The mirror gleamed fluid silver as the girl drew closer. She picked up her brush and began to stroke it gently through the red hair that framed her strong face in flames. Three candles cast weird, wavering shadows on the walls as the flames moved with the slight breeze from the girl's movements.

A loud rap at the door roused the girl from her thoughts. "The lights are back on now," came her mother's voice from the other side. "Don't forget to blow out those candles before you go to bed."

"Okay, Mom," she answered, absently pulling the brush through her hair. She made no move to switch on the electric lights; she preferred the warm, but eerie, glow of the candles instead.

The mirror drew her gaze again. Her hands still moved, but not, it seemed, of her own volition. She began to hum to herself, a tune that she had never heard before, but now it seemed familiar as it wound its way around her thoughts and buried itself in memory. Deeper and deeper her gaze penetrated into the mirror, until she no longer saw her own reflection or was even aware of herself.

Mist trailed out of the silver surface, thickening and swirling as the girl continued to gaze, mesmerized by the sight. Then, as though a breeze had arisen, the mist parted. She could make out the figure of a woman, then two more. Their hair hung in ringlets down their backs, merging with the gossamer folds of their dresses. They peered with great interest at the blue sphere that floated between them.

"Can you see it, Amera?" one of the women asked.

The lady in the middle shook her head, her gleaming strands of silver and black hair shimmering with the movement. "No, it is not yet clear, Granuaile."

The girl felt herself drawn into the scene. Now she seemed to be standing among the three, who took no notice of her. The girl's eyes were riveted to the sphere and the scene that was unfolding there. A man lay as though asleep on a narrow bed that was draped in silver, his well-kept, long, brown locks, falling across the satin pillow on which his head rested. A sword lay lightly upon him, its jeweled hilt clasped in his hands upon his breast.

"I see him now; do you, Gran?"

"Yes. How peaceful he appears."

A shadow crept over the man's face. A slender figure in a hooded cloak stepped into the scene and stood at the man's side. For a moment it simply stood, perhaps in contemplation of the inert form.

"Who is that?" Amera whispered, a hint of fear in her soft voice.

"I do not know."

The figure raised an arm high above the sleeping man.

The young girl gasped. "It's a knife! No!" she whispered. "No! No! They have to stop it!"

The third woman spoke in raspy tones. "She who bewitched the enchanter ... it is she!" The old woman passed her hand over the sphere and the scene changed. "There," she cried, "that is what she is after!"

The three women peered closely at the robed figure who now sat on a throne with her hood thrown back, revealing a beautiful and ageless face. She wore a golden circlet on her head and held a shining sword aloft while throngs of people of every nation bowed down to her. The girl noticed that many of the people trembled even as they cried out, "Long live our queen, she who has conquered the mighty!"

The woman lowered the sword and smiled upon her subjects, a terrible smile that curled with a cruelty the young girl had never before seen in her short life. "Yes," the woman murmured, "you do well to worship me in fear." Then she whispered to a huge warrior on her right and gestured toward a small group of people in the front of the crowd. The man, who wore a breastplate of leather studded with silver spikes, motioned to other guards like himself and strode toward the crowd.

Suddenly the crowd at the front dispersed, deserting the group indicated by the woman. These people wore robes and had not bowed to her. The warriors surrounded them and pushed and prodded them toward the queen.

"So," the queen began sweetly. "You do not wish to bow to me? When I have destroyed all hope?"

"There is always hope," replied a young man's voice from beneath his hooded cloak.

"But not for you," the queen retorted, the cruel smile curling her thin lips again. Turning to her warriors she commanded, "Make an example of them."

The warriors rushed into the group slashing and stabbing with their swords.

The young girl reached out toward the sphere crying, "No!" The sphere went black and dropped to the ground. The women turned to the girl. For a moment they stared at her as if trying to recognize her, then Gran smiled.

"I--I couldn't stand it!" the girl began.

"Just remember what he said: There is always hope." Then the three women vanished and the girl found herself looking at her own face in the mirror. Frightened, she ran to the light switch and turned on the overhead light. She returned to the mirror and touched it. Nothing of the vision remained. Her features relaxed.

"Just a trick of the light. Yeah, that's what it was," she whispered to herself. She picked up her brush and resumed grooming her hair. "Flickering candles can do that," she continued to reassure herself. She bent to blow them out. But she could still hear Granuaile's voice. "Remember ... there is always hope." Hope? For what? Maybe she was just nervous about her math test the next day. But she shouldn't be; she had studied and, besides, math was one of her best subjects.

As she climbed into bed, she reached for the bedside lamp, and then hesitated. No, maybe it would be better to leave it on tonight. She didn't want to see that scene again. It had been horrible to watch the warriors attacking the people in robes.

It took a long time for her to finally fall asleep. The last image in her mind was of the three women looking at her from out of the mirror. How had they known she was even there?