To Swear By the Stars

Part One

The men, with all their might, carried the large piece to her door, greeted her, amid their struggles to keep the mirror upright, and thanked her as she welcomed them into her home.

"In the dining room, up against the wall in the corner, please," Cara commanded.

The men did as they were told. The mirror's dark wood, complemented by the white walls surrounding it, looked as though it had been etched by hand, the pattern of thousands of knife cuts dug deep within, blanketing the surface in a crisscrossing, almost mesmerizing fashion. Four legs mounted on a detachable base held the mirror and allowed it to swivel up and down for optimal reflective viewing.

"You know anything about this mirror?" one of the men asked Cara as he adjusted it, its face now reflecting the western window from its new nook.

"Yes." She set her teacup on a bookshelf, then walked to the antique and ran her fingers across its border. "It was built by a woodworker in France about seventy-five years ago. It doesn't have any papers, and there's no documented history of ownership. However, the story goes that it was taken from a crime scene some sixty years ago, a murder in east London. Also, it's got to be the most beautiful mirror I've ever seen." She smiled.

"Well, it looks like it's found a good home. Enjoy. We'll get out of your way."

"Thank you," Cara said.

As the men left by the front door, Cara pulled out one of the four dining room chairs that surrounded her aged oak table. She positioned the chair in front of the mirror, reclaimed her tea, sat down and admired her new purchase.

"And here I was afraid you'd be too big for the room," she said to the mirror.

For a young single woman, her house—with its white carpets, marble-topped fireplace, and 1960s-style radiators—gleamed with cleanliness. Organized photo collages lined the hallways and stairs, and a 150-year-old grandfather clock still chimed from the den on the hour. In the winter, a roaring fire behind chrome-bordered glass doors spread its dim light over a coffee table covered in This Home, People and Antique Lover magazines.

But this time of year, when the townspeople were just breaking out their rakes and tarps to clean up those pesky leaves, and visits from friends and coworkers were more frequent due to Colorado's dry season, Cara kept her most guilty pleasures—such as her romance novels, tablet for movie-watching and a decanter half-full of red wine—next to her bedside. Instead she displayed old trinkets, miniature fresh pumpkins and a glass bowl of chocolates on said coffee table, all lit by the three LED dimmers above the marble mantel.

Cara stood and tilted the mirror so even her feet were visible in its face; it engulfed her small stature and lorded over her. She had collected antique furniture before: a metal porch swing from the 1940s, a wicker chair that had been in her great grandmother's possession since the elderly woman was but a young child, and a wood crate with original leather straps and built-in shelves. But, until now, nothing Cara had ever acquired before was so beefy that it could squash her like a bug if it toppled on her.

As she once again repositioned the mirror, her fingers grazed something metallic. When she investigated, she found a silver skeleton key, held firm against the wood backing by a single piece of transparent tape. She pulled it from its temporary home. The key was thick and heavy with a scratched rounded surface. Cara examined its small decoration, a pentagram bordered with the engraved words, Open your mind.

"Why would a mirror need a key?"

As she inspected the key, turning the metal cutout every which way between her fingers, a small mechanism opened up a cover in the mirror's mahogany border, revealing a keyhole.