Id never imagined that a shattered mirror could bind a man to a debt lasting seven years, but thats exactly how Harold Finch, the owner of the London gallery ArtGlassCo, put it, his peppermintscented spray lingering in the air as he leaned in so close Emily could smell it. The fragments of the Venetian canvas under her shoes chimed like a hundred camera flashes reflected in the ceiling spotlights. A gritty knot sat in her throat: you can survive anything, but not the sound of breaking glass when the frames price equals a years earnings.
Ill pay, she exhaled.
Pay? With what? Your crooked shop windows? From today you work for free until the debt is cleared, he replied.
Fifteen years earlier a little girl named Emily was in her grandfathers mirrormaking workshop, chasing reflections in scraps of amalgam. Granddad handed her an appleflavoured marshmallow and said, Glass holds the truth. It can be frightening to look, but if youre not scared youll understand yourself better. When he died, her mother sold the shop; Emily headed to the capital to study industrial design and took a night job dressing shop windows. Thats where Harold first saw hertall, charming, promising a solo exhibition in exchange for a few sketches.
In the early months he called her the muse of space, kissed her hand after every successful project, and offered blunt but useful critiques: The highlights are too cold, add some warmth. It felt harsh yet constructive. By spring his tone shifted: What texture are you talking about when you cant even get the dimensions right? Penalties for spoiled materials began to pile up. Emily soothed herself, Hes strict because I can do better.
One June evening she was rearranging podiums for a new show. At the entrance stood Harolds prized treasurea 17thcentury mirror, its frame a filigree of gilt leaf. A single centimetre of misalignment, and the cart carrying the podium snagged the frame. The crack sounded like a gunshot. A pause, then a rain of shards.
You realise that was meant for the Royal Auction? Harold roared, drowning out the alarm.
Ill replace it, Emily muttered, scooping glass into a bucket, Ill find restorers.
£250,000, if youre not aware. Or seven years of servitude. Your choice.
In the gallerys basement, where the WiFi never reached, Emily stamped out installations from his sketches: lenslamps, prism tables. Harold approved the work but put only his name on the tags. At night shed sit at her laptop, stitching photos of the broken mirror into a digital collage, hunting for a line where the cracks formed a face.
Once a week Clara, a ceramicist from the next studio, dropped by.
Where have you vanished? Youre silent in the group chat, she asked.
Serving a debt, Emily replied.
Clara eyed Emilys slumped shoulders and calloused palms. You know how they break glass to make stainedglass windows? Heat it to the point of pain, then slam it cold.
Thanks for the metaphor, Emily smiled. Metaphors fine, but Ive got a pile of busted pottery in the back. Take what you need. Piece by piece well make something new.
In autumn a curator from the travelling City of Light festival, James Whitaker, arrived in town looking for artists for a night performance at the old railway station. He was shown Harolds projects; James nodded politely, his gaze lingering on a basket of shattered glass in the corner.
Who worked with this? he asked.
Just waste, Harold snapped. Nobody cares.
Emily lifted her head. I do.
James approached her on the platform. Show me the sketches you keep hidden.
If I talk, Ill be sacked, she warned.
He handed her a card. Then meet me where your boss cant follow. Tomorrow eight oclock, Platform 13.
The platform was empty, only rusted clocks ticking overhead. Emily opened a tablet and displayed a 3D model: a massive cracked mask, inside which visitors wander a labyrinth of mirrored walls. Projector beams darted across the shards, spelling phrases like your hands are crooked, youre a debtor, youre nothing. The nearer you got to the centre, the more the words faded until the surface was clear, reflecting only the viewers faces.
James stayed silent a moment, then whispered, Thats not an installation. Its a personal revolution in 360 degrees. Lets do it.
I have no budget, no materials. Everything broken belongs to the gallery.
Well find the materials. Permissions you decide how far youre willing to go.
In the following weeks they scavenged trash: discarded hotel mirrors, Claras broken ceramics, empty frames from car boot sales. Nights found Emily cutting glass behind an abandoned factory, learning to sand edges with a belt sander and a hairdryer. Clara fired ceramic puzzles so the fragments locked together.
One midnight Harold burst in. I hear youre building something at the station. Stealing my mirrors now?
The ones I broke? Ive already paid, Emily handed him receipts. Shed been living on instant noodles, sending every advance to the restorer who was piecing together a mosaic frame in tiny increments.
Without my brand, nobody knows you. You wanted to be an artistbe one, but after a theft trial youll be a mememaking blogger.
Try me. Judges love a good spectacle.
Opening night arrived. The derelict station glowed under ultraviolet light. A queue snaked along the rails; visitors were handed audio guides. Emily slipped her hands into her pockets, palms trembling. Breathe steady, captain, Clara whispered, patting her shoulder.
Inside, the mirror maze smelled of fresh dust and turpentine. People stepped cautiously, aware that a reflection could bite. Words flickered on the walls: pale moth, grey mouse, sevenyear debtor. Emily had recorded these in secret, the same cries Harold had shouted in the basement.
At the centre of the mask lay a bare patch of white light. A viewer emerging from the tunnel of insults saw themselves wholeno cracks, no scribbles. Music faded into silence.
Applause started slow, as if people were relearning how to clap. James stepped forward. Author, reveal yourself.
Emily rose onto the platform. Light fell on her face, tiny mirror shards on her denim jacket scattering a rainbow.
Then Harold stormed in. All those shards belong to me! She stole the project!
James, microphone in hand, asked, Mr?
Harold Finch! ArtGlassCo!
Do you confirm these words are yours? he pointed at the walls where the fractured phrases ran.
Harold blinked. Its a montage! Defamation!
The crowd laughed. Someone shouted, Welcome to your own reflection! Cameras captured the furious gallery owner. Two reporters pressed for comment; the word abuse trended on social media.
A month later Emily signed a contract with the Museum of Contemporary Art; Portrait in Shards became a touring exhibition. Clara opened a studio called The Glue Shop, welcoming schoolchildren to learn how beauty can rise from brokenness.
One crisp autumn afternoon, after seeing the kids board a bus, Emily stepped out of the museum. The setting sun glinted off the glass doors. James appeared with two lattes.
Harold said hes on a creative sabbatical, he said.
Let him chase his own reflection, Emily replied, taking a sip, watching her own tired but whole face in the window. You know what they say about mirrors? If theyre cracked you either throw them out or turn them into stained glass. You chose the latter.
Im no longer afraid of the truth, she added.
She remembered the first moment after the Venetian canvas cracked: fear, shame, that sharp sound.
