Curtain Call at the Lantern

Helena Crane's studio was three rooms above a florist's on Cathedral Row. Mirrors covered every wall: full-length, gilt-framed, angled so you saw yourself from three sides at once. A metronome sat on the piano, ticking. Shelves of etiquette books, dozens of them, their spines cracked from use.

"I teach people how to be seen," said Crane. She had put the kettle on before you arrived. "Not how to be. How to be seen. The two are so often confused."

Jonah caught himself in a mirror and stood up straighter without meaning to. Crane noticed. "You see? The looking-glass. We learn who we are from the reflection other people give us. Most people's mirrors are cracked. I supply better ones."

You sat. You had rehearsed your questions on the way over, and now, surrounded by your own reflection, you felt curiously as if you'd rehearsed being someone who asked them.