After several minutes’ walk, I found myself at a mahogany-inlaid door, which I pushed open to discover a narrow flight of twisting stairs made of wrought iron. A red velvet rope was draped between the railings; a sign hanging from its center read
DO NOT ENTER
. Undisturbed by the warning, I unhooked the rope. The steps, I noticed, were layered with dust, as if they had remained unused since the fair had opened three months earlier. Curious, I lifted my skirt and climbed to the third-floor gallery, then on to the fourth.

Up there, so close to the roof of the building, the wind howled. It forced its way under the eaves and whistled through the chinks in the plaster, causing the heavy Moroccan curtains—draped from the ceiling to cover the windows and darken the gallery—to undulate like seaweed. The whole room felt as if it was moving, as if I was standing on one of those double-decker steamers that plied the Chicago River. I took a moment to get my bearings, poised there alone while just below, hundreds of people jostled in the main hall. Was I really the only person who had felt compelled to climb those stairs?

I looked around. The gallery was a profusion of carved furniture and gilt-edged knickknacks set about in a hodgepodge. As I made my way through the maze of
artifacts, I glanced at the handwritten cards identifying each piece: Mozart’s spinet, the King of Bavaria’s water goblets, Catherine the Great’s hairpins.

Hanging against the shadowy back wall was a gold frame. I could not make out what was inside the frame because its surface was concealed behind a red velvet drapery. But suddenly I was overwhelmed with a need to know what lay beneath. I
had
to see it. It was as mysterious as a crime waiting to be solved, as tantalizing as a gift begging to be opened.

THE CONTARINI LOOKING GLASS
, read its card.

I reached out, intending to lift just a corner of the drapery.

“That would be ill advised, mademoiselle.”

I pulled back my hand, startled to see a man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He hurried forward, waving his chubby arms emphatically before him.

“You should not gaze into the Contarini Looking Glass!”

The man reminded me of a walrus, with his bristly mustache and barrel chest. He even wobbled rather than walked. But most astonishing was his clothing. He was wearing a tuxedo—a
purple
tuxedo—with silver lapels and waistcoat. On his egg-shaped head was balanced a matching purple turban, its folds of cloth held together in the front by a fist-sized gold pin shaped like a human eye.

My own eyes widened. “Who are you?” I asked.

“Moreau the Mystical—Soothsayer, Hypnotist and Grand Illusionist—formerly of Algeria, currently of the Midway Plaisance.”

I smiled. That explained his dramatic entrance—he was a magician! Delighted, I wondered if he could make Blanche disappear into thin air—or even better, saw her in half.

“I am here, mademoiselle, because you are in grave danger.” He squeezed himself between the mirror and me. “For your own protection, I must insist that you step back.”

“Step back?” I asked. “Whatever for?”

“Because this mirror”—he lowered his voice—“is evil.”

I could not help laughing. “Evil? Why, we’re on the brink of the twentieth century, sir. No one believes in curses and superstitions anymore.”

“Oh, no?” he said, waggling his bushy eyebrows. “Why else would such a priceless objet d’art be hidden away in this forgotten fourth-floor gallery, eh? And why is its face completely covered? Because, mademoiselle, the Contarini Looking Glass is too dangerous to exhibit to the masses. Because someone, Heaven forbid, might look into it and see … death.”

Around us the wind moaned. The curtains rose and fell. The room seemed to breathe.

“The mirror dates back to 1631,” said the magician, “when a glassmaker of little ability but limitless ambition
named Alessandro Contarini began creating magnificent mirrors. Masterpieces of genius they were, mademoiselle, with the clarity of flawless diamonds and glass as smooth as the Venetian lagoon in springtime. Overnight, Contarini became the most celebrated and sought-after mirror maker in all of Europe. Everyone—from cantina owners to the King of France—longed to possess one of his creations. But those who knew him best were suspicious. ‘How can this be?’ his fellow craftsmen wondered. ‘How can hapless Alessandro have suddenly acquired such knowledge and skill?’ It was, they all agreed, most curious. Then one All Hallows’ Eve, Contarini’s neighbors heard him screaming in agony. When they finally managed to break down his workshop door, they found … nothing! No furniture. No tools. No Contarini. The room was empty save for a single mirror angled against the rough plaster wall.” Moreau pointed. “
That
mirror.”

I stared at the draped object as if hypnotized.

Finally, I asked, “What happened to Contarini? Did anyone ever find him?”

Moreau shook his head. “There were clues only: a curious five-pointed star crudely drawn on his bedroom floor; beneath a loosened floorboard, an unusual document that smelled of sulfur and was signed by the glassmaker himself.”

“You’re not suggesting that he made a bargain …,” I began, hardly able to contain my excitement.

“That Contarini made a bargain with the devil?” said Moreau with a shrug. “Who is to say?”

The wind whistled again, and the curtains danced to its tune.

“Over the years, the mirror has been associated with several other odd and unfortunate incidents. There was the avaricious Italian princess who demanded more and more priceless jewelry; the obese colonial governor who lived only for his next meal; the lazy French duke who refused to leave the comfort of his bed. All of them looked into that mirror and”—Moreau snapped his fingers—“vanished like Contarini.”

“Surely it was all just coincidence.”

Moreau shook his head. “Do you not see it, mademoiselle? The pattern? The mirror reflects whatever darkness may be in the viewer’s heart and
feeds
upon it—Contarini’s lust for fame, the princess’s greed, the governor’s gluttony, the duke’s laziness. Sin and darkness. This is what it seeks, what sustains and nourishes it.”

“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

His mouth quirked. “I am a master of illusion. I know about mirrors.”

We fell silent, the only sound the unceasing wind.

“And I warn you, this mirror is hungry,” he added.

At that moment, a new image sprang—unbidden—into my head. It was of Blanche, smiling vainly at her lovely reflection, while a death-white arm reached from the mirror. Its bony fingers stretched, groped, curled around her white neck.

I shivered, but not with pleasure. This was not some idle daydream, like stampeding bison and falling cupolas. This felt real—thick and poisonous and true.

“Evelyn!”

I whirled. It was Blanche’s annoyed call, coming from the staircase—that twisting iron staircase that no one had climbed but me.

And now her.

It was as if my very thoughts had drawn her here, through the maze of corridors and exhibits, to this very place.

My thoughts, I suddenly wondered, or the mirror’s?

I turned back to Moreau, the question already on my lips, but he was gone. Vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. My body chilled and then began to burn as I realized the truth. He had left me alone with the mirror and its obvious intentions—left
me
to make the choice that would determine my sister’s fate.

But I was given no time to think. At that exact moment, Blanche appeared in the doorway. Oh, if only she had uttered one kind word, offered one soft look!

She did not.

“There you are,” she huffed; the milky-white skin of her neck was blotched red with anger. “Honestly, Evelyn, why didn’t you answer when I called? I have been searching all over for you. Really, you are the most petulant, irritating, troublesome person.”

A coldness descended over me, hard and icy. I watched her, as if from a distance, as she stepped into
the cluttered gallery, her bright eyes taking in the jumble of artifacts. “What is that beneath the velvet curtain?” she asked at last. She pointed to the far wall.

I felt a faint stir of excitement in my breast.

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

She moved across the room, confident as always, and peered at the card. “ ‘The Contarini Looking Glass,’ ” she read aloud. “Hmmm … I wonder why it’s covered?”

It took all my willpower not to smile. “It must be a very ordinary object if it is covered like that,” I said, knowing full well that Blanche would find it impossible to pass up this opportunity to belittle me.

“Poor Evelyn, you really don’t know anything, do you?” she said, and sighed dramatically. “One usually covers up the most
exceptional
and delicate artwork for safekeeping. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s!” I could not keep the giggle out of my voice.

Smugly, Blanche reached for the drapery.

The wind blew again, rustling the velvet drape, giving the illusion that some creature slithered beneath. I laughed, a weird, high-pitched laugh that welled up, unbidden, from the frozen depths of my soul. Yes, yes, she was going to do it. It would not be long now. In just a matter of moments she would be—

Without warning, my laughter turned to wails—howling, hysterical wailing that drowned out even the
wind. God help me, I could not do it! Despite all the years of humiliation and torment, I could not murder my sister.

“No!” I gripped Blanche’s shoulders and yanked her away from the mirror with such force that we both lost our balance. Blanche reached out and grabbed at the mirror for support but got a handful of the red drapery instead. With a horrible tearing sound, it gave way, pooling onto the carpet like blood.