“There is a rumour among peasants,” she said, dispassionately, mainly for the benefit of the chained wrongdoer. “A silly superstition, that is, that our kind cast no reflection, neither in water nor in glass. Presently, my poor… my foolish Alexandreina, you will wish that superstition was true.”
The chained prisoner was placed before the mirror, and saw “herself”: Alexandru Racovita was a far cry from the strong, vigorous knight who had rode out to do battle with the Ottoman forces five years ago. The creature that stared back at him from the mirror with its bulging, opaque eyes was like a solid image from the Dance of Death: the bones were hideously prominent; the skin parchment-like and translucent; the shrunken lips were unable to conceal those demonic fangs; and the long hair and beard were matted, wispy, and colourless.