The House for Lost Things - Part Three

Hey, guys! Here's part three of The House for Lost Things. Please share, comment, let us know what you think. We really appreciate your feedback!

NOTE: All pictures here are strictly for viewer's pleasure. Those of any people may or may not be the writer's idea of what a character looks like and were chosen to reflect the mood of the scene or an attribute or emotion of the individual, rather than the character.

#

A number of hours after lunch, Master and I were still busy in the front room, emptying out the store of treasures which had appeared overnight to grace the stone floor in giant heaps. We’d waded through piles of the troves all morning, breaking only to eat a small noon meal.

It’s amazing sometimes the things that people will lose, I thought, awed by the sheer diversity of the artifacts still remaining.

Master and I had managed to get the mountain of items down to a few piles, some needing to be transferred to rooms for safe keeping, others still to be “checked”.

My new dress is a simple cream gown that buttons up the front to the middle of my chest, just covering my cleavage. It hands down around my ankles. The material is soft and lightweight. The gown gives me a freedom of range of motion that the larger, blue gown did not.

At least I won’t trip anymore.

My once neatly fixed hair now hangs around my shoulders in messy curls. They brush my cheeks and cause me to constantly pull them back over my shoulder and push them out of my face.

I pause, holding up a set of golden candlesticks into the light, squinting. Master peeks at me over his shoulder, holding a little doll, as he ventures once again toward the mirror. He smiles at me;I blush and look away.

The Master’s face changes. His attention is gone from me and the many artifacts around him, that bring him so much joy. It is focused on the Mirror. The heavy gilded mirror has hung upon the south wall of this room long before I arrived in the Mansion. Perhaps, even before Master came to the Mansion. The candlesticks are cold and hard in my hands, but nothing looks as cold and distant as Master’s face when he approaches the mirror. His eyes have darkened and his jaw is tight.

Why does he hold so much hate for the thing that is our hope?

The Mirror allows us to see outside the Mansion. Standing in front of it, the Mirror allows us to see if the owners of whatever item we hold are searching for it. If they are, and they look in the place where they last left it, the item may pass through the mirror back into the world, back to its owner.

I wring my hands around the candlesticks, watching Master’s back. Many times, I have dreamed of walking up and looking into the Mirror. Then, maybe I would know if my family was searching for me still.

But Master will not let me.

I am not allowed near the Mirror. Only Master may approach it.

Master stands before the Mirror. The glass shimmers and then ripples, almost like a pool of water. When the reflection stills, I can see what appears to be a child’s bedroom. The walls are covered in paper but are wood. The floors are made of wood. This is not a fortress, not a castle, this is a simple home. Toys are scattered on the floor and a rumpled bed stands in the room.

A small female child with red hair is running around, throwing open cabinets and drawers, searching for the doll in Master’s hands. I swallow hard.

That is how I looked for my doll.

The child keeps looking, finally crawling under the bed and disappearing almost entirely. All I can see are her stockinged-legs. The edges of the Mirror ripple to indicate that the doll may pass through, back to the girl’s arms.

Without a word, Master holds out the doll and the Mirror absorbs it. He quickly turns and moves away as the Mirror ripples. When the ripples still once more, I see the reflection of the front room. The keyhole to the outside has been closed until Master brings to it another item.

I turn my attention to Master. His jaw is working as he comes to me. There are wrinkles at the sides of his eyes and his eyebrows are lowered and drawn. He draws in a long breath through his nose, taking the candlesticks from my hands. I look up at him, watching his face as he studies them.

“These are in superb condition for their age,” Master says. “From the craftsmanship I would say these are from the early fourteen-hundreds, late thirteen-hundreds.” Master holds it out and then begins to describe the intricate detailed carvings in the gold candlesticks. “Likely, these came from a monastery. Perhaps, in France or Spain.”

I reach out and take them back from him. As we continue to work, Master launches into one of his speeches about the cultures of the many lands outside of Wales. I listen, content to let him share his knowledge.

Perhaps, it will clue me in to Master’s life. Perhaps, something he says will explain the mystery of the man I call ‘Master’. Then again, what words could describe such an enigma?

As Master goes back and forth, showing items to the Mirror and hurriedly then removing himself from its presence, I watch him closely. His quick steps in retreat and his stiff form do not reveal something as cold as hate any longer. They reveal something much more deep and true, something that Master shields from his gaze and his voice when he speaks to me, but something that is there, lurking underneath. I feel it. My stomach twists and my breath heaves with the weight of it.

Master is afraid.

#