If I could save one thing it would be my mirror for it is magic and in its silver depths my lover swims, trapped and sighing, always sighing for he wants the sun to warm his spindly legs and tint his skin for he has grown pale and wan. Five years I’ve kept him here, shrinking down to torment him in his glass cage. I can hear him singing now, a thin dirge of exquisite grief. I hum along pushing my big face up to the hand mirror and he stops and looks me straight in the eye and I can see his tears. He has stopped begging me for release for he knows how it amuses me to hear his pleas. He has grown so thin now it may only be a matter of time, for in my mirror, death trumps enchantment. One day I’ll peer into my looking glass and find him shrivelled in the corner like an old spider. I adored him once my Liam MacLiamor, a graceful prince of a man who stole my heart and took me to his mountain vastness to live, but he left me alone too much. One day, out stumbling among the rushes and boulders in a heavy mist I fell into the mountain cave of Old Mother Magee and she showed me, in her pot of nettle soup, an apparition and I could see my Liam kissing a young girl full on the mouth and playing about with her private parts with enthusiasm. Oh the fury in me leapt like a salmon in icy river waters and I roared for revenge and Old Mother Magee chuckled and gave me the mirror and told me what to do. How surprised he was when he woke up smaller than a shrew, trapped in a glassy gaol till death or I released him.