T he looking glass in Aster and Clara’s bedroom — a wide ellipse with a bronze frame and the slightest ripple in the glass — had traveled with them from Barcelona. As the donkeys had jogged the wagon along the rough road Aster had wrapped her arms around it.
Each time Papa had looked at her he clucked his tongue and shook his head but Aster had pressed her fingers deep into the grooves on the frame and pushed her cheek against the flat surface.
When they arrived in Mallorca Papa had not wanted the looking glass in his bedroom not without Mama to sit before it painting her lustrous eyes. The looking glass had been placed in Aster and Clara’s bedroom.
Now they sit before it. Sometimes it is easier to talk this way through their reflections.
