Chapter Twenty: Mirror Mirror

Not having had the pleasure of meeting the Admiral in his cabin, she had no reason to be as shocked as everyone else around her seemed to be. Francesca, Dominique and Villeneuve had all been pulled back onto the safety of the ship amidst the deafening cheers of the sailors. Cheers that sung out from the tiniest ships in the bay below, all the way up to the deck beneath their feet. Then, after a quick conference between Villeneuve and his officers, she had been pushed, and prodded out in front of them, and through the door of his cabin. 'I don't suppose there is a chance of that Turkish coffee?' She asked over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes.

The party came to a sudden halt as soon as they crossed the cabin's threshold. The stunned silence was not hers, nor were the surprised and shocked gasps. The air, you might say, was so thick with stupor you could have cut it with a sabre. Villeneuve opened his mouth, and then closed it again, sucking at his lips in obvious consternation. He pushed Francesca aside, and carefully stepped into his cabin, a cabin that had been transformed into ... into ... what? He pushed against the floor with the toe of his boot and slid over to the large desk in the corner of the room, and, grabbing at its edge, he turned himself round.

The entire cabin, from the top of the beams that ran along the ceiling, down to the wide planks that made up the floor, and all the furniture that sat in between, had been covered over in a thick, silvery, layer of ice.

Villeneuve turned noticeably red despite the chill in the air. 'Daemon!' He suddenly shouted, a swirling cloud of frozen air chased after the exclamation. 'Daemon, where are ...' 'Over here Admiral.' Came the reply. Clotilde lazily stretched out her thin frame, her eyes closed as if she had just woken up from a nap. She was lying across a glittering divan that reflected the yellow sunlight from the cabin's many portholes. A small, porcelain cup of tea curled thin tendrils of steam beneath her nose. Clotilde slowly cracked open a long, lashed eye, and, finding Francesca in the room, she smiled sweetly. 'Hello sister,' she purred. 'Why not come sit next to me here?' She held out a palm, and patted the divan at her side. Francesca froze, looking wildly at the sailors all around her. Surely they didn't expect her to ..? Didn't they know that ... but the Amiral did call her a Daemon ... so he wouldn't ... would he?

Apparently he would.

Villeneuve, looked at Francesca as if he suddenly remembered she was there, and then, turning back to Clotilde he thought, how strange. Clotilde and Francesca really were alike. I don't know why I should feel surprised when I meet twins, but I do ... and the doppelgänger? There was still something different there. Her manner, her speech ...' His thoughts trailed off as he looked at the two girls in the silent cabin, and then he saw it. Their eyes were different. Where Francesca had irises of obsidian, Clotilde's eyes were two clear sapphires that shone with a deep, violet malevolence. Funny that, he mused. Had they not always been alike? What was the daemon playing at? At that moment Francesca brushed passed him, those dark eyes flashing angrily at him as she did so. What was that about? He wondered.

Disgusted that these so called men, these sailors, these officers, were refusing to raise their swords to defend a lady so obviously in distress as herself infuriated Francesca (possibly more than the fact that none of the men seemed taken with her) and so, she defiantly swished her hair, and, without any real plan, stepped toward the grinning Clotilde.

She carefully sat herself down next to her doppelgänger, mindful not to let even the hem of Clotilde's dress touch her skin. It was eerie being so close to her. It was like looking at a painting, or a wax doll. Sitting this close she notice a soft aura, a glow that hung over Clotilde's skin, like a fog that clung to a riverbank in the early morning. Cool, thin wisps of smoke curled out from her pores, circling around her skin, and over her clothes. Clotilde suddenly raised her hand, dangling a finger in front of Francesca's nose. 'You,' she whispered. 'Have been a hard girl to catch.' 'Grazie,' answered Francesca nervously. 'I try.'

Francesca looked into her doppelgänger's eyes. There she was. Her face mirrored back at her in the bright, blue, liquid eyes of this ... this ... 'What are you?' She suddenly asked. 'Ah,' answered Clotilde, with a wink. 'Would you ..?' She bent over, and picked up another cup from the floor of the cabin. 'Would you like some tea? She pushed it toward Francesca's lips, nearly spilling the verdant liquid within. Francesca grabbed the cup, pulling her head back. 'No thank you,' she frowned. It didn't look much like tea, and didn't smell like any tea she knew of. It smelled of earth ... and decay. 'Drink it.' Clotilde said through her teeth. Raising the porcelain to Francesca's, she knocked the two cups together, and smiled that infuriating smile of hers. 'Cin-cin,' she said.

'No.' Answered Francesca. 'No?' Responded Clotilde. 'I see.' She sat back, resting her head against a large, sequined cushion, and took a long sip from her own tea. 'Pity,' she murmured looking left and right for a spot to place her cup. She sighed, suddenly throwing the drink across the cabin with a crash. 'BUT YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I AM?!' Before Francesca answered, Clotilde grabbed a howling Francesca by the hair, dragging her to the floor of the cabin. Shocked by the display, Villeneuve jumped forward. 'Tut tut, Amiral,' said Clotilde, holding up her free hand to stop him. 'This is my tea party, not yours.' His expression hardened, and he stopped, holding an arm out to block his officers from interfering. 'Francesca, Francesca.' Clotilde said in her sing-song voice, while skipping across the room, dragging the screaming, and whimpering Italian like a cat playing with a ball of yarn. Clotilde abruptly stopped in front of the large, floor mirror and hauled Francesca up to it, so that she was face to face with her reflection.

'What do you see?' Her doppelgänger asked. 'I - I -' stuttered Francesca, tears running down her face. 'I ... see my face.' 'Wrong!' Growled Clotilde, wrenching Francesca's head back and slamming it against the mirror. 'You see MY FACE!' One of the sailors, dumbfounded by this sudden display of violence, ran past Villeneuve - and directly into Clotilde's outstretched hand. With serpentine speed, her free hand shot backward, grabbing the sailor by the jugular, and, as quickly as the scream escaped his lips - it stopped. He glittered, momentarily glass-like, reflecting the stunned faces of the sailors in Villeneuve's cabin, and then there was a loud crack as Clotilde squeezed his neck, and his body broke, shattering to the floor in a thousand, tiny pieces.

Clotilde, still holding the frozen head of the poor sailor, turned it round once, yawned, and then tossed it at Villeneuve, and the rest of the sailors standing inside the doorway. The head bounced once, twice, and then split in two at the heels of the men. The officers exchanged terrified looks, but, none of them wanting to be the first to look cowardly, moved. They remained steadfast next to their Amiral, much to Villeneuve's silent satisfaction.

Francesca, having seen this violence before, was no longer terrified, she was just tired. Paris seemed so distant now. What she wouldn't give for this summer to be over! Oh to be back home in Italy with her friends, and her dear, dear mother. 'Owww!' Her reverie was suddenly broken as Clotilde pressed her already bruised and bloodied face back against the mirror. 'Now, what is it you see?' She repeated the question. Francesca looked up, her face looked back at her, decidedly the worse for wear, she thought. A cut above her perfectly plucked eyebrow leaked a small stream of blood into her open eye. 'I see my ...' Francesca stopped as she felt Clotilde's hand tighten round the back of her hair again. She felt the cold, she felt her hair, each strand of it begin to prick like an icicle into her scalp. And then, she noticed something that completely baffled her. Clotilde's reflection was not in the mirror. She tugged her head to one side, looking from her captor, and back again into the mirror. How could that be? The room was there, the sailors too were there, she was there, but the doppelgänger was not.

Clotilde, watching Francesca's reaction, pressed her lips against her twin's ear. 'I can see you looking puzzled, ma chérie, but I think you know what this mirror is, and I think you know what lies on the other side.'

Francesca blinked, and turned her attention back toward the mirror. What was special about it? Why did the doppelgänger care? Then it hit her. What had Uncle Leo taught her about mirrors? She smiled to herself, this must be one of those mirrors! She couldn't, however, hide the triumphant look of comprehension that dawned on her face from Clotilde, who bent closer still, whispering. 'That's right, ma petite, that is my home you are looking at, and I know you can open this door.' She thrust Francesca's face back into the glass and screeched. 'SO OPEN IT!' Francesca howled as her hair began to shatter away in Clotilde's hand.

* * *

Here was a prickly sort of weather. A rain and snow that seemed to stick to you like the thorns of an enormous, wild bramble. The sleet snuck around the dark corners of the cracked, stone buildings and sent Rudolpho's long locks flying out behind him like a widow's rags on a washing line. Even the clouds couldn't have looked darker than his mood did just then.

'Where in dannazione am I?!' He snarled into the howling wind. 'Antonio?!' The ice came down harder still, stinging his cheeks and neck. He wiped at his moustaches with the back of his hand, and stared blindly around him, blinking the snow from his long lashes. 'I no like this,' he grumbled at the weather. Not only could he not see his brother, he couldn't see anyone at all. The narrow, colourless buildings were shuttered against the storm, no candles flickered behind the pale, glass windows, no doors stood open, and no smoke poured from the stovepipe chimneys that stood row upon crooked row across the low, tin rooftops.

Rudolpho loosened the buckle holding his rapier, and pulled it free. He turned his head left and right. 'Antonio?!' He called his brother's name again, and then again, three more times, but only the wind answered back. He frowned. He took a step along the uneven, cobbled street, slipping sideways over the dark, shiny stones.

Each building was sheltered by large, dull looking trees with faded, heart-shaped, green leaves that drooped beneath the heavy sky. Rudolpho walked over to the nearest, and stopped beneath it. The rain and snow battered the foliage with a slow, rhythmic tapping. Pat, pat, pat, pat. Like the marching drums of a distant regiment.

He sat back on his haunches, his boot heels sinking easily into the soil, and leant against the smooth tree-trunk to better take in his surroundings. This town was unknown to him. The architecture was unremarkable, each of the building were tucked behind one-another, almost as if the buildings were shy. He sighed. Now that he was semi-sheltered from the worst of the sleet, he pulled out his tobacco pouch and carefully rolled himself a cheroot, lighting it with the quick scrape of a match against the tree behind him. He watched the match burn down between his fingertips and tossed it into the street before it burnt him. 'So,' he said aloud. 'What now, eh? Che cosa devo fare adesso?' He couldn't just sit here all day ... alone. He hated being alone! He puffed away at the last of the tobacco, exhaling the blue smoke from between his lips, and decided he needed to do some investigating.

Rudolpho got up, stretched, put a large palm up into the air, and thought the weather was improving. He took a step out onto the hard, packed walkway in front of the buildings, and began to inspect each door and window for signs of life.

* * *

He had been walking for an hour at least, tapping at silent doors, peering through silent windows, poking his head down narrow silent alleys, and what had he discovered? Absolutely nothing. 'How tedious. How boring ... how humdrum.' He smiled at the word, rolling it around in his mouth, repeating it over and over. 'Humdrum, humdrum, humdrum.' 'How buffo ... funny,' he corrected himself. 'The English is.' The weather, too, had improved with his mood. Now cool, not cold, the ice had stopped falling from the heavy, clouds rolling overhead. Encouraged, he began to whistle to himself, as he walked by another faceless building. He raised his sword off his hip, and dragged it along a low, wood, white fence that served no other purpose than to decorate the street, and he smiled, adding a percussion to his tootling.

With a grin, he continued his half-hearted rapping at doors, and peeking through letterboxes. This place, he thought, may as well be a desert for all the life around. Which is why, when he heard the very distinctive clip-clop of horse's hooves on cobble stone approaching he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Rudolpho started to run into the street, thought the better of it, and ran back toward a large tree. He glanced over his shoulder, and, sure he hadn't been spotted, grabbed at a stout branch, and pulled himself up into the dripping canopy.

The silver haze that hung low over the wet street hid everything but the repetitive sound of the horse's steps. Rudolpho cursed, and climbed up a little further, causing a small hurricane of leaves to fall in his wake. From this new vantage point he could now just make out the shadows of the riders coming his way. He counted perhaps a half dozen men. Squinting, he thought they might be soldiers. There was something in the way they carried themselves, but they were still too far off to be sure. He cocked an ear, hoping to catch a snatch of conversation, but the hooves were all he heard over the wind rustling the leaves.

They certainly are taking their time, he frowned. The soldiers, for they were soldiers, French soldiers, Rudolpho was certain of that. He could see that from the cut of their uniforms now, and those horses? They were French too. The way those horses slowly ambled along the street was decidedly Gallic. That gait? He snorted, is a lazy French gait! Italian horses have more poise, he silently smiled through his drooping moustaches, and then frowned again, wishing for a cheroot. Instead he carefully shifted his bulk, and tried to find a branch that suited his bony bottom better.

The riders had suddenly stopped as one, front hooves still raised in mid-step. 'Good trick, that,' muttered Rudolpho. 'Parade worthy.' The leader of this little group raised a hand in the air, made a fist with it, and ... sneezed.

'Gesundheit!' Offered Rudolpho, followed in quick succession, by ' Damn me,' then 'Mannaggia,' and, upon seeing he had been spotted, he concluded with the tried and true, 'Curses and bugger, bugger!' And then he jumped to the ground running like a gazelle before the wind.

* * *

The horses raced along the street, each hoof sparking against the shining stones as the men urged them on. Rudolpho watched them blow by. He had always been a very fortunate runner, and despite his great size, a fortunate hider too. He pulled a twig from his ear, as he rolled over to one side.

When he knew his cover had been blown, he used a quick thinking, that neither of his brothers would have thought possible, but there it was nonetheless - some forethought, an idea, and a plan.

Looking at the tall, lanky, lank-haired Italian you too probably would have thought he had been wasting his time as he was strolling along the strange street, but he was paying attention to every door, every window, and even every shrub he came across. The creeping, Bougainvillea caught his attention in particular. He liked the papery flowers. They had been the only thing of any significant colour that he had spied in this drab place, and the memory of the plant was still fresh enough in his mind that, as he dashed away from the riders, he remembered that that particular perennial was just the sort of place he could easily hide under should the need arise.

The need arose.

Rudolpho silently peered out from beneath the shrub, wishing he had Antonio's long ear hairs, as they seemed to have the magical ability to stand straight out and sense the tiniest of vibrations from the air. He neither heard, nor saw, nor smelt, for that matter, anything that could be interpreted as either soldiers, or horses. They had thundered passed. Wild-eyed horses, and shouting soldiers, and then it seemed, they just disappeared.

He carefully crept out from under the pricklier of the thorns, and crawled out to the edge of the street, turning, first left, and then right. Assured of having lost the Frenchmen, he stood back up, and brushed as much of the vegetal debris from his person as he could. Satisfied, he strolled back to the front steps of a blank looking building, and sat down to roll himself a cheroot, a thinking cheroot, and he thought. He thought about the French soldiers, Where had they come from? Where did they go? Why did they seem familiar? Was not one French soldier the same as any other? He puffed a happy puff, and pondered some more, when a decidedly feminine voice interrupted his reverie with a question. 'Have you another one of those?' 'Mmn.' He answered, pulling another slim cheroot from his breast pocket, and holding it up. 'MAMMA MIA!' He jumped from the step and swung around, his rapier already in his free hand. The woman stood there, and smirked. 'Come, come Rudi, is that any way to greet an old friend?'

He stared. His mouth dropped open, the cheroot dangled from his lower lip like a forgotten piece of macaroni. 'Bu - bu - but can it be?' He stammered. 'Soleil, is it really you?' She took a puff from the end of an already lit cheroot, and tossed it at him, laughing. She laughed like a little girl. 'Come in Rudi, she gestured at the open door behind her. 'We have a lot to discuss!'

Soleil was one of those women that was neither too slim, too heavy, too pretty, or even too clever. She was, and she would remind you of this just often enough, just right. She walked with a rolling of the hips that made men want to salivate, but she held her head up just high enough that none ever did. They respected her. When she spoke, she uttered each word with an accent that was practised to modulate the melody of excellent English. Her hair was a mystery, constantly changing its colour, but was, more often than not, a bright auburn. Her eyebrows were arched, her nose petite, lips full and eyes of a blue so bluish, three oceans, two seas, and one Mediterranean morning have all been known to exhibit rare symptoms of jealousy when in her company.

Rudolpho was still gaping at the empty space where she had just stood. He gawked so long, that the cheroot that had glued itself to his dangling lower lip sparked into a small fire beneath his silken moustaches. 'Eeeowch!' He exclaimed, spitting away the tobacco-end, while briskly batting out his blazing bristles.

'Ruuudi!?' Soleil suddenly called out, sounding much like a morning rooster. Rudolpho sighed, he couldn't resist this female. He straightened his britches, puffed out his barrel of a chest, and cautiously whispered 'all women are trouble,' at the open door, quoting one of Antonio's oft grumbled phrases. But this woman was special, and, with that in mind, and an extra firm hold round the hilt of his rapier he bounded up the stairs after her.

The inside of the building seemed to have been designed by the same architects that had imagined the rest of the town. Boring, Rudolpho thought, as he stepped along a long, plain, and ... humdrum corridor. There were no paintings, no mouldings, no furniture of any sort, just bare white wall, and a series of doors, each one painted in a pale, dusty rose. A single, crystal chandelier reflecting the candles within, casting little diamonds of rainbow light over Rudolpho as he crossed the space, his boots echoing loudly across the uneven wood floor.

He stopped at a door at the end of the corridor, and tugged at a small, brass handle. The door was locked. Puzzled, he turned round and examined the other doors behind him. Each one looked exactly the same, but, he noted with a wrinkled brow, the third door in the corridor had a pale, flickering glow coming from beneath it. He stepped over to it, and got down on his hands and knees, trying to spy underneath it. The light was like the guttering of a candle just before it winks out. He reached up and tried to tug it open. 'Locked too,' he muttered, scratching his head.

He pressed his mouth up against the cool wood. 'Hello?!'

A moment of silence followed, and then he heard her curt reply from within. 'Have you never thought to knock?' Rudolpho grunted, pushed himself up and, raising a large fist in front of his face, and knocked. 'Come innn,' came Soleil's now tinkling response.

This time the door swung open. Rudolpho stepped in, and squinted, a hand raised up over his eyes. The entire room was bathed in a very bright, shimmering light. At first he thought he might be standing in an empty greenhouse, or atrium., but as his eyes adjusted, he saw that, apart from some elaborate throw rugs, a writing desk and an assortment of colourfully upholstered chairs, there was only one, incredible thing of note.

Everywhere around him was an enormous collection of mirrors. Large and small, round, and square, they covered every inch of the room.

Each mirror, however, was not filled with glass as you might expect, but instead a continuous, silvery rush of water cascaded from each and every one of those frames. The water spilled out from the highest of the mirrors, at the very edge of the ceiling, and flowed into the next one beneath it, which filled, and flowed into the one beneath it, and so on, until the water pooled across the floor beneath his feet. Alarmed, Rudolpho stepped backward across the floor, each step rippling across the room as if a small pebble had been tossed into a pond. He lifted his boots in alarm and almost hopped into the nearest armchair, but after a confused look around him, he saw that nothing, not one piece of furniture, actually got wet.

Rudolpho couldn't believe his eyes. He gaped silently at this living wall of water, and, his curiosity getting the best of him, he stepped toward the wall of water and stared into it intently.

Rudolpho gasped. He suddenly felt as if he had been pushed, pushed deep into this cooling waterfall. There was nothing but silence. Rudolpho felt calm. This golden frame that held the water gave off a soft, rippling glow, a glow that brought to mind the way the sea looks when you are playing beneath the waves on a summer's day. No, thought Rudolpho, that is not quite it. It is as if you are lying beneath the waves, your back resting against soft sand, and you are looking up through the water at a sky that has suddenly clouded over. The water rolled turquoise, and frothed white, always moving, never stopping.

'Over here Rudi.' Soleil chirped from over his shoulder, pulling Rudolpho back into the room. He blinked, and pressed a hand to his cheek. It was dry. 'How?' He began, but Soleil too raised her hand, pressing a small, solitary finger over his lips. 'Hush, Rudi,' she whispered. 'How, is not something you need to know, nor something we have time for.' She turned around, taking him by the hand. 'Come this way,' she instructed. 'I want to introduce you to someone.'

She carefully led him across the room, each of their steps rippling out beneath the chairs, the desk and carpet, but never high enough to cause a wave, never splashing. 'But this is incredible, Soleil,' said Rudolpho, his face looking just like that of a little boy who has seen a butterfly for the first time. Smiling up at the bewildered look on his hairy face, Soleil laughed out loud. 'Rudi, after all you and your brothers have been through, I am astonished that something so ...' She paused.'Simple can impress you.' She smiled again. 'And call me Sun, please, I like the English word better, don't you? 'Sun.' He repeated in his deep voice. 'No Soleil, I do not,' he grumbled. 'I think I prefer Specchio. 'Nevertheless,' she said, giggling. 'I will now only answer to Sun!' She stopped before a long, oval mirror and looked into it, adjusting her auburn hair. Rudolpho stopped, glancing over her head. He could see no reflection of her in this frame, just more ripples, more quietly rushing water.

'But ...' Said Rudolpho, watching her, 'I like the name Specchio!' He pouted. 'Oh, Rudi, it's such a boring name!' She answered rolling her eyes. 'And anyway, Rudi, what difference does a name make? I am still me, after all.'

There was some wisdom to that, he thought. 'But!' He opened his mouth again, and this time was not going to be deterred by the finger that pressed up against his lips. He kissed it instead, and then carefully removed her digit. 'Then ...' He frowned at her. 'Am I ... deceased?' 'Oh no, Rudi!' She quickly answered. 'Is that what you thought? I assure you,' she continued, not waiting for an answer, 'that you are quite alive, and just the victim of another one of Antonio's mistakes.' She giggled again. 'Poor Antonio never gets it quite right, does he? But, but, but!' She repeated, the gentlemen I want you to meet are ... ' She walked him to another door, pulled it open with a flourish, and looked up at him.'Quite dead.'

They both stepped into a room that was not so much a tiny room, but a full room. It was crowded with a half dozen men.

French men.

These were the men that Rudolpho had earlier seen in the street. Rudolpho gasped, staring from Soleil, to the soldiers, and back at Soleil again. He suddenly pushed her behind him, whipping his rapier in front of his face. 'En garde,' he snarled.

Soleil grabbed him by the arm, alarmed. 'No, Rudi!' She said sternly. 'These men are here because they helped you. Do you not recognise them?'

Did he?

Rudolpho studied the men before him. Some were sitting, some smoking pungent tobacco from long-stemmed pipes, another two, frowning up at him, looked as if they had been engaged in an important game chess. While the last two ignored him completely, their backs turned to him, while continuing in a seemingly deep discussion.

It was one of these busy men that turned round now, his eyes flicked from Rudolpho's pointed weapon, and then back at Soleil. She nodded at him and he rose, puffing up his chest, so that it was nearly comparable to Rudolpho's. The soldier held a hand up at salute.

'My name, monsieur,' he said with an oddly quiet voice. 'Is Sergent Michel Condé, and these men ...' He gestured around him, 'are what ...' He hesitated, looking at each of the soldiers with obvious affection. 'Were the proud Eighth Division serving under the Emperor, Napoléon, par la grâce de Dieu et les Constitutions de la République, Empéreur des Français.'

Rudolpho blinked, and lowered his rapier. He did know this man! He couldn't be certain of the others, but this one, this tall man with the short beard, him he recognised from the battle in the crypt beneath St-Etienne-du-Mont. 'You!' He growled again, raising his rapier back up at the Sergent. 'You tried to murder my Francesca!'

Sergent Condé raised his own sword now, the other soldiers backing away from the two men. They knew well enough not to interfere in a fight where their Sergent was concerned. 'Non!' Shouted Soleil, flustered into speaking French, and moving between them.

'Rudolpho!' She said angrily. 'This man gave his life for our Francesca, gave his life, do you understand?' She stressed that last part, then, she suddenly blushed, and looked up at the other men apologetically. 'They all did.'

Rudolpho looked at her, confused again. Smiling sadly, Soleil carefully pushed aside his rapier, and took him by the hand. 'Do you not see Rudi?' She asked him. 'Only those that are good of heart can be here with me.' 'And dead,' he whispered, looking down at her. 'Well, that too,' she said, nodding, 'but not always, eh?' She grabbed his other hand, and suddenly laughed that little girl laugh of hers, swinging herself around him. 'You are proof of that!'

He too, suddenly laughed out loud. 'So, here we are inside your hand mirror!' He looked all around again. 'Is Paridiso, eh Specchio?' 'Shush, Rudi, this is no such thing, but ...' She batted her eyelashes. 'Some men might find my company heavenly.' She smiled at her comment, as it so obviously made Rudolpho blush behind his whiskers. 'But this is only a home, my home.' She finished. 'Hm.' He answered, not looking entirely convinced. 'Be that as it may, Specchio -' 'Sun,' she corrected him. 'Be that as it may ... Sun, but you will always be an angel to me.' This time she blushed, her eyes flashing at him in obvious delight.

'Listen Rudi, these men only fought you in St-Etienne-du-Mont because Clotilde was stronger than them. They might be French,' she continued, but even some French soldiers can have good hearts ... all right?' She said, turning her attention back to the men, 'and these men have the very best of hearts.'

'Now.' She skipped into the centre of the room. 'Time for business!' She motioned Rudolpho over, and pushed him down onto a large, Turkish ottoman, and, ignoring his protests, she turned and grabbed Sergent Condé, pushing him down right next to Rudolpho, onto the corner of the same ottoman. Pausing, she studied them both a moment. 'Lovely,' she breathed with a smile. 'You are both lovely specimens of manhood.' The two men eyed each other suspiciously, but before they could grump at her, she reached down, and tapped Rudolpho upon his knee.

'Have you any idea how long these men were out searching for you Rudi? No?' She went on, ignoring his opening and closing mouth. She was obviously enjoying enunciating the Englishness out of every letter that passed her own red lips. 'Never mind,' she chirped. 'They found you, and it is probably all for the best as Antonio's plan has failed.' Rudolpho suddenly leant forward, tugging at his moustaches. 'Cosa? What you mean, he failed?' 'He failed, Rudi,' she said, simply. 'He didn't rescue Francesca, he and the others were captured by the French, and you ended up here ...' She pursed her lips. 'Which might be for the best.'

Alarmed, Rudolpho jumped up from the ottoman, but Sun easily pushed him back down onto it. 'Be still,' she murmured. 'I did some reading up on this doppelgänger of ours and I think I might know where Napoléon got his fidgety, little hands on her.' She raised a finger, silencing the question that appeared on his surprised lips. 'My concern,' she mused, 'is how did he make it do his bidding?' She turned away from him then, and paced around the room, the eyes of all the men now following her.

'Who is the Emperor's Sorcerer?' She asked abruptly, looking back at the soldiers around her. 'Who is Emperor Napoléon's most powerful magician?'

The soldiers looked at each other, the question buzzing in their ears. Who indeed? There was talk of a magician at Napoléon's court, an intelligent, charismatic magician, but no one could ever exactly describe him. Some said he was tall, some said young, or dashing and impetuous, with a history among the Hungarian Hussars. Others said he was a wizened old man, with a fringe of blue-grey hair above his ears, a nose the size of a cantaloupe, and eyebrows that joined up in the middle, like a caterpillar. While others still, swore he wasn't a he at all, but a creamy young woman with pale, orange eyes, and bright, blonde hair, and a frighteningly long, serpentine smile.

Unfortunately he, or she, was the sort of magician that passed from mind immediately after you saw her, or him, and all that was left was an effervescent impression of a certain someone, an impression that quickly disappeared like a chilled glass of champagne on your birthday.

'So?' Sun asked. 'No one?' She searched each of their faces. 'Really?' There were some mumblings about Apollonius of Tyana, Circe, and even the famous Nicholas Flamel, but she shook her head at each suggestion.

'Rudolpho? You haven't any ideas? Neither of your brothers mentioned anyone?' She padded over to a well upholstered armchair and sat down, crossing her legs beneath her. 'Surely with your strong minds, and advantageous home at 25 Rue de la Fontaine, you three would have met someone, and remembered?' She stressed. Rudolpho, who was busy crossing, and uncrossing his own legs in an effort to get comfortable on the ottoman, looked up startled, and sucked at his cheeks for a moment. 'Siii,' he said slowly. 'Antonio is always talking of Merlin - ' Sun snorted at this. He frowned, and continued. 'And Leo, he doesn't talk much, you know?' He looked over at Sergent Condé, who smiled, and shrugged at the same time. 'I think,' Rudolpho continued, 'I heard him speak of La Voisin -'

'Catherine Monvoisin?' Sun interrupted again. 'No ...' She chewed her lip in thought. 'She was a poisoner, and not a very good one at that.' It was Rudolpho's turn to shrug this time. He stuck his thumb down his boot and scratched, thinking. 'I remember Leo was at court once and he met a crazy man ...' He paused, and scratched at his other leg. 'Yes?' Sun said sweetly. Rudolpho looked up again. 'But, I no remember his name.' He frowned apologetically. 'Rudi?' Sun smiled, and sat down between the two men, turning her back on the Sergent, folding her legs up over Rudolpho's. 'But you do remember Rudi, just think harder!'

Rudolpho thought. The room went silent, save for the shuffling of boots against the floor, and the tapping of cheroots against ashtrays. He looked away from Sun's gaze, but she stretched out her hand, and gently tugged at his moustaches, pulling his eyes back to hers. 'Rudi?' She asked again.

He sighed.

The last time he saw her ... really, really saw her ... He looked at her and smiled. Like this? Up close, as she was now? And not as a reflection of Francesca in the hand mirror ... it was ... too long ago, he thought. 'Specchio?' 'Sun,' she corrected ... again. Rudolpho rolled his eyes. 'Specchio, Sun, Soleil! I no remember!' Sun tsked, and silently tugged those black moustaches closer to her, and raised her lips to his ... and before he knew what was happening, he had kissed Sun, and she had finally kissed back.

'Aaavcbtnnnt!' Blurted Rudolpho suddenly, pulling and pushing Sun away simultaneously. She blinked at him, her raspberry lips still sweet with his strawberry kiss. 'Pardon me?' She asked. He held his breath a moment, and this time spoke slowly and clearly. 'Alexis Vincent Charles Berbiguier de Terre-Neuve du Thym!' Sun stared, forgetting to blink until her eyes itched. 'Alexis Vincent Charles Berbiguier de Terre-Neuve du Thym?' She repeated. 'No, that can't be, he died not too long ago, if I recall ...' 'Ahem, Mademoiselle?' Sergent Condé leant over, tapping her on her shoulder.

'Excusez-moi, but I think this gentleman's being deceased is quite irrelevant, n'est-ce pas?' Sun stared at him, and then giggled, suddenly understanding. 'Silly me, yes Sergent,' she said, looking up at the other soldiers. 'And you too, my friends, I don't know what I was thinking.' She leant forward, placing a hand against Rudolpho's cheek, and kissed him again. He smiled into her eyes as she pushed herself up, and off his knee.

'Monsieur Berbiguier de Terre-Neuve du Thym did see daemons, that much is true.' She began, looking serious again. 'But I have never heard of him conjuring one, and anyway,' she got up and stepped around a small table that was piled high with a collection of tiny, white seashells. 'You've all seen him, haven't you?' The soldiers all looked at one other, and then nodded, an uneven bobbing of heads stirring the air in the room.

'Mmm,' she said after a moment's contemplation. 'You see? It can't be him.' She walked the perimeter of the room, drawing a finger over a row of colourful books, frowning at the dust she found there, and sighed. 'Well, Sergent?' She screwed up her face, staring at Sergent Condé, and started to chew on an uneven fingernail, before asking 'You have nothing? Pas d'idées?'

'Pouff!' Sergent Condé exhaled in that uniquely French way, and scratched at his ear. 'I 'ave no idea Mademoiselle,' he finally answered. 'We ...' He gestured at his men. 'We are not spies ... we are ... were,' he corrected with a frown. 'Cavalry.' He looked over his shoulder at his men. 'We patrolled the streets, we kept the order, but we did not follow the gossips in the court.' She arched an eyebrow at him, he was getting huffy. 'But what of your wives?' She asked. 'Your girlfriends? ... and lovers?' She watched them turn red, before laughing, the happy sound echoing around them. 'It's of no importance. Never mind,' she said at last. 'It has to be someone you -' 'Mikuláš of Kadaň!' Rudolpho interrupted, jumping up from the ottoman. 'What?' Said Soleil, looking confusedly at him. 'Mikuláš of Kadaň,' he repeated again. 'The ...' He tugged at his hair, looking irritated. 'How do you say? The maker of the clocks!' She exchanged a puzzled look with Sergent Condé. 'And what?' She patiently asked, 'has a maker of clocks have to do with a maker of daemons?' Sergent Condé leant forward, hands upon his knees, and cleared his throat. 'If it helps?' He half-whispered. 'I have not heard of this Mikuláš of Kadaň.' Her eyes flicked at him, and then back toward Rudolpho. 'Well,' he started again, with less gusto. 'There is also the blind man, Signore Hanuš.'

This time her eyes didn't flash. They narrowed. 'Hanuš?' She clicked her pink tongue against the roof of her mouth. 'I know that name ...' She threw her arms behind her back, clasping her hands, and paced back and forth in front of the men. 'Hanuš, Hanuuuš,' she repeated the name, rolling it round her lips.

'Francesca was studying Hanuš when I was with her ...' She muttered to herself. Rudolpho gave her an enquiring look. She looked up at him. 'When I was watching her through the hand mirror,' she explained. It was the Sergent's turn to look confused. 'As the Specchio!' She huffed at the French man. 'Oh, Rudi, you explain it to him will you?' She turned around with a toss of her hair, and squeezed by them, smiling at the blank looks she got from the other soldiers. 'I'll be right back!' She ran across the room, and yanked open a large door, lacquered snowy white, with layer upon layer of glistening enamel. 'How do we say it in English?' She suddenly laughed and said, 'back in a flash!'

Rudolpho glanced at Sergent Condé, and then at the other soldiers, shrugged, and lay his head back against the ottoman, his long hair falling in tangles around his ears. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but closed it again, staring up at the ceiling instead, stretching out his legs, and crossing them at the ankles. Then, without moving his head, he glanced at the door Soleil had stepped through. 'If she has not told you nothing,' he said to none of them in particular. 'Then I am not going to start now.'

* * *

'Egypt!' Shouted Soleil, as she burst back into the room, visibly upsetting the two soldiers that had returned to their game of chess. She was waving a large, gilt and burgundy book above her head, and smiling a great, toothy smile. 'Egypt,' she breathed again, as she smacked the book down on the ottoman between Sergent Condé, and Rudolpho with an echoing thump. They both looked at Soleil, the book, and back at Soleil again. Her hair had fallen in front of her blue eyes in an adorable auburn mess. 'Bene,' said Rudolpho eyeing the book suspiciously, and then poking at it with a large finger, in what he hoped was in a most knowledgable way. 'Certo ...' He looked at Sergent Condé. 'Egypt.'

Sergent Condé, however, just frowned. 'Mademoiselle,' he said hesitantly. 'I ... I don't understand.' Rudolpho snorted at him. 'He no unnerstand,' he said, grinning at Soleil. Her eyebrow shot upward, creasing her pale forehead. 'And I suppose you do, Rudi?' She snipped. 'Eh?' He answered her with a frown, looking a little hurt.

'Listen,' she said quietly to the two men. 'And you also, come here,' she said again, waving over the other soldiers in the room. 'On July 21, 1798, Napoleon's army arrived at the great Pyramids in Egypt, yes?' The men nodded, and after a quick glance at the soldiers, so did Rudolpho. 'Weren't you there Rudi?' She asked, looking over at him. 'Me?!' He answered, a surprised look on his face. 'No, not me, but I think Leo was there ...' He absently tugged at his moustaches. 'He is always everywhere, Leo is.' 'No matter,' she continued, but not before reaching over and tickling him under his chin with a grin. 'The point is, Napoleon was there, and you know who else was?' She looked at them all expectantly, 'Hanuš!' She said grinning even wider, but then frowning when none of the men looked back at her with the understanding she had hoped. Instead the room filled with the sound of two coughs, more quiet boot shufflings, and one handkerchief being blown into by a large, red nose.

'Really?' She said, trying not to sound disgusted. 'Not one of you?' Rudolpho tucked the handkerchief back into his breast pocket, and cleared his throat. 'He made a clock?' He offered into the silence.

Soleil would've snorted had it been anyone else, as it was she just gave him a flat, disgusted look with those blue eyes of hers, followed by a quiet shake of her head. 'Mais non,' she said slipping back into her natural French. 'Hanuš was a magician, don't you see? How do you think he came up with that famous curse of his for the Orloj in Prague?' More blank looks followed.

She groaned. 'Sometimes I wonder how you men dress in the morning. He was a magician ... he was in Egypt.' She offered again, a hopeful look on her face. 'And where?' She continued. 'Do you think the first doppelgänger originated?' She pulled out a pair of reading glasses that had been dangling from a fine, silver chain between her bosoms, and, with a look that said, not a word, if you please, she placed them at the tip of her nose, and began to read aloud from the large, burgundy book.

'The Egyptians believed the doppelgänger, or Ka, was a physical spirit that had the same emotions, feelings and memories as the original person.' She looked up at the men, to see if they were following, satisfied they were, she continued. 'It was also believed that the doppelgänger was the spirit of death, come to steal back their body-double, so that they too, might live again as a whole.'

'You see?!' She exclaimed again. 'Francesca's doppelgänger wants to be whole again!' There followed more boot shuffling, coughing, and not so discreet looks that may have said something like She's definitely lost it, and She's mad a as a jaybird.

Sergent Condé was the first to break the silence. 'But Mademoiselle,' he said in what he hoped was a positive tone. 'How can you be certain of this ...' He looked at his men for support. 'This ... conclusion?' Soleil stared at him a moment before answering, her eyes changing from a pale blue into a darker, violet blue as she studied him. 'I can't,' she finally answered. 'I can't be sure. Not one hundred percent anyway, but it does make sense ...She scratched at the tip of her nose, and pulled her glasses off, letting them fall, and bounce back down against her chest. 'Why else do you think she looks like our Francesca?' She tapped her fingers along her thigh. 'And, what's more ...' She said looking at the Sergent. 'If I am right, she will need to bring Francesca back here, which is what I think she plans to do! She slapped her leg twice, to punctuate this bit of deduction, and hopped up to her feet again. 'But first, we need to find out where she and Francesca are.' Rudolpho's ears perked up at this. He had had enough of this sitting around. 'Yes!' He said, stretching his hands into the air. 'That is what I am wanting to do!'

Soleil smiled sadly, turning toward him. 'I know Rudi, as do I, but she needs to be near one of my mirrors, and as you can see -' She pulled a hand mirror from behind her, a mirror that was an exact copy of Francesca's own, and as she held it, it practically burst with a violet luminescence in her pale hand. She turned its silvery surface toward the men. 'You see?' She asked. 'Nothing.'

Rudolpho squinted at it. His large lips pressed tightly together, as he looked from Soleil, to the mirror, and back again to the blue eyed woman. He was confused again, and didn't want to appear that way. Not in front of her, but surely she saw ...? 'Ah, Soleil?' He cleared his throat, whispering. 'Sun.' She corrected him again. He sighed, rolling his eyes beneath their bushy, black eyebrows. 'Sun, my love ...' She perked up noticeably at the word love. The other soldiers too seemed to eye him a little closer, as if trying to divine his next words. All this scrutinising forced a rosy blush to blossom behind all his facial hair. He squirmed under all those eyes, but quickly drew their attention back to the oval glass of the hand mirror. He stared back at them all, and reached out at the glass. 'I see,' he started, looking from the mirror and back up at the others. 'Francesca right ...' He chewed his lower lip a moment, letting his finger hover above the glass, and then his long, somewhat dirty fingernail tapped at its cool surface, sending little ripples that undulated out to the edge of its frame. 'There.' He said, looking over at Soleil to see if she could see her too.

'WHAT?!' She exclaimed, suddenly dropping the mirror in front of the shocked men. Rudolpho, and Sergent Condé, both jumped up, and fell just as quickly to their knees in front of her, snatching at the twisting, falling mirror, their fingers and palms awkwardly catching, and holding it just inches from the floor to a chorus of relieved sighs from the group around the room.

Rudolpho and Sergent Condé both tugged at it, but it was Rudolpho who let it go, as the Frenchman handed it back up to the slightly trembling fingers of Soleil. 'Mademoiselle.' Was all he said, as he carefully placed it back in her small hands.

Soleil smiled at him, glancing over at Rudolpho with a reassuring twinkle in her eye. 'Merci Sergent.' She said as she felt the familiar weight of it back between her fingers. She took a deep breath, calming herself, and paused only a moment before twisting the mirror back round in her hand. The silvery glass reflecting brightly back at her, and then she quietly gasped. There she was. There was Francesca! Her tiny face pressed up against the other side of the mirror as if she had fallen against it in a drunken stupor.

'Fra-' She stopped herself. Clotilde was there too. The doppelgänger's fingers were clasped tightly round Francesca's neck. Soleil watched in horror as Clotilde pulled the young Italian away from the surface of the glass, smirked, and then suddenly slammed Francesca's face back into it with a silent crack that made the men in the room jump to their feet, swords suddenly in hand, pistols raised in alarm. Soleil stared in horror at the mirror's undulating surface, a growing drop of blood appeared at the side of Francesca's cheek, a dark smear obscuring the surface of the glass.

Both Sergent Condé and Rudolpho moved forward, shoulders jostling as if they intended to bodily push their way into the tiny hand mirror. Soleil, however, didn't move. She didn't berate them when they bumped against her, she didn't huff at them, didn't snip, moan or complain. She just stared, unblinking, her eyes darkening to the colour of a storm, her red lips pressed tightly together into a thin, angry line.

'How dare she?' She suddenly whispered at the mirror, each word quietly floating over her tongue like debris slowly moving through a river of lava. 'How. Dare. She?!' Rudolpho and Condé shared a look with the other soldiers. She was angry. Angrier than they had ever seen her before.

'You take your filthy fingers off of her! DO YOU HEAR ME?!' She shrieked at the glass in her hand. Francesca didn't hear her. Clotilde didn't hear her. Not a person on the other side of the mirror so much as blinked at the venom being spat their way by Soleil. 'OOH!' Soleil jumped to her feet, as her poor, dear Francesca was grabbed and slammed into the glass again.

'Come!' She yelled at the men. 'Quickly!' She ran back the way she had come. 'Rudi! We are going to rescue our Francesca!' She turned round suddenly, facing him. 'And to do that I will have to open the way you and Antonio closed.' Rudolpho just shrugged. 'I no care,' he said. 'Just help my Francesca.' She nodded once, her lips pressed into a slim smile, and she waved the men ahead, they all ran directly to the room of the quietly, cascading water.

Soleil stopped in the centre of the room, pausing a moment, her brow furrowed, looking left and right, before stepping purposefully toward a large rectangular mirror that lay against the wall. The mirror stood high in an amber frame, mostly hidden beneath a frothing of white bubbles that quickly flowed out across the floor, beneath their feet. 'It is time to open this gate.' She said to herself with a quiet determination.

'Miroir, mon miroir, je veux que tu me révéler ma chère Francesca.' She whispered the phrase at her distorted reflection, her hands lightly pressed against it's liquid surface, disturbing the flow of water as it raced round her tiny wrists. Rudolpho and the others watched, waiting impatiently, and silently as she continued murmuring at the water. Then, grimacing, she began tracing larger, and larger circles into the surface with her fingers, sending splashes out all around her as her arms joined in. 'Francesca!' She suddenly yelled out, and then, just as suddenly as her echoing cry died around them, the mirror flashed brighter than the morning sun, and just as quickly cleared. There she was, big as life.

'Specchio?' Francesca whispered through bloodied lips, 'is that you?'