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Mirrors are the greatest deceivers. Those flat, glassy surfaces are supposed to reflect the truth back at us. But they lie, turning everything around: right becomes left, left becomes right. Close but no cigar, as my zayde used to say.
Take this mirror, for example. It's very plain, with just a touch of bevelling at the edges. Long and wide, and hung in the bedroom alcove so it captures the whole room. So many of my visitors have appreciated its talents. Voyeurs who enjoy watching themselves ... no matter what they're doing. There have been a rare few who shy away from its presence and demand that I draw the curtains and seal the reflection away. I'm not sure which I prefer. Sometimes there is comfort in the lies.
If I turned my head slightly, I could see myself, lying on my back in the middle of the bed. Skin over-pale from too much time inside, seeming even whiter against the black silk covers. The rust-coloured piping around the edges matches my long — too long — red-brown hair. Plump, luxurious pillows are scattered around the bed and floor, still lying where they were tossed last night by my ... friend.
I feel gaunt, so thin that my bones threaten to pierce the fragile armour of my skin. Cheekbones that jut out beneath sunken green eyes; elbow and knee joints which are disproportionately larger than the bones they connect; a chest where every single rib is visible to the naked eye; a painful emptiness where there was once flesh and bone. That's not what the mirror shows though.
He has taught me to hide my weaknesses from the watchers behind the glass, and by extension from the rest of the world. If I looked at the glass, I would see a body defined by taut muscle, toned to near perfection by workouts imposed by a private trainer. Lifting, pulling, stretching. Every muscle group tested to the limit of its endurance. If the image makes the man, then I ought to be impervious to injury.
The mirror lies. It cannot reflect anything beneath the surface, showing only the jewel and the setting designed to show it off — the excess of a room filled with antique furnishings. An ornately carved wooden bed that is a collector's wet dream. An eighteenth century armoire filled with never-worn clothing: suits, ties to match, pants of many fabrics, shirts in a rainbow of colours. Every possible choice for the man of discerning taste except the soft, well-used leather and denim I crave.
Even the door to this prison is a mirage. Painted the same colour as the walls, it blends in, only visible if you know where to look. A tantalising promise of freedom that dissolves into hard-edged truth if you examine it too closely. An entrance that only opens inward, without a handle on the inside.
I have been condemned to a punishment of absolute luxury and utter control. The thin, easily-broken silvered chain that encircles my ankle connects me to the bed. It is a tether just long enough to reach everywhere but the windows and the door. This is not the prison I expected from the Syndicate and, yet, my captor is different from the rest of those men who spend their lives plotting in dim, smoke-wreathed rooms. They intended to degrade and hurt me. He chose to teach and succour me. Beneath the veneer of an uncaring, aristocratic Englishman lies a human being who cares deeply about protecting his country and his family. So unexpected, it took my breath away. For a moment, I hesitated to use it, to use him. For a moment.
He's almost finished with me. Even now, the lessons are drawing to a close. There is one more thing he needs from me, and then I will snap this chain and take the place he has created for me. Like the mirror, I've learned to deceive, far beyond the paltry misdirection I employed before. Next time, I will use them — not they me — a betrayer set deep within their upper echelon.
I've made my promises, given my oaths to protect his family when he is gone. His grandson may inherit the title and the estate, but the power inside the velvet glove is mine.