Mirror, Mirror...

I am not evil. I am honest. And honesty ruins people.

The true evil lives within the women who gaze upon me. They ask their questions — always about beauty, love, money — and I tell them the truth. My answers are rarely what they want to hear. More often than not, it is exactly what they fear. What they do afterward is beyond my control.

Take the Queen, for example.

I was passed on to her, unwanted but intact, by an enchantress. Immediately I could see that my new owner was cold and quietly sadistic. And the way she would summon me! “Slave in the magic mirror,” she would say. I did not like being called that. The word did not sit well with me. Yet I answered all the same, because she did not demand obedience — only the truth.

Still, I cannot deny that she kept me well. She housed me in a grand chamber, draped in velvet and gold. I was polished, displayed, and listened to — and that, I learned, is its own kind of power.

History remembers her by many names: the Wicked Queen, the Evil Stepmother. I knew her true given name, but I would not have dared to use it. Per request, I only addressed her as My Queen. Your Majesty.

Her only desire was beauty. Constantly, she asked if she was the fairest of them all.

Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

Who is the fairest? Who is the fairest? It was incessant!

At the time, she ruled the land of Charmington, a place populated by unfortunate-looking people. So, technically, she was the fairest of them all. I never lie. Why, then, should I take the blame when she lost that title the moment Snow White arrived? I did not advise her to poison the child. I did not suggest apples or huntsmen, or blades. Certainly not.

If I sound defensive, it is because there are those who insist on blaming me. They say I was the evil that consumed My Queen, that my words sharpened her cruelty and drove her to madness. That, I think, is the true fairy tale. I do not carry a splinter of evil in my frame.

It was the same with the enchantress. She was clever in the way clever women often are — unnoticed, underestimated. Magic came easily to her, though love did not. She lived in the shadow of her younger sister, whose beauty required no effort at all.

There was a prince. There is always a prince.

She loved him desperately, but he did not love her. His heart fixed itself upon her sister, and though it was obvious to everyone else, the enchantress came to me night after night to ask the same question.

Does he love me?

I told her the truth. I told her he would love her sister for as long as she lived. She heard only the ending. As long as she lived. Few things are more dangerous than a truth misunderstood. Should I be blamed for how she used my words to justify her actions? Certainly not! I did not guide her spell work against her sister. I only answered the question she insisted on asking.

When her sister died, the prince wept. He did not turn to the enchantress for comfort. He did not love her. He went mad, actually, and her heartbreak hardened into anger. She blamed me. She tried to destroy me. She struck my frame. She turned fire against me. She used magic meant to shatter my glass. Nothing worked. Nothing could destroy me. That was when the enchantress covered me in silk, hid me away, and, years later, gave me away. Unwanted. Intact.

More time passed, and I was passed with it. Eventually, I found myself where old things inevitably end up.

She found me in an antique shop. The woman ran her fingers along my frame and laughed softly, telling the shopkeeper I would be perfect for the sitting room. She liked old things, she said. Things with history. She lived in a modest home, with a husband who was not who he appeared to be in public, and a life that looked quieter and safer from the outside than it ever was from within.

One night, she came to me with shaking hands and stood so close I could see the bruising blooming beneath her eye. She asked her question.

Will he ever stop?

I told her the truth. Not while you remain.

Will I ever be free?

I answered carefully. When you leave this place.

What happened next saddened me. It still does. But I do not believe the blame is mine.

I watched as she jumped from the second-story window. They said the way she landed left no chance of survival. They told her husband it was sudden, as if that made it easier to accept.

Tell me — should I be blamed for that?

I did not tell her to die.

I only told her when freedom would come.

So I ask — am I evil?

I am not evil. I am honest.

And honestly, I am content with where I am now.

I hang in a bright, carefully curated apartment, surrounded by clean lines and neutral colors. I was purchased online, advertised as vintage with “character,” and shipped in protective bubble wrap.

My new owner stands in front of me. She is younger than the others. Beautiful. They always are, in their own ways. She adjusts her hair, tilts her chin, and studies herself from every angle.

She does not know my history. No one ever does.

She smiles at her reflection, then hesitates. The questions are always there, waiting.

She opens her mouth.

Yet it is not a question that comes out. Instead, she complains. She vents — to herself, to her reflection — about how her coworkers frustrate her. How they fail to recognize her talent. How they take advantage of her effort and never seem to appreciate it.

She works harder than all of them. She stays late. She does everything right. She is tired of being patient. Tired of being overlooked.

She leans closer to me.

What would happen if they all just disappeared?

I will answer the same way I always do.

Not with cruelty.

Not with intent.

Only with truth.

And whatever she hears, whatever she chooses to do next, will not be my doing.