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Paula Blais Gorgas, a native Rhode Islander, lives in the Green Country of eastern Oklahoma. She and her husband, a retired Navy commander turned pro golfer, traveled extensively throughout the United States while raising four sons. With laptop computer in hand, she now accompanies Chet on the senior golf circuit. In her free time, Paula has worked as an NSA intelligence analyst, a children's librarian, and most recently has established a career as a fiction writer. Besides many short stories, both romance and fantasy, Paula has published three novels. Her YA novel, COURT OF HONOR, won the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Award. DREAMTIME, a science fiction romance novel, and EARTH MAGIC, young adult fantasy novel, will soon be available under new imprints. Here is her wonderful story "Shadow Lady." Shadow Lady was first published in THE MAGIC WITHIN, an anthology of stories about women with power. This collection, now out of print, was reviewed and recommended by Andre Norton. Shadow Lady My mirror! Stashed among the discards in Hanson's Antique Shop. Climbing over several boxes, I touched the familiar glass in the old cherry dressing table. My image swayed, then slid back into place.
Frowning, I stepped away. That had never happened before. Must be the hazy light up here in the balcony. I touched it again. Hot. The glass was hot. And fluid. My hand slid into the clear liquid.
I had no idea what was happening, but I figured this wasn't the time to ask questions. As my fingers touched the hand in the mirror, I gripped it hard.
Grab the opportunity when it presents itself. That's how I had survived these past months, and that's what I did now. Watching my image, I saw a startled expression cross its face. The look turned to horror as it tried to get loose and couldn't. Panicky now, it backed away-and pulled me through the shimmering glass!
"Oh my God! Who are you?" my image demanded.
"I don't believe this!" But I recognized the room immediately, as well I should. I'd lived here for the last twenty-two years of my twenty-eight-year marriage to George Stottbridge.
And I recognized the wide-eyed woman cowering behind the chair, although that couldn't be, since here I was, and she was talking to me…
"You're me!"
"Looks that way, doesn't it?" I sat down hard on the edge of the dressing table. She wasn't the only one shaken.
"I must be dreaming!"
"Don't be too sure of that, Alana."
She sank down on the bed. "Is…that your name, too?"
"You guessed it, but most people call me Laney now."
"That used to be my nickname till--"
"Till you married George," I murmured, "and he decided Alana had more class. But I always felt like Laney, so that's what I started using again when he kicked me out of here."
"He kicked you out?"
I nodded. "The day I caught him and Christine in that bed together. I told him this house wasn't beg enough for both of us. He filed the divorce papers the same afternoon, and I was on the streets two weeks later with nothing but a suitcase full of designer clothes and my little red Corvette."
Alana gasped. "George did that to you? How horrible!"
I shrugged. "I should have seen it coming, but that's ancient history. Sometimes though I wonder what would have happened if I'd just left that day, when I walked in and saw Christine's purse on the couch."
"That's what I did. I left," Alana whispered.
Her words sank in slowly. It wasn't possible, and yet…
"Are you thinking what I’m thinking?"
"I hope not."
"Then you probably are." Alana shivered. "Split worlds, right? Like something out of Star Trek?"
Again I nodded. We were on the same wavelength, all right.
"What are we going to do?"
"You pulled me in here. Do you suppose you can sort of--push me out?"
Alana didn't even smile. "What do you think?"
"I think we need both mirrors."
"Is that where you were? At your dressing table, in front of the mirror? I thought--"
"George or Christine sold it. Christine, probably. Anyway, I found it at Hanson's, in Old Town."
"Oh, Laney, I'm scared."
"Scared doesn't help." Brave words, when my heart was pounding like a jackhammer.
"Jack! That's it!"
Telepathy, too? What next? "Who's Jack?"
"Jack Gregory. Physics professor at the University." Alana was already punching buttons on the princess phone beside the bed. "He's, um, a friend of mine."
So, George wasn't the only one. Not that I blamed her. Not a bit.
"Jack, Alana here. I have a problem." She giggled. "Not that kind of problem. Are you free? Forty-five minutes? Okay. Bye."
"What will he say when we both show up?"
"He won't like it, and that's what I'm counting on. Jack is a very creative thinker. He teaches a class in quantum physics."
"Sounds like he has possibilities. What about George?"
"George?"
"You know, your husband. He already has a wife and a mistress. What's he going to do when a second wife appears?"
"You're not going to stay here, are you?" she asked, horrified.
"Why not? You don't want two of you running around my Albuquerque, do you? No telling who I might meet. It could get complicated."
Alana scowled and rubbed her temple with her left forefinger. A nervous gesture. I know. I do it, too.
Suddenly, she snapped her fingers. Another one of my habits. "My twin sister! Uh…Laurie! How's that?"
"Unbelievable. Why not just tell him the truth?"
"Right! I can see it all now. 'George, honey, guess what I did today? I put a spell on my little mirror and out popped another Alana. She looks just like me because she's from a parallel world."
"Okay, okay!" Impulsively, I grabbed her hand and turned her toward the mirror. Two images, identical except for different hair styles and different clothes, stared at us.
Alana shrank back. "I don't think we should do this."
"Why not? Maybe I can go on through."
"Maybe we both will!"
But she stood still while I touched the glass. Nothing. Cool and hard. Not even a ripple. I sighed and walked away. "I guess I'm your twin sister."
"Impossible! Split worlds is only a theory."
"Not any more." I slid my fingers around a chilled glass of white wine--my first in many months, and I was savoring every drop. I was also studying Jack Gregory, discreetly, of course. Alana and I had met him in a small crowded bar about half a mile off campus. Somehow, through all the noise, the layers of smoke, and an endless sea of people, The Pub managed to appear charmingly British rather than seedy. And Dr. Gregory, with his long serious face and comfortably rumpled clothes, blended right in. I decided I liked him, although I wished he'd quit staring at me. I began to feel like an elusive particle being observed under a microscope--or whatever physicists use to study particles.
"If it was anyone but you, Alana, I wouldn't even discuss this. You're sure it isn't a joke?"
Alana rolled her eyes. "I wish to God it was. Take a good look at Laney and be honest with me. Can you tell us apart?"
He reached for the pewter candle holder in the center of the table and held it up to my face. Moving the candle back and forth, he studied me from different angles. I started swaying, following the flame.
He set the candle back down. "You're right, Alana, but it's damned uncanny!"
"So, what do you think?"
"I think…" He paused to consider his words, then a smile spread across his craggy face. "I think I'm about to become famous."
Alana shook her head in frustration. "Forget that! Do you think you can help us? Can you get Laney back where she belongs?"
"Ah, now that is the question." He tipped back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. "She's here, so obviously it can be done."
"Laney thinks we need both mirrors."
"Possible. Quite possible. However, there may be other ways, alternate routes, so to speak, besides the mirrors."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Frankly, I have no idea, but I'll get right on it. Fascinating problem." He stood up abruptly. "Ah, Laney, there is one thing. If I manage to get you back, I'll need proof that you're really
you--Alana. I mean, that you're one and the same person, although different people…" A puzzled look crossed his face. "This could be quite confusing."
I grinned. "Do you want to do some lab tests?"
His eyes lighted up. "Exactly! Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient? About three o'clock? That will give me a little time to start my research."
"Tomorrow's fine."
He leaned down and brushed his lips across Alana's cheek. "'Night, love."
"See you tomorrow, Jack." She squeezed his hand briefly, then his long legs carried him into the crowd and out of sight.
I picked up my glass and swallowed the last of the wine. "I like him, Alana."
She nodded. "I just wish…" She grabbed her purse and stood up. "We'd better go back to the house. George gets home around seven."
"Twin sister? Where's she been? Why haven't I heard about her before now?"
George hadn't changed in two years. He was still abrasive, bordering on rude, and I'd often marveled that he had a practice at all, much less a six-figure income, but maybe doctors don't need a bedside manner any more.
Wanting to "get on with it," Alana had decided to meet him at the front door, possibly a poor judgment call. Hot and tired, George wasn't in the mood to meet an unexpected house guest, especially a long-lost sister-in-law. Then again, he might never be in the mood.
Shrugging out of his suit coat, he settled down on the couch. "God, what a day!"
I couldn't hold back a grin as I sat down in the wing-back chair. He thought he'd had a day?
Alana set his bourbon on the coffee table. She didn't have to ask what he wanted; nor did I. She handed me one of the two glasses of wine she'd poured and sat down on the far end of the
couch.
I felt George's eyes on me even through half-closed lids and realized I didn't give a damn. What a glorious feeling!
"Another Chardonnay drinker? How interesting."
"Not really," I replied, sipping my drink. "I've heard that twins, especially identical twins, often develop identical tastes, even when they're reared separately."
He opened one eye. "Tell me--Laurie, is it? How did you find out about your sister, after all these years?"
"Chance," I said lightly, as the wine danced around in my head. "Luck. Fate. My father--the man I thought was my father--died recently, and he left me a letter telling me about Alana."
"They, my parents, felt they couldn't take care of two more babies." Alana took up the story we'd concocted. "The doctor knew a young couple desperate for a baby, so…"
I could still read him well. George didn't want to believe us, but what could he do? My parents had died years ago, and the "secret" had supposedly been kept from everyone else in the family. He couldn't even check my original birth record. It had been destroyed in a courthouse fire the same year I was born. Delighted laughter welled up inside me. I had to bite my lip to keep it in. I loved putting something over on George.
He stood up, his jacket slung over one shoulder, his drink in his hand. "I'm going upstairs to start packing," he told Alana. "My flight leaves right after office hours tomorrow. You and your sister will have the whole weekend to catch up on…what? Forty-eight years?"
"Don't you want any supper?" Alana asked. "I have chicken baking--"
"I ate at the hospital." Cool, careless, he tossed the words back over his shoulder.
I watched the look of resignation slide over Alana's face and knew exactly how she felt. The same way I'd felt…how many times?
We talked late into the night. Alana was appalled by the life I'd been forced into when George divorced me, yet she found it hard to believe such a thing could happen to her.
"Believe me, it's possible," I assured her.
"But what about Jeffrey? Surely he'd help you?"
Jeffrey. My--our son. Twenty-six years old. Married to a Texas debutante. Well on his way to a brilliant career in medicine like his father. "Would you tell Jeffrey you couldn't afford a room, so you live in your car? That you crash hotel parties and buffet lines because you don't know where your next meal will come from? That your silk dresses and fancy car are the only bits left of a shattered, worthless life?"
I'd meant to shock her, and I did. I also saw pity in her eyes, and that's the reason she was the first person in two years to know the truth about Laney Stottbridge.
"You're right," she whispered. "I wouldn't tell Jeff. I wouldn't tell anyone."
"That's why you have to act now, before something happens."
"But what can I do? This is George's home. It's George's money. Everything's in his name. You know that."
How well I knew! But there was an answer. "You need a career, Alana, to earn your own money, establish your own credit."
She laughed. "That's pretty funny. You know I didn't finish college, and I've never worked at anything except giving parties."
"You know antiques," I pointed out quickly. "so do I. That's how I've managed to put gas in my car these past two years. I find a good piece and resell it for a profit. You could do the same, but you have enough money available to build up a nice little business, maybe even open a shop."
Alana looked dubious. "I don't know, Laney. I'm no good at business, and George wouldn't--"
"Fuck George!" I looked around quickly but no, he hadn't suddenly materialized on the stairway. I didn't apologize though. Somebody needed to yank this woman out of her complacency.
I started again. "Look, Alana, you don't ask permission to have a life of your own. George will never let you. He's a bully. He likes things the way they are."
She stood up slowly, gathering cups and saucers and the sterling coffee pot onto a tray. "I know you're right. I just need time to adjust to all this. Maybe in a few days…"
That's how we left it. At least she'll be thinking, I told myself. That's a start.
"Oh no! I was afraid this might happen."
Wondering what that was all about, I followed Alana and Jack into his cubbyhole of an office in the university's physics building the next afternoon. We'd arrived a few minutes early and found him pacing back and forth, in and out of the room. He was rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while he pored through a small book that he held in the other. As soon as he saw us, he gave that cry of despair and threw up both hands, book and all. Then he ushered us into the room and locked the door.
"What's wrong?" Alana asked, alarmed.
"The worst of all possibilities, my dear. The very worst. You ladies sit right down here." He pulled out two folding chairs and set them up. Then he steered us into them, with me next to his desk. Apparently satisfied with these arrangements, he sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and turned his full attention on me. "Not good, not good!"
Bonnie Mercure, your Fiction Guide at the dowse Fiction Hub, is a dark fantasy author. Visit her website
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