Mirrorland

I wondered: Who was she? Why had she come? Would I ever see her again?

I remember the morning of our second encounter vividly. The gentle breeze poured in from the windows, tickling my cheeks and gently lifting the sleep from my eyelids. It carried with it the scent of violets and white lilies, the soothing grinding sound of carriage wheels on crushed stones, and the disjointed voices of footmen conducting the first business of the day. Like most days, I wished to sleep in -- not quite in a full slumber but navigating the middle lands between sleep and wakefulness where dreams mixed with reality and I could linger safely in the special influence my imagination seemed it could have on the world.

Eventually, my body ventured a stretch and I tossed aside the fluffy mound of blankets I had ensconced myself in. My eyes blinked open and focused on a tiny bee tapping aimlessly about the window panes as if attempting to grant me a spontaneous morning visit. However, it was not the only presence I felt; somehow I knew I was not alone.

I raised my eyes and peeked over the rumpled bedding, surprised to discover the same pair of green eyes twinkling back at me from the haze of my old mirror. I sat up quickly, instantly alert and roused from the dreamy state that had so intoxicated me. Those bodiless eyes flitted about the mirror's reflection, reacting to my surprise. I knew that if I did not speak up they would vanish into nothingness, just as they had done before.

"Wait, don't go!" I exclaimed.

The girl's eyes paused and grew more vivid. Her indistinct figure slowly emerged from the shadows. I threw off the sheets and rushed to greet her at the mirror, this time no longer bashful at my state of undress. I stopped a few feet away from the mirror to observe the strange girl staring back at me, not having had a chance to sufficiently absorb who I was looking at before.

The girl was ethereal and pretty; her long hair was the color of straw, albeit tangled and curly, with small flecks of gold and bronze. Her green eyes were as verdant as the hills, her cherry-red lips full and pouty, and her nose was as small and cute as the ones found on the ill-fated bunnies that I so adored. I plainly observed that she was quite busty, with dense, mauve nipples, and that she possessed a surprising wilderness of untamed thatch at the apex of her ruddy thighs as if she had been living in the forest for some time.

She reminded me of a story I once enjoyed as a child of a little girl raised and nursed by she-wolves. I had wished that it happened to me; ready to abandon all the luxuries of my privileged life if it were for a freedom so rarely afforded me. The idea of going feral in defiance of the world held a decidedly special appeal to me -- and here was a girl who seemed to have managed it all by herself!

I placed my hand to the mirror but only felt the hard, cold surface greet my open palm. She seemed to be studying me curiously, intrigued by my actions, and placed her own hand against mine. As before, I saw the reflection wobble and distort the reflection of the world around me. Suddenly, there she was, flesh and blood, her warmth pressed securely upon me.

I had little time to process the strangeness of the situation before I felt the girl's fingers curl around mine. No longer was there a thin barrier between her strange existence and mine; we were connected. I felt a gentle pull and instinctively I stepped forward.

As I passed through the mirror, I felt as if I'd left the whole world behind. There was a spangle of light and the hair at the base of my neck stood on end as I felt a new world surround me. It was as if a gossamer veil flowed in and brushed across my skin.

When my foot touched the floor on the other side, I found myself standing in my own room. However, the room felt strange and different; everything was reversed as if I were now living within that very mirror reflection. This left me disoriented for a few moments until got my bearings.

Although it was my very own bedroom, it felt somehow quieter and ephemeral. The girl watched me with great interest as I wandered through the room, running my fingers across the frame of my bed, the sun-drenched windowsill, and over the knobs of my dresser drawers. I lifted an otherwise familiar hairbrush and twirled it in my hand, almost expecting it to feel lighter than I was so accustomed to.

The girl cocked her head at me and smiled, seemingly amused by my state of confusion and wonder. "It looks just like your bedroom, does it not?" she asked proudly.

"Well, yes..." I replied. "But what it?"

"Your bedroom," she replied with a cryptic smile. The girl stepped forward and held her hand out. "My name is Mireille," she said.

I gladly shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you. I am Gisele," I replied. "But how is it that I seemed to have stepped through my bedroom mirror?"

"Because I invited you," Mireille said matter-of-factly as if this alone would resolve my confusion.

As much as I wanted to pursue the matter further, I found myself instead captivated by the simple confidence and pride with which she so briefly addressed my question. There was a certain innocence about Mireille; I watched as she entertained herself with the streaks cast by the sunlight as it gushed through my windows, whistling happily to herself. She looked at me briefly, as if wondering if I would join her at play. I deduced that she probably spent quite a bit of time alone and was excited by the prospect of a new friend. It was an invitation I gladly accepted.

I gave her a tour of my bedroom, showing off all the nice things that I owned, despite the fact that she seemed perfectly familiar with them all. In exchange for my brief stories and company, Mireille finally said, "Come! I want to show you something." She tugged my hand toward the door to my bedroom as if ready to whisk me away through the palace.

Before she could turn the knob, I squealed loudly, throwing one hand across my chest and cupping my mons with the other in shame. "Out there?!" I exclaimed. "Oh, we must dress first!"

Mireille glanced down at my body all of a sudden, studying it thoughtfully. "You needn't worry about that," she said, returning her large eyes to mine and placing a hand upon my shoulder. Inexplicably, I knew that I should trust her. I did not yet understand where I was or what I would find outside that door but this lack of awareness was somehow replaced with a strange sense of absolute trust in Mireille's words. It was as if the present situation held some enchantment over me.

The door opened and I was met with pin-drop silence such as I had never before heard in the labyrinthine halls of the Palace of Versailles. Still, I feared that at any moment a resident would emerge from the nearby apartments, casting one look at me and calling immediately for disciplinary measures to be carried out until my bare bottom was as raw and red as a ripe summer tomato.

I shuffled along, tiptoeing through the wide hallway with my cheeks in full flush, my hands still protecting the unfrequented parts of my body from those who would wish to assault them with their prying eyes. Strangely, Mireille expressed a total lack of concern in regards to her scandalous exposure, waltzing through the hall as freely as one moved about one's private domain after a bath.

As we moved along the ornate balustrade that crossed the grand terraced eaves, I discovered that the stairwell, normally bustling with activity at that hour, was as vacant as the halls had been. I couldn't explain it -- but not a soul could be found moving from room to room, up and down the grand staircases, no echoing voices rising up from the bowels of the grand palace; just perfect silence.

Slowly, I lowered my guards and stood there on the landing, in full reveal of my nudity, feeling the strange sensation of the cool air on my body and the soft red carpet tickling the soles of my bare feet. Mireille took my hand gently in hers and led me to descend the staircase. With each step I took, my nimble breasts skipped about as if celebrating the delicious sense of freedom that I was experiencing, for the first time, free to move about in that state like a ghost and unconcerned with those who would have taken advantage of my physical vulnerabilities.

"Do you always go about like this?" I asked her, "Without even a single undergarment to hide your shame?"

"What shame? There is no one here!" she giggled suddenly. "Besides, even if there were, what business should it be of theirs how I show myself. That is my decision and mine alone."

"I suppose you are right," I laughed.

Mireille added, "I feel closer to nature like this. I want to wear only the beauty of the world itself, not protect myself from it. And I don't like being told what is wrong."

This statement rang true for me as well. I realized that as shocking as her behavior seemed to be, it was, in fact, perfectly reasonable and something that I myself deemed as a worthy pursuit of ideals.

As we moved through the palace, skin-to-skin and tightly bound to Mireille out of the last vestiges of my nervousness, I noticed that she had a strange smell; lovely, although not like Antoinette's at all. It reminded me of some freshly picked flowers that I once bound and hung upside down in my bedroom window to dry. By the following morning, they hadn't quite lost their beautiful bouquet. However, the scent became earthier, their colors less saturated. Mireille's scent was feminine and lovely but also made me think of growing things and the soil.

As she led me briskly out the main gate into the Court of Honor, I found that the world outside appeared to be exactly the same as the one I knew so well. However, at the same time, it seemed somehow replete with a particular emptiness. There were no people milling about, no carriages rumbling by, no gardeners at work shearing the tall hedges, nor footmen departing with official letters. It felt as if I was truly inhabiting a grand reflection -- but one that I invaded with my flesh and blood as a stranger from another realm.

This Mirrorland, as I took to calling it, was nevertheless a welcome mystery and a happy escape from the real world with all its duties and responsibilities to those I was expected to humbly serve.

It was thus no surprise that the moment Mireille found herself out in the whimsical landscapes of the palace grounds, her sprightly body became such a comical sight to behold! Despite being built as demurely as both Antoinette and I, Mireille's breasts had developed much larger than ours. I entertained myself with the expressiveness of them; the way they swayed when she sighed, their quick, happy movement when she began to laugh. I observed with amusement as she skipped along the garden paths interspersed with flower beds, her unwieldy bosoms tumbling about her chest as if they had never known proper support of any kind. I admired this unawareness, this total lack of sophistication, the effortless way she felt at equilibrium with the natural world.

Antoinette and I had often complained about the oppressive, lonely world in which we were raised; a world where every word we spoke, every gesture we produced, was deliberate and studied, reflective of our status and strict upbringing. Now here was a girl who cared not how she looked as she trotted about without shame about her body, with such lack of grooming between her legs, hair even sprouting in the small hollows of her armpits. I thought how wonderful it must feel to not be governed by the rules of ladylike behavior!

It was endlessly surprising to me how shockingly uncomplicated Mireille's behavior was. When my new friend had to pee, she did not go inside the palace to use one of the many private bathrooms filled with luxurious soaps, scented mists, and solid gold fixtures. Rather, she simply strolled off into the sweeping, intricately arranged lawns and squatted down in a spot that seemed welcoming enough. I watched with bewilderment as she reached down to spread herself wide, a thick forest of hair giving way to the soft pink valley it hid so well. Moments later, I could freely observe a steady stream of urine hissing into the grass, accented by her deep sighs.

That kind of freedom excited me; her body did what it wanted, she did what she wanted -- and I reveled in every moment of observation as she embraced that freedom.

I spent hours there with Mireille, lost in a world which was so familiar but felt so new. Not only that, but I returned the next day, and then the next, our friendship deepening, our explorations of the palace grounds unrestricted and suffused with the many conjurings of our imaginations. We had three-and-a-half hectares of embellished gardens all to ourselves to run amok through the odorous green expanses alive with honeybees and musical insects.

Mireille shared my appreciation for the Orangerie, so it quickly became our favorite haunt. It was filled not just with a variety of orange trees from Portugal, Spain, and Italy, but also an array of lemon trees, palms, and pomegranates, some of them quite old and performing with superiority over all others in their ability to bear delicious fruit in abundance. Located below the south parterre, it was flanked by a pair of great bronze sphinxes which had always been suitable for riding during games of make-believe when no one was looking. In Mirrorland, they became our loyal subjects in a kingdom ruled by two mighty queens.

However, the statue that was most treasured by the both of us, the one presence in the garden that was rivaled by no other, was the glorious statue of fair Venus, resplendent in her unparalleled beauty. If we were the queens of that land, she was the goddess whose grace and sovereignty filled the universe, bringing color to the flowers, sweetness to the honey in the apiary, and melodiousness to the songbirds of the gardens that surrounded us.

For hours, we lingered by her dainty feet, treating ourselves to the milk-white gleam of her soft thighs, the bounty of her full breasts, the braided locks of her lustrous hair, tied back as if to form a regal crown. She had all the answers to our troubles, despite not saying a thing, and no matter how far we strayed we always returned to her stately companionship, standing there in the personification of everything we wished ourselves to be.

Amongst my favorite activities with Mireille were the cherished bathing rituals that I had so enjoyed conducting with Antoinette. As with most things, she dismissed the thought of going back to the palace to complete such a task. The high, thundering fountains of the palace grounds were plenty for her, preferring their dancing waters to a sponge and the gentle, warming rays of the sun in place of a towel. Many a time we visited mighty Neptune, commanding over his fleet of tritons and nimble dolphins spurting sun-sparking water from their tiny mouths.

After becoming clean, we charged through the splashing water together, full of laughter, emerging on the other side looking like small animals caught up in a rainstorm. There we waded off to the placid waters at the edge of the rippling basin and submerged ourselves, resting our heads on the smooth, polished rim and lounged there for a time. It was there, as the water gently lapped at our breasts and the warm breeze swept through our hair, that Mireille first placed her arms around me, offering the sweet affections of our budding friendship in a way that filled me with happiness for the first time since I last felt the tender embrace of Antoinette.

The comfort of that embrace spread and, in time, I found myself preferring to spend more time in Mirrorland than the real world. Every minute of the day I spent on my own side of the mirror, I felt her world calling to me. Everyone minute I spent with Mireille on her side, I felt the desire to remain and never go back home again. After all, what purpose did going back serve when a cruel fate awaited me there?

Still...

That world I grew up in, despite all of its horrid people and rampant unfairness, was nevertheless the one that contained Antoinette. Far away though she was, simply knowing that we shared the same air, the same sunlight, stood under the same sky, gave me comfort and was something I could not let go of no matter how strong the temptation was for permanent escape.

In this way, no matter how much Mireille and I enjoyed ourselves, there was always a lingering sadness that returned time and time again as surely as the sun always set in the sky.

***

One evening, after an afternoon of reverie that followed one of my frequent visits to Mirrorland, a fit of mischievousness came over me. I thought myself clever for having the wicked idea at all. You see, with no one to stop us or even offer the slightest protest, I fancied myself deserving of a trip to the Queen's private apartments -- a mysterious domain that precious few had access to and whose features were but the subject of many whispers and speculation due to the rarity of being granted an audience in her antechambers.

Indeed, as the guard room was empty, I found myself doing the unthinkable: ascending the grand marble staircase to those secretive rooms, dripping in riches and excess. Familiar though I was with the luxuries of Versailles, nothing had compared to what I subsequently discovered in her own quarters. The Queen's apartments were laid out across several rooms. Much like the rest of Versailles, gilded accents abounded there but were accompanied by various expensive objects such as a set of porcelain vases with classical nude figures representing each of the four seasons. I found dramatically painted ceilings, intricate clocks, and opulent trinket boxes. There were mirror cases and combs, Parisian ivories, even small bejeweled figurines representing a panoply of important saints.

I waltzed from room to room, admiring the various commodes and cupboards which dazzled the eye with their elaborate marquetry. I raided the alcoves and entertained myself at the many jewelry cabinets. I reclined on every piece of elaborate furniture that suited my fancy and then stood before the grand fireplace, held aloft by stoic caryatids, and brashly proclaimed myself the new queen.

However, in time, as Mireille and I sat in the nobles' room, surrounded by those walls of apple-green damask and wide gold striping, I found myself yearning for the simple beauty of nature again. For all the love I had for the many comforts I had grown up with, I had now seen the world through Mireille's eyes and all was changed. I wondered if those frivolous things were worth the price of my sheltered, stifling life and all that came with it -- including the cost of having any chance at love.

Mireille led me out onto an elaborate private balcony which I knew existed only by spying it from the gardens below. On those high terraces, she showed me a breathtaking view of the world outside my usual domain. There were hills abundant with grapevines and the woods beyond, full of secreted glades stocked with wild game, as well as idyllic clearings, glittering ponds, and tracts of pastureland dotted with the indistinct presence of sheep and goats. There we lounged about on the terrace as the sun began to descend through the rosy sky in pursuit of its nightly rest.

Mireille's long hair swept into the air, blown aloft by the passing breezes. It floated behind her shoulders as if she were standing underwater, her locks teased this way and that by the meandering ocean currents. Her body shone brightly with a deep amber glow as if she were clothed only in the sunset. She looked almost like our beloved Venus standing there, her winsome breasts catching the last caresses of the sun.

However, there was a certain sadness lingering on her face as she gazed out upon the world. Her eyes flitted about as if aware of things unseen.