The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures) by P. W. Catanese

He traced his fingertip along one of the sculpted snakes, starting atthe gaping mouth. When his finger reached the other end, he felt a tug on his ring, and it stuck with a clack against the tip of the tail.
    “What’s the matter, Bert?” Aunt Elaine said.
    “What?” he replied in a voice that squeaked.
    “Just now it looked like your eyes might pop out of your face. Did something scare you?”
    “No,” he said, forcing a laugh. He lifted the candlestick and gave it a look that was meant to convey indifference. “My room gets pretty dark, Aunt Elaine. Do you think I could use this while I’m here?”
    “If you’d like,” she said. “It belonged to her, you know. Like everything else in here.” She swept her arm toward the center of the room where an elaborate chair stood. Bert went to take a closer look. The chair was carved out of deep-brown wood, with broad, curving arms and a tall back that he could just reach the top of when he went up on his toes and stretched his arm. Near the throne’s head he slipped his fingers into empty notches the size of walnuts. Whatever was in there once had been pried out. He saw pale scars around the gaps, where someone’s blade had dug and scratched.
    “That was her throne. It was once encrusted with jewels. Until my husband plucked them out,” Aunt Elaine said. Her lip curled up on one side for a moment. Then she took a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ve heard that the Witch-Queen was beautiful,” she said. “Would you like to see her?”
    “I guess,” Bert said. Aunt Elaine went to a corner of the room where a series of gilded frames stood like a row of books. She drew out one of the tallest ones and carried it to the throne, keeping the painted side of the canvas turned away from Bert. Then she propped the picture across the arms of the throne and said, “Rohesia.”
    It’s true,
Bert thought.
She was beautiful.
He was suddenly aware that his head had listed to one side as he beheld her painted image. He blinked hard and stood straight.
    The artist was skilled, that was certain; far better than the amateur who had infuriated his mother a few years back and was banished from the barony under the threat of torture. The Witch-Queen sat on a simple, armless chair. She held a cluster of leafy branches in her hands, and across her lap were the dried stems, leaves, berries, and roots of a variety of plants. At her side was a bench cluttered with potted plants and watering cans. Behind her was a garden in full bloom. Bert peered at the lovely face, eye-high with his own. The complexion was fair, the features fine. Her auburn hair was tied back with a ribbon and adorned with a simple coronet. Her thin, red lips were turned up in a smile, a warm and cheery smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
    “Not exactly the portrait of evil,” Aunt Elaine said.
    “No,” Bert replied. In fact, this looked like someone you’d want to have for a friend, as long as you weren’t daunted by her beauty. “But artists do that,” Bert said.
    “They lie with paint. They make you look better than you do in real life. They leave out the warts and the scars. They can leave out evil, just the same.”
    “Is that so?” Aunt Elaine said. “Then why did he paint her like this?” She pointed toward the Witch-Queen’s hands. Bert leaned in close, and his eyebrows rose. The hands were dirty. The nails were unpainted, and dirt was caked underneath. “Why …?” he said.
    Aunt Elaine went back to the paintings and withdrew the largest frame from the stack. “The same man painted this, just two years later.”
    Bert’s brow furrowed. It was the same woman. But transformed somehow. She was on her throne now—the very seat where her portrait was now propped. But the empty notches on the chair were filled with glittering gems. Her posture was rigid and formal. There were no dirty hands this time—long, perfect, ruby-red nails gripped the arms of the throne like the talons of a bird of