The Shadow in the Glass by JJA Harwood (any book recommendations txt) 📕

sculpting wishes out of formless dreams, but she would do so without caring. The realization moved through Eleanor like ink swirling through water, dread staining everything it touched.

The woman’s smile widened.

Then, a key clicked in the lock, and she vanished. Before Felicity opened the door, Eleanor leant forward and felt the seat of the woman’s chair. It was cold, as if she had never been there.

No one had told Charles that Felicity was looking for another maid, but he could tell something was wrong. Sometimes Eleanor would catch him looking at her. He always turned away, but she caught glimpses of the crease between his brows, or the tightness in his jaw. Eleanor thought about taking him aside and telling him the truth, but soon realized that this would backfire. He could do nothing but speak to Felicity, and that would only paint a target on Eleanor’s back. Still, in the quiet moments before Felicity awoke Eleanor would imagine him uncovering the truth and smile to herself. Eleanor knew he would defend her. He always had.

Once, he’d helped Eleanor down from the carriage. He’d held out his hand and she’d raised her head, put her shoulders back and, for a moment, the world seemed infinite. Felicity saw. Eleanor didn’t care. Charles’s fingers had been so warm, so gentle, that she hadn’t wanted to let them go. He might have been leading her onto a dance floor, and for a moment Eleanor wondered what it would feel like if he took her in his arms. She’d paid for it later. Felicity had pinched her arm so hard all Eleanor’s bruises had purple crescents in the middle. Eleanor would have to keep Felicity’s fingernails well-trimmed.

She wondered if her replacement would be so foresighted.

Felicity conducted the interviews while Eleanor worked in the dressing room. They were nervous, eager girls – and they were girls, not women. Some of them were almost children. What had Felicity been thinking? Fourteen-year-old country girls wouldn’t know which end of a lady was which. Ask them to tell the difference between real and imitation lace and they’d tell you cloth couldn’t play pretend.

Now, Felicity sat discussing their faults with a frothy-looking friend. Eleanor was in the dressing room with the door propped open, addressing a stack of envelopes.

‘Of course it’s no use having an uneducated maid,’ Felicity drawled, ‘quite the embarrassment. But too much education can be just as bad. Half the girls I’ve seen have traipsed mud all round my rooms, and the other half witter on about all sorts of silly things. A lady’s maid should know when to be silent, don’t you agree?’

The sharp rattle of cups on saucers was not enough to drown them out. Nor was the scratching of Eleanor’s pen. Nor was the grinding of her teeth. Neither one of them knew what it really meant to be a lady. If Eleanor was in their place, she would never be so indiscreet. She would be perfect, glorious, kind, and she would look on their dirty, pinched faces and smile.

Felicity had lowered her voice. ‘Oh no, dear, quite unsuitable. It was good of Charles, but I don’t think he knows the first thing about her. Of course, I was perfectly pleasant, and I won’t have it said I didn’t give her a fair chance, but … well …’

Eleanor carried on stuffing her envelopes. Felicity was embellishing the story of Lizzie’s death in a breathless whisper. Eleanor folded the letters neatly, addressed the envelopes, and daydreamed about smacking Felicity around the head with the tea tray.

She thought of the black-eyed woman often, and always in moments like this. What couldn’t she do, if the wishes did not come at such a high price! Eleanor would make Felicity grovel and beg for forgiveness. She’d make it so that Mr Pembroke would never touch another girl again. She would make herself an avenging angel, beautiful and terrible, and she would be glorious.

But if she did, someone would have to die.

Eleanor addressed another envelope. Felicity’s voice carried through the dressing-room door. ‘Oh yes, my dear. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’d put the poor boy up to it …’

She’d been a fool to trust the black-eyed woman, Eleanor thought. Concealing the cost of the wishes was a betrayal, locking Eleanor into a deal she wanted nothing to do with. How many more lies would she uncover? What else was the black-eyed woman keeping from her?

But, Eleanor thought, if she’d lied about the cost of the wishes, how did she know that a death was really necessary to make them come true? The black-eyed woman had lied about everything else. She could be lying about this, too.

Could there be a way to make a wish without harming anyone?

Eleanor’s heart began to race. She shouldn’t do it, she shouldn’t even think of it. It was far too dangerous. She couldn’t risk losing her soul, let alone killing someone else. But if there was a way, she had to find it. Surely there was something she could wish for that would not result in murder. There was clearly a scale to the wishes; her wonderful shoes had only cost the life of Mr Pembroke’s poor canary. If she asked for something that already had a good chance of happening, it might not need a death to usher it along.

She had to know.

The sight of Granborough House caught Eleanor by the throat. She slipped on the steps of the carriage and almost lost her footing in the rain. Felicity glared at her and waited for her to put up the umbrella.

It was just as Eleanor had remembered it as a child. All the windows shone like mirrors in the rain. The black railings stood out sharp against the freshly scrubbed stone, glowing gold in the light from the streetlamps. Any moment now the door would be opened by George, the second footman, who would smile and say ‘Why, Miss Eleanor! Step in out of the rain …’

Felicity coughed. Eleanor