As I tried to swim in the pool, I felt how the scratches and burns stung throughout my body. The training with my sister had left me more tired than I ever expected. Most of the damage wasn't done by her, of course, but my own clumsiness and the annoyance of wollen materials. To suffer burns due to running with a whole set of undergarments, is not a new experience, but it's an annoying one.

Saltwater. Maybe one of the few places in London which has a saltwater pool. Salt, though has a lot of great proprieties, is not the best when one has tiny cuts everywhere in one's body. The saltwater, brought from Dover by my uncle's order, burned as I went from side to side. While moving and only hearing the splashing of water, my mind went to the things I had to do. Plans still in very early steps of development, but moving forward.

A carriage came around midday. My sister insisted I could not be left alone in the house. Choices given, since she said I could have a choice, were to remain in the house and continue training, or follow her with some errands she had to do in the city.

"Where?"

"To see if uncle Marcus' mirror is fixed, chase some idiot at the Imperial Club for a signature in father's new project, and to check on a friend in the Museum."

"Sound fun, let's go", I said, though she stopped me before I could walk further.

"No, dress like that we'll go nowhere. Stay still for a minute." She said that in a tone which strongly remanded me of my father. Sometimes I wonder if we are related by blood.

I tried to go upstairs, but she stopped me again. Wielded her hand in the air, as if she wanted to twist a piece of nothingness. My clothing changed, in a cloud of blue smoke, into proper "lady-like" winter attire.

I hadn't notice snow had fallen during the night. Not white, spotless snow as I used to see at Featherhill or in the future. Instead, I was greeted by dull, dark, slushy, and incomprehensibly hideous snow. The result, no wonder, of the dense smoke situation in the city. Even as we moved through the ample streets of central London, most of our sight was of this grey mess.

The Willoughby Hotel, owned and administered by one Silas Willoughby, was part of the few magical buildings in London. Magical buildings in all shapes and sizes will sprout in the following century, as travel between worlds during the War became an issue. However, the Willoughby had the distinction of being one of the few which came to be in Tudor times, and barely survived during the Great Fire. Reconstruction was needed, of course, but most of the place remained as it was.

Mr. Willoughby, who manned the lobby as if he was proud captain of a steamer, pointed us to room 308 and the lifts around the corner.

Mrs. Bennett, though she pronounced her name "Benoît", led us into her lavish room in the hotel. A quaint place with expensive furniture, old windows, and en-suite bathroom. Perched above a dresser, the enormous mirror which brought my uncle into this world.

A scrying mirror, for those who haven't seen one, is a strange thing. Unlike modern mirrors, they are made from volcanic glass, which turns them black with a glossy surface. Most mirrors like this one are small, hand-held devices to "see the future or spirits". My uncle's, is not. We are talking about a large sheet of black glass on which one can see themselves in full while standing in front of it. You could see the faint impression of a think crack, going from the top of the glass, down the middle, and then to a side. It didn't split the piece in two, but made the reflection seem slightly off, uneven.

"I tried everything", Mrs. Bennett said, staring at the piece. "That's the best I could do, look, I have a picture of what it looked before."

She pulled a small crumpled photograph from a drawer. When I saw it, my heart sank.

An enormous gash crossed the surface, as if something had scratched it with a large claw. She had done a marvellous job fixing it, but something didn't seem right. The destruction I saw on that photograph couldn't have come from mismanagement or a clumsy footman. Someone had deliberately tried to destroy the mirror. I opened my mouth to say my idea, but my sister put her hand on my shoulder and gave me an almost imperceptible grip.

"Thank you so much for everything. I'll take care of everything from here." My sister spoke with the same tome my father used to use, the one when you don't want to discuss and issue further and just needed to move to another point. "Oh, by the way, have you heard something about the Brier Pearl?"

"Wright still has it. I swear, he looks gaudy with that thing." Mrs. Bennet's nose twisted in disgust. "He's gonna die before getting rid of it."

Victorie snapped her fingers and the mirror turned into a very small piece. Looked more like a scrying mirror one could see in a museum. She then grabbed it and put it away in her purse.

"I'll talk with Ariel. This thing cannot go back to the Tower", she said, while walking towards the door. "Let's go, Alice."

We said our goodbyes and went down the elevator. My sister didn't speak until we reached the carriage. I noticed her hands shifted while talking, scales appearing on them and disappearing at every word.

"I don't want to know what Marcus'll do when he finds out. Whoever did this, better be in a ship half way to America."

To me, something still didn't make sense. No one could destroy the mirror by dropping it. It had survived several thousand years of mismanagement in the hands of my uncle. I'm sure this wasn't the first time it fell. The gash it had. A claw mark. I needed more information back at the Tower.

From the Willoughby, through the streets until we reached the Museum.

Though most of the people surrounding my father has a vague idea of who I am, not many of them could find me in a crowd. This allows me to move freely in most places, still restricted by the contraptions the Victorians insist on calling proper attire.

My sister lacks this freedom.

Mind you, this is less by father’s actions, but more regarding her own fame. After all, Victorie Fawkes is one of the prominent artists of the century. Her portraits and landscapes are found in the National Gallery and museums around the world. I still find this a bit disconcerting. She is not allowed to visit these places without expressed invitation or with a male companion, but her paintings are sold by thousands of pounds. Same reason my aunt Sarah can’t share her botanical expertise with the members of the Royal Society.

Besides, her face appeared in the papers from time to time. When we came down the carriage, some people approached her, trying to speak with her about art. She paid no attention to them, walking past and up the steps.

British Museum. At least, that was how the driver announced it before we descended the omnibus. A large building in a Greek-like style. Scaffolding in some areas, as if it was still in construction. Originally the area belonged to Montague House, and it harboured most of the collections the empire had acquired during its exploration of the world. Soon, the place became too small to do the job properly, so they decided to build this second structure. More fitting to a proper institution, unlike its predecessor.

The word ‘curator’ was not in use in the museum, which my sister pointed when she asked directions to her friend’s office. The only people who still used it, were those who worked only with magical artifacts. To distinguish themselves from their human co-workers. They even planned to have a special wing of the museum for these artifacts. Though the Imperial Club opposed it.

“Wait here and try to not get into trouble”, my sister said, ushering me into an exhibition room with Greek statues and engravings.

Since following her would lead me to lose myself in this unknown maze, I decided -for once- to obey. Began to stroll between the exhibitions, recognising a few of them. A couple of statues from the temple my father help build in Athens. One engraving of my grandmother winning against Poseidon. A golden mask which the label attributed to Agamemnon. Most of them I had seen before, but one at the end of the room captured my attention.

A very ornamented piece of cloth. Someone had stitched it by hand at some point, since it seemed to be from before even the most traditional looms. A picture which I should’ve recognised at first glance, but something seemed off with it.

“Sophia, Tower of Wisdom”, said the label next to it. Somehow, the stitching of Sophia seemed even older than the real place. Stones falling apart in some points, the original roofing -before the glass cupula- with broken shingles, and the entire thing crooked and leaning to a side. It depicted Sophia as a ruin, beyond repair or help.

“You see it, too?” I heard a voice by my side, and turned to see a boy around my age, looking at the piece with absolute disgust. “Something is absolutely wrong with it, but I don’t know what.”

“Sophia is not like this.”

“You seem to know it for a fact.” He extended his hand. “Edgar Wilcox.”

“I do. Alice Athenida.”