"Not at all. Your intuition is correct, for your endeavour it is the right color." Morrigan glanced over while Professor Lyra sorted through the box of keys. She took the key she chose from her hands and carefully placed it between them. It lay among the shards. It shone mutedly in comparison to the mirror glass, that reflected back the candlelight in a dizzying array. "You take your magic with you, but not your wand. You will find yourself bare of anything, but simple comforts like a nightgown can be willed into existence. There is no sustenance and no need for it."
She watched her colleague hold on to the piece of candy like she was unsure if it was part of the ritual. "You don't have to eat that," Morrigan said to her and she almost laughed. It was endearing to her, the frustration of not understanding, for it was the basis of a strong need for knowing and ordering. They had that in common.
She took the strand of hair and twisted it together with her own. "I'm bringing you back, Professor. I promise."
Morrigan got up and selected a candle from the shelf. It took its place in the middle of the arrangement between them. As such, it was of mirror pieces seven, one key, placed beside a lit candle, two women, opposite of each other. Morrigan took one end of the cord of hair and gave the other to Lyra. "Hold on to this," she said and looked into her eyes. "The way into our dreams is marked by yearning. Picture what it is that you seek. Don't look away from me. If you feel drowsy, don't fight. Give in."
Morrigan drew in a breath and her eyes that often appeared far away and foggy suddenly cut bright and clear through the air between them. Her voice reduced to a whisper, that seemed to drain the light and sharpness out of the room with every word.
"I call on the light of the glory; I recall the threshhold — The white door is bright as a mirror, bright as fresh snow, bright as bone— I apply pressure to the skin of the world and it will part like—"
Morrigan felt the gate in herself open and magic pressed up into her throat, into her nostrils, pressing behind her eyes and into her head, that split in migraine-like pain. All candles extinguished and darkness fell upon them.
She watched her colleague hold on to the piece of candy like she was unsure if it was part of the ritual. "You don't have to eat that," Morrigan said to her and she almost laughed. It was endearing to her, the frustration of not understanding, for it was the basis of a strong need for knowing and ordering. They had that in common.
She took the strand of hair and twisted it together with her own. "I'm bringing you back, Professor. I promise."
Morrigan got up and selected a candle from the shelf. It took its place in the middle of the arrangement between them. As such, it was of mirror pieces seven, one key, placed beside a lit candle, two women, opposite of each other. Morrigan took one end of the cord of hair and gave the other to Lyra. "Hold on to this," she said and looked into her eyes. "The way into our dreams is marked by yearning. Picture what it is that you seek. Don't look away from me. If you feel drowsy, don't fight. Give in."
Morrigan drew in a breath and her eyes that often appeared far away and foggy suddenly cut bright and clear through the air between them. Her voice reduced to a whisper, that seemed to drain the light and sharpness out of the room with every word.
"I call on the light of the glory; I recall the threshhold — The white door is bright as a mirror, bright as fresh snow, bright as bone— I apply pressure to the skin of the world and it will part like—"
Morrigan felt the gate in herself open and magic pressed up into her throat, into her nostrils, pressing behind her eyes and into her head, that split in migraine-like pain. All candles extinguished and darkness fell upon them.
![[Image: mirror-sig.png]](https://i.ibb.co/YT1B1DhL/mirror-sig.png)