Enchanted in Time (Enchanted After Thirty #1)

Chapter 1

1

A long, long time ago

M irabelle was lying on her bed with her eyes open. She was all alone in her room. The curtains hanging from the large windows were drawn, and the bright spring sun was unable to penetrate the heavy velvet drapes. It was a cold and gloomy room where the sound of laughter had not been heard for a long time.

Every single mirror was covered with a cloth: the large gold one, where she and her lady’s maids had always admired her in her latest clothes; the one with the brass frame, which she had always twirled in front of to see if her skirt swung wide enough; and the two small ones on her dresser that she had always smiled at herself in as her mother or one of the servants combed her long, golden hair.

“She’s disfigured forever!” she heard her mother scream at the doctor for the umpteenth time.

Disfigured forever. That was her. Her—beautiful Mirabelle! She who had been admired by all and courted by princes already at the tender age of six. And now, at only twelve years old, she was disfigured forever.

This very well may have been of no concern to anyone here at this country estate just a few days before, when she had been trapped in her feverish dreams, unresponsive, and close to death. But now that she had vanquished the illness and regained her strength, it seemed the worries had been forgotten, and life itself seemed worthless in light of what the sickness had done to her.

Mirabelle lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. What had she done to deserve this? The memory of that day—the day when she realized what she had become—came back again and again. The day that had burst her dreams like bubbles and destroyed all hope for the future.

That had been five days ago. For the first time in weeks, she had deliberately opened her eyes and saw someone sitting beside her bed. But it was not her mother who was by her side watching over her but her sister Annabelle. Her little sister’s smile was so sweet that at first Mirabelle had no suspicions that anything might have changed. But then she noticed the servants’ looks. And when the lady’s maids—who before had always swarmed around her and hugged her close—kept their distance that day, she began to suspect that something might be different. Something might have happened to her.

She felt it for the first time that day: the dreadful itching. Her arm felt horribly itchy and prickly. As she pulled up the sleeve of her lace nightgown and her gaze fell briefly on her hand and arm, she let out a horrified cry: “What’s wrong with my skin?”

There were countless abrasions, scales, and red blotches crowned with ugly scabs running up and down her hands and arms. She immediately threw her covers aside to see the same signs the sickness had left on her delicate feet and slender ankles.

“Bring me a mirror at once!” she had cried.

Her parents had expressly forbidden the servants to hand her one. That day, they retreated into the background, ashamed. However much Mirabelle pleaded and begged, demanded, and threatened, not one of them would hand her a mirror. Why would they not let her look at her face and see?

Shortly thereafter, her mother came bursting into the room. The look she gave her daughter spoke more than a thousand mirrors could have.

Her mother’s hand was shaking as she handed her daughter a shell-shaped folding mirror that was so tiny that Mirabelle would hardly be able to get a very good look at herself. But it was enough.

The moment she saw her face was the moment that something inside her broke. Her beauty—her only asset, her security— lost forever...

Her arm fell listlessly onto the bed, and the folding mirror slipped from her limp hand, hitting the carpet with a thud. And as if ashamed of what it had done, the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces.