Once upon a time, there was a town. This town resided on the peninsula of a little metropolis called the Bay Area in the magical land of California. Belmont (dubbed “Belmontia” sarcastically by many of its younger, less enthused residents) was the home to many things—namely two Safeways, wealthy Baby Boomers thinking that their 2009 Corvettes will make them younger, a plethora of inbred, retarded deer, and a small university that consisted of a student population that was, for the most part, only slightly more intelligent than said retarded and inbred deer.

      And that, my friends, is how my so-called fairy-tale begins. My name is Kennedy-Lee Savage, but most of my friends call me “Ken” if they’re “buzzed”, “K-Lee” if they’re “tipsy”, or simply “Miss Savage” if they’re far less than sober.

      … You can call me Kenny.

      Now, I know I started out by more or less insulting the entire student populous at good ol’ Notre Dame de Namur University, but it’s not all bad. I was describing at least a two-thirds majority. Belmont isn’t that bad a place, either. It’s a safe, quiet little town that’s full of history too!-- Which lies almost exclusively in the Ralston Hall Mansion.

      Let me rephrase that— the building isn’t just a piece of the town’s history; it is the town’s history. The town of Belmont and NDNU wouldn’t be as we know it today (or exist for that matter), if it wasn’t for the ship building tycoon William Ralston, and his decision to build a summer home about twenty minutes outside the city of San Francisco. Not only has it been a summer home for a famous business mogul before Belmont even had a name, but it was also an insane asylum at one point. Now the majority of its many rooms are used as office space.

      As with any old building in any town, the architecture’s nooks and crannies are filled with various myths and legends. (Hell, it was even voted the sixth most haunted place in America, so that’s got to count for something!)

      The locked basement is said to contain some of the most torturous devices from the asylum days.

      The ballroom, lined with towering mirrors, is even said to contain the souls of past guests to Ralston Hall, and that glimpses of theses spirits can be seen late in the night (I’m pretty sure someone jacked this little ditty of a tale from the Disneyland ride—but I digress).

      The legend that most students on the NDNU campus concern themselves is that of the “mysterious” fourth floor (… not much of a mystery, really—the 4th floor is used as attic storage space for some of the more particularly valuable antiques. The custodian usually forgets to lock it).

      The mystery that I’m concerned with is one involving a small painting of a girl.

      This small painting is relatively insignificant in comparison to anything else found in the building. It’s about the size of a postcard and is hanging in one of the office hallways. It’s done on canvas with oils, and what is known about the painting is this: There is no title, but there is a date sketched onto the back with a pencil that says “1869”. Someone was doing a bit of spring cleaning on the so called “mysterious” fourth floor and they decided it would be a nice edition to the offices, and it’s been up for a few years. No knows who the girl in the painting is, and the painter too is nameless. Well, supposedly no body knows.

      I know. But imagine if I actually told that to someone. They’d probably give me the same look you’re giving me now. It’s a long story, but I’ll try to make it quick.

      It was a “Thirsty Thursday” like any other. I was the designated babysitter, watching over a few of my drunken friends as they frolicked about campus. About a thirty pack of beer and twenty six plus tequila shots into the evening, my buddies wanted to venture into the mansion. Now, being the babysitter of drunkards means two things: one, you make sure that they stay safe, and two, you make sure that they don’t do anything too idiotic. At NDNU being the babysitter means this: if they get to the point that they want to break into Ralston, you make sure that nothing too priceless gets broken and that you don’t get caught.

      So, being the good babysitter that I was, I lead the troupes through one of the old fireplace vents on the ground floor, which leads into the ballroom. From there, the drunks began to drop off to amuse their short, inebriated attention spans. Most of them stayed in the ballroom, looking in the mirrors for the fabled spooks. My friend Marco though wanted to head to the fourth floor. Figuring that there’s more damage to be done by a drunk there as opposed to in a large ballroom, I left my ghost-hunting friends to their own devices as I helped Marco stumble along his way.

      “Y’know, K-Lee… I.. I heard tha’ they keep, like, mummified shit on the fourth floor. Like, mummified crazy fuckers!” Marco slurred out as I helped him up the stairs and through the halls.

       “That’s in the basement, you retard.” I tried not to sound too patronizing.

      We walked along in silence for a bit that was only broken by Marco’s tripping on his own stumbling footsteps and his bursts of pointless liquored up laughter. Before we got to the servant stairway that actually leads to the fourth floor, though, Marco stopped, which was odd in itself considering he currently had a hard enough time standing, let alone standing in one place.

       “What the hell are you looking at? It’s a frickin’ wall. C’mon.” I grabbed his arm to tug him along, but his drunk ass wouldn’t move.

      “It’s not jus’ a wall! see, there’s a paintin’.” He only swayed slightly as he turned to look at me. I grabbed his pointing finger before it barreled through the painting canvas.

       I pulled him back by the finger. “C’mon—let’s go. Didn’t anyone tell you ‘look but don’t touch’?” Marco proceeded to reach out with his other hand to try and touch the painting again. “… Okay, guess not—“

       He refused to budge despite my tugs still, so I had to appease him for a moment by looking at the picture myself. It was of a girl, from what I could tell, and I recognized it as the fabled, insignificant portrait without an identity.

      Marco grinned widely, rubbing the back of his neck as he attempted to gather enough motor skills to wiggle his eyebrows. “Th’girl’s pretty. Kinda looks like you, Ken! ‘Cept, y’know, like…. pretty!”

      I shot him a glare at this point, and I decided that we were done. My fingers pressed into the back of his neck as I forced him to turn and start walking again. “Thanks, asshole. Can we get to the fourth floor already so you can figure out it’s just a god-damn attic?” I took his curse under his breath as a “yes”.

      Some trial and tribulation later (the servant staircase is not only narrow, but steep. It’s difficult to walk up or down them even in a state of sobriety), we made it to the fourth floor. “See? Just a dusty ol’ attic. Can we go now--?” Before I could even finish my sentence, Marco had already snuck out from behind me and scrambled his way into the crowded space. I muttered curses under my breath as I fumbled for my flashlight, being careful to not shine it through any windows as I turned it on. I stepped into the room, and made sure the door wasn’t locked before shutting it behind me. “Marco? MARCO!” I hissed out in a whisper.

       “Polo!” A snickered whisper came from the back of the attic.

      “… I hate you.” I hissed to myself as I began to make my way towards the direction of the voice, shining my flashlight around the room to make sure that I didn’t trip and end up with a piece of splintered Victorian furniture up my ass. Of all places to play hide and seek, why did he have to pick the one place that probably was worth more money than I’ll ever see in my life? I distinctly remember thinking this before I turned a corner and scared the crap out of myself with my own reflection.

      It wasn’t my looks that made me jump, mind you. What scared the crap out of me was, well, the fact I thought I saw another person. I mean, it could have been the sad excuse the school calls security for all I knew, and I had every right to be paranoid—I was breaking and entering, for shit’s sake. I was actually relieved when I saw my own face in the ancient mirror. Turning my flashlight away, to keep it from glaring into the silver glass, I leaned foreword to take a closer look. It was in pretty good shape for being as old as it was, and it wasn’t anything fancy either. I was surprised that it hadn’t been busted by drunken explorers yet.

      Holding the flashlight up once more, I stood up again, my voice a harsh whisper through the stale air. “Marc--!” My call was suddenly cut off by my reflection once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glimpse of lilac. My hand gripped onto the handle of my flashlight, ready to pelt anyone that may be standing behind me. No one was there, but I freaked none the less. I was alone in my reflection but… I was wearing a lilac dress. A nice lilac dress—the kind that you would see on a porcelain doll or on a someone at a very, very fancy party.

       I took a double take between myself and my mirrored self. Yep, I was indeed still wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans. I’m fucking high or drunk someone slipped me something I’m going to KILL Marco. My thoughts ran together. My cold palm rubbed into my eye socket until I saw spots. I glanced over my hand again at the mirror. Yep. Still me in the mirror. Wearing lilac, looking like some bitch out of a Jane Austin novel.

      Calm down. Breathe. It’s got to be at least three in the morning. You’re sleep deprived. The light is playing tricks. It’s just dust. Rationalizing seemed like a good idea at this point. I knelt down in front of the mirror and pulled my sleeve over my hand, and I began gently ghost it over the glass to remove the film of dust. At least this was my intent. I still have a hard time explaining what actually happened.

       You know that feeling when you’re walking down a flight of stairs and you put your foot out expecting a step, but you end up falling or stumbling because that step you expected to be there really isn’t? I guess you could say that happened to me, but through a mirror. I fell into darkness—it was literally a blink of an eye. Would have been something right out of Through the Looking Glass if it didn’t happen so easily, and if things didn’t look so normal on the other side. I opened my eyes as my head as my head thumped against the wood floor. I blinked open my eyes to find myself on my back, in a room that was… clean. And not very dusty at all. Rubbing my eyes, I noticed my flashlight was gone, replaced by a lit candlestick and holder.

       The fuck…? My lips were dry, and I started to stand. I saw my reflection once more, and saw myself, in jeans in a black sweatshirt. My heart began to pound like a steady drum in my ears and chest as I looked down at myself. Oh fuck me. I’m high—I HAVE to be high. I don’t get high, but someone managed to get me high and I’m having a bad trip—This doesn’t happen. This isn’t possible. Again, my thoughts raced as I scrambled to the mirror. I reached out, and my reflection and I touched fingertips, but nothing happened. …Marco is never going to let me live this one down. He probably got me high, and is havin’ himself a good ass laugh as his dumb drunk ass is watching me get freaked out by my reflection. Fucker probably put shrooms on my pizza or some shit like that. Fucking fucker, fuck. Fuck. FUCK. I’m dreaming! I did everything I could think of to wake myself up. I slapped, pinched, and scratched myself, but nothing changed. Put me in a tall hat and call me Dickens, I was still in a lilac Victorian ball gown.

      Sit down and count to ten. Breath, Kenny, breath. I repeated this mantra to myself in my thoughts over and over again, way past the count of ten and to the point that I didn’t even understand the words anymore. I took a seat on the floor, fumbling with the monstrosity of fabric that was a dress. Breath. Breath. Breath. I closed my eyes and breathed again and again. Eventually, the pounding in my chest stopped. I felt a strange calmness come over me. I looked down to my dress. I felt the fabric in my fingertips. Shit, is this real silk!? I smiled at the thought, and then began to laugh. Okay. If I’m high, I should just sit here until it wears off. And then I will kill Marco, or torture him until he tells me who slipped me. I’m never babysitting again.

      I closed my eyes and counted to ten again. Yep. Just stay here and wait it out. I leaned back to lie on the floor. I heard the rustling of the spring breeze in the trees outside. I heard—I heard muffled laughter. My body tensed, and my eyes shot open, an whole new rush of adrenaline running through me. …God damn drunks, if they’re gonna be that loud they should of stayed in the dorm. I stumbled to stand, fumbling to grab my dress and the candlestick. I ignored my reflection as I walked past it. Probably Marco telling everyone how fucking idiotic I look. I stepped out and made my way down the flights of the servant staircase, and nearly turned on my heels to back away.

      No. Fucking. Way. There were servants. In the servant staircase! Maids and butlers, scurrying between the kitchen and the dining room. One of them barreled into me, and gave me a that look someone gives to another when that person in question is not where they belong. I backed away, giving a nervous apologetic smile as I tried to keep my expression and appearance as unsuspicious and nonchalant as possible as I tried to back away back into the staircase. I felt my back thud into someone tall, and I heard a soft surprised grunt behind me, followed by someone fumbling to keep dishes on a tray.

       “Careful where you’re goin’ there, miss! I don’t think Mrs. Ralston would take too kindly to her good china being broken.” The voice was male, and surprisingly kindly. “You lost, ma’am?” the man rested his hand on my shoulder, pulling me aside before another servant barreled into me. I turned around and saw him, and at the risk of sounding cliché, I was a bit breathless. Let’s just say that if this was a Jane Austin novel, he probably would have been Mr. Darcy. He wasn’t particularly striking by any means. He was tall and thin in his worn slacks and dress shirt. His hair was a dusty brown and sun bleached, and his tanned skin was a stark contrast to the eggshell colored walls. What got me were his eyes, though. Jesus Christ, I thought only Elizabeth Taylor had those weird-ass violet colored eyes.

      “…. Ma’am?” his voice was concerned, shaking me from my thoughts. He leaned down some and smiled at me, quirking an eyebrow.

       “I think…I.. uhm… I’m a… little lost.” I managed to say haltingly with what was probably a less-coy-and-more-dumb smirk at my face. If this is a bad trip, there’s nothing very trippy about it.

      The man laugh, setting his tray of plates on a table before he rested his hand on my shoulder once more, guiding me down the hall. “Well then, miss, the ballroom is right this way.”

       “Ballroom…?” My eyes widened as I looked around myself. The sound of laughter began to become louder. As my thoughts raced less and less, I began to be able to catch pieces and put them together.

      “I… know this is going to sound a little weird, but I don’t think I really belong in there. I… um.. w-wasn’t exactly invited.” We passed the kitchen. The aroma of pheasant, braised vegetables, and cooking wines filled the air, and I began to feel light-headed from the veracity of it all. I think I felt my knees buckle, so I reached out and braced myself against the wall. The man let out a quiet gasp of alarm under his breath, and he caught me around the waist.

      “Pardon me, miss.” His face grew a deep peach with a blush and he gave me a soft smile. “Let’s get you outside. Some fresh air might do you good.”

      “Ain’t it inappropriate for a guy to go somewhere alone with a girl during the Victoria Era?” I laughed with sincerity. He laughed as if I said the oddest thing he’s ever heard.

      “It’d be worst to leave you alone. C’mon now.” He guided me down the hall and through the back doors that lead to the small annex that is NDNU’s mail center in my time. Looks like it was always the mail center. Once we were outside, I took a deep breath of cold air. The feeling was refreshing in my lungs, and helped to clear my thoughts a bit.

       “I’ve never seen you around here before…” The man murmured with curiosity as we walked, his hand resting lightly at my waist to make sure I didn’t fall.

       “Well, that’s because I’m not really from around here.” I said as I continued to let him guide me, before he motioned for me to sit on a bench by a garden that has ceased to exist in my time. I knew better than to give too many details about where I was from. If this by some strange happenstance wasn’t a trip due to a dose of hallucinogens, I wasn’t going to create a time-flux or a paradox of some sort.

       “You don’t sound like you’re from around here. Never seen a girl in a pretty dress like yours say ‘ain’t’, let alone find their way out of the ballroom. They’re usually too distracted by their own reflections.” He sat down besides me, chuckling softly.

      “Like I said—I’m not from around here.” I tried to sit as politely as I could to keep up my appearance. Last thing I needed was to be arrested for some archaic law that I wasn’t aware of. Jesus, are you actually taking this all seriously? I thought to myself, but I even managed to ignore this.

      We sat in silence for a few moments. The man sat besides me, letting me close my eyes and take my time to catch my breath. The air was sharp and chill, but it sure as hell was a welcome changed from the stale and humid air in the mansion halls.

      “My name’s Rupert. What’s yours?” The way he blurted out his words made me jump, but he did it more out of inquisitiveness and a need to avoid long silences than nervousness.

      “Kennedy-Lee. But you can call Kenny.” I stated automatically out of habit, wincing after I had done so. Brilliant idea on my part, really. I mean, it’s not a common name in the new millennia, let alone during the what I think was 1800s. I braced for roaring laughter at my supposed “joke” of a name. Rupert smile and quietly laughed.

       “Geez, you really aren’t like the other girls here, are you?” He sounded amused, but also genuinely fascinated.

       I glanced up into his eyes, and felt my heart beat begin to rush. “Did I stutter when I said I’m not from around here?” Damn, those violet eyes were brilliant.

      We actually ended up sitting on that bench and talking for a long while. I found out that the year was 1868. The man’s name was Rupert O’Miley, and his current job was a stable boy, although he made a few extra dollars on ball nights by helping clean dishes. His real passion was art. When Rupert wasn’t cleaning stalls or grooming horses, he studied their movements and did sketches and paintings of them—that’s part of the reason he took on the job. He dreamed of being an illustrator for books, or even a famous painter if he got lucky enough. “But probably an illustrator for books and magazines and the like. Painters usually have to be dead before their famous, and I like living!” Rupert laughed, and I laughed with him.

      Believe it or not, we also had a lot in common. We both liked reading a lot, and it was nice to know that my distaste for Wuthering Heights transcended my generation. We both were fascinated by the stars, and we pointed out and named the conciliations. (I was oh so tempted to drop hints about man traveling to the moon and that there were no little green men on Mars a la War of the Worlds, but I mentioned before, the last thing I needed was a time-flux paradox).

      The evening wore on into the orange, reds, and purples of dawn. The very last of the ball’s guests were just beginning to leave, reeking of champagne and liquor. Rupert seemed startled to see the sun beginning to rise.

      “I really should get you home… I don’t think you’re parents will be too pleased with you being out so late…” He began to stand, politely offering his hand for me to take.

       “I doubt they’ll care.” I said with a bit of irony. Even if I did still live at home, I doubt they would believe this. I took his hand firmly, and we stood together. I looked up to him, and his violet eyes glanced down to me. My hand shook as it reached up, magnetized by his face. I felt his skin grow warm with a blush under my fingertips, and I reacted without thinking too much about consequences. Just as quickly as I had ended up through the mirror, my lips were upon his. He was tense for a long while with shock, before he began to relax, his kisses hesitant before growing almost forceful with passion.

      Yeah. Definitely not the stuff fathomable by even the so-called “smuttiest” of writers during this time. Kenny, you are fucking batshit. But I didn’t care. As far as I knew or cared, I was here and now, wherever “here and now” actually was. I slowly drew away from him only because my lung was aching for air. Those vibrant, violet eyes looked down to me and he smiled. His soft lips kissed my temple, before murmuring against it.

       “You really aren’t like the other girls here.” Before I could open mouth, he put his fingers against my lips to stop me, before he clipped my chin. His calloused fingertips ghosted over my lips and made my flesh feel electric. “I know. ‘Not from around here’.” He leaned down and kissed me again. Suddenly, I thought of how I was going to get back to my own time. Just as suddenly as I thought that, however, I realized that I didn’t care. If I was going to be stuck in the mid-1860s, I didn’t mind being here. Not at all.

      And that’s when, in literally a blink of an eye, I felt as if I missed that damn step again. I opened my eyes to the site of the fourth floor, the vast amount of antique crap being apparent now with the dawn filtering through the windows. Dust could be seen floating through the air. My head hurt. I was disoriented—shit, I could still feel Rupert’s warm arms around me. I closed by eyes again, rubbing them until I saw colors and swirls. That was a weird ass dream.

      My thoughts were cut short by a shattering crash. I bolted upright to see still drunk-fuck Marco amongst the shattered pieces of the mirror. Apparently he had knocked it over when trying to find me. I looked down at myself. Jeans and a sweatshirt again. Besides my hand was a flashlight. I kinda missed the lilac. Marco opened his mouth to laugh, but I quickly got up to stop him, clamping my hand over his mouth.

       “I don’t care how drunk you are. You are gonna shut your trap, and when you’re sober I’m gonna kick your ass. Capiche?” A deep sigh filled my chest, but I found that it was due more to longing than irritation. As weird as my dream was, it sure was a nice one. Regardless, we had to get out of there before security did their morning checks, even though I doubt that they even bothered to ever check the fourth floor.

      It was a chore getting Marco down the stairs, but I managed to drag him along. We finally got to the hallway, and he leaned against me for support, passing in and out of consciousness. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the portrait that fascinated Marco so much earlier. In the growing dawn light, it was much easier to see. What stopped me to actually look were the glimpses of lilac I saw out of the corner of my eye. Furrowing my eyebrows, I leaned forword to get a closer look, scrutinizing the painting. I felt my stomach churn and my heart stop.

       It couldn’t be. How the hell..? Marco had joked that the girl looked like me. That wasn’t the first time that I had heard it. I never really thought anything of it, though. Never in my life. The painting was small and insignificant on the grand scale of things. Looking at the picture now, though, I think he was actually right. In fact, I knew he was right, to an extent. The girl didn’t just look like me. The resemblance was way too eerie for that, now that I actually looked at it-- she was me. Is. Whatever. Point is, it had to be true—there was no other way to explain it. This wasn’t a product of my own vanity—it was like looking in a mirror. This was my reflection, and my reflection was wearing a lilac dress identical to the one I was wearing when I went through the mirror. Or, when I dreamed that I went through the mirror. I wasn’t quite sure of what happened anymore.

       No one else saw me that night at the ball, unless you counted the servants the didn’t bother to say a single word to be. Rupert was the only one I spoke too. I kissed him. He seemed so real. As unreasonable as all this seemed, I only had one reasonable explanation, but it sounded even crazy to me. I readjusted Marco on my shoulder. He was now passed out and kindly drooling on me.

       Maybe it wasn’t a dream…I have to find out—I have to go back! I found myself thinking this before I realized the plain glitch that existed in my hopes—I had no way to go back. Even if I wanted to go back, even if it was possible, even if it wasn’t just a dream, I had no way to find out. My chances were shattered.