I groaned, my side bruised from the landing. Inhaling, I pushed myself to my knees and looked up.
I wasn't in the School Master's tower.
I shot to my feet, panicked. Mirrors covered every inch of the room—the walls, the floor, the ceiling. No space was left uncovered.
I whirled around again and again, trying to find an empty space devoid of mirrors. There wasn't one.
An eerie feeling writhed in my lower stomach, and it was then I realized that, upon being in a room full of mirrors, there were no reflections.
"Hello?" I called.
No answer.
"Hello?" I shouted.
Silence.
I growled. It seemed there was only one way to get out of here.
I took the dagger from my belt and raised it high, aiming for the mirror straight across from me—
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
I spun around.
And saw me.
But it wasn't me. This Y/n looked different.
Her gown was immaculate. Swathes of black were wrapped tightly around her middle before falling to the floor in a waterfall of midnight satin. Her makeup was dark, making her e/c eyes striking. Her hair was curled. Her lips were stained red.
And a silver crown, with razor-sharp tines, rested atop her head.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"Does that really matter?" The reflection asked.
"Yeah, because I need to figure out how exactly to reach the School Master."
"Why?" said a voice from behind.
I spun to see another reflection.
"Because," I said. "I need him to send us home."
"Because that worked so well the last time you came here."
I grit my teeth. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to leave this place. Things are getting out of hand. Besides, there's nothing left for me here."
"Are you sure about that?" another reflection said. In a blink, all the mirrors were filled.
I took a step back.
"The School Master has all the answers to your questions."
Different reflections began speaking alternately.
"He knows who you are—"
"Where you came from—"
"Where you're going—"
"What you can do."
I stilled. "He does?"
"Yes," the reflections chorused together, green eyes flaming.
"Then where is he?" I demanded.
As if in response, the floor beneath me shattered.
I fell into the darkness alongside the glass shards, screaming as I plummeted down, down, down—
And hit something solid.
I wheezed, rolling over on my side, opening my eyes. I coughed and staggered to my feet.
I was back in the School Master's tower.
The empty stone chamber was aglow with hundreds of red-flamed candles lining the edges of the bookcases and shelves. Red rose petals swathed the stone floor under her feet. Strums of a phantom harp softly swelled into a tender song.
"What the hell. . .?" I muttered to myself.
Then I saw the Storian.
Across the room, it hovered unguarded over our fairy-tale book on the shadowed stone table.
Through falling petals and flickering candles, I skulked towards the deadly sharp pen. As I neared, the pen's script smoldered against steel.
Then it lurched and lanced my finger. I withdrew in shock.
A single drop of my blood dripped down the Storian, filling the grooves in the deep script before trickling to its lethal nib. Alive to its new ink, the pen burned hot red and plunged to the book, furiously flipping pages. The whole fairy tale unfolded before my eyes in dazzling paintings and flashes of words: Waking up to Sophie on the side of Evil's moat, battling Hester's demon, saving Tedros at the Trial. Then ones I had never seen before: Agatha climbing the walls of Evil using arrows, a sign reading The 1st Annual Villains "No Ball," Good storming Evil.
Sophie as a hideous hag.
"Oh, Sophie," I whispered. "What have you done?"
Then the Storian found a fresh page and spilled blood outlines in a single sweep. Rich color magically filled them in and I watched a brilliant painting of myself take shape, there in this tower as I was now. My painted self gazed into the eyes of a handsome stranger, tall, lean, in prime of youth and beauty.
I touched his face on the page. . .skin like marble, ghostly white hair, brilliant blue eyes. . .
He wasn't a stranger.
"All these years I waited," said a warm voice.
I turned to see the masked School Master glide towards me from across the room, rusted crown crooked on his head of thick white hair. Slowly, his body unsnarled from its hunch, until it stood tall and erect. Then he took off his mask, revealing alabaster skin, chiseled cheeks, and dancing blue eyes.
"I brought you here," he said, cold, beautiful face smoldering in the first rays of sun, "because you're different."
I was growing frustrated. "Everyone keeps saying that! You, the Goose. . .but what does that even mean?"
He took a step towards me. "Did you ever wonder why you can heal when you taste another's blood? Why your eyes flame? Why you can fly?"
"That was one time."
"And there can be many more. Once you learn about your heritage."
My gaze softened. "You're saying. . .you know who my parents are?"
"Of course." The School Master reached his hand out to the side and a book shot off the shelves into his waiting palm. He flipped through the pages for a few moments before he turned the book around, revealing an illustration of a ginger boy in battle with a hook-handed man.
"Your father is none other than Peter Pan."