You smashed my mirror, so youll owe me seven years of work, hissed Victor Blackwell, owner of the ArtMirrorCo gallery, leaning in until I could smell his peppermint aftershave. The shards of the Venetian canvas crunched beneath my boots, catching the ceiling spotlights like a thousand tiny camera flashes. A gritty lump lodged in my throat: you can survive anything, but not the sound of breaking glass when the frames value equals a years earnings.
Ill pay, I breathed out.
Youll pay? With what? Your crooked shop windows? From today on you work for free until the debt is settled.
Fifteen years earlier, a little girl named Poppy spent afternoons in her grandfathers mirrormaking workshop, chasing reflections in the scraps of amalgam. Granddad would hand her an appleflavored marshmallow and say, Glass holds the truth. It can be scary to look, but if youre brave youll see yourself more clearly. When he died, her mother sold the shop; Poppy headed to London to study industrial design and took a night job dressing shop fronts. Thats where Victor first saw hertall, charming, promising a solo exhibition in exchange for a few sketches.
In the early months he called her his spatial muse, kissing her hand after every successful project. Then hed offer friendly criticism: The highlights are too cold, add some warmth. Unpleasant but useful. By spring his tone shifted: What texture can you claim when you cant even get the dimensions right? Penalties for spoiled materials started to pile up. Poppy told herself, Hes strict because I can do better.
One June evening she was rearranging podiums for a new show. At the entrance stood Victors prized possessiona 17thcentury mirror, its frame a lattice of gilt leaf. A single centimetre of misalignment and the trolley carrying the podium snagged the frame. A crack sounded like a gunshot. Silence. Then a rain of shards.
You realise that was meant for the royal auction house? Victor roared, drowning out the alarm.
Ill replace it, Poppy muttered, scooping glass bits into a bucket, Ill find a restorer.
Three hundred thousand pounds if youre clueless. Or seven years of servitude. Your choice.
In the gallerys basement, where the WiFi never reached, Poppy stamped out installations from his sketches: lenslamps, prism tables. Victor accepted the work, labeling every tag with only his name. At night shed fire up her laptop and collage photos of the broken mirror, hunting for a line where the cracks formed a face.
Once a week Clara, a potter from the next studio, would pop in.
Where have you vanished? Youve gone quiet in the group chat.
Serving my debt, Poppy waved off.
Clara eyed Poppys slumped shoulders, calloused palms. You know how they break glass to make stainedglass windows? Heat it to the brink, then slam it cold.
Thanks for the metaphor, Poppy smiled. Metaphor aside, Ive got a heap of broken pottery in the back. Take what you need. Piece by piece, well make something new.
Autumn brought James Whitaker, curator of the travelling Light City Festival, to the town. He was scouting artists for a night performance at the old railway station. He was shown Victors projects; James nodded politely, but his gaze lingered on a basket of shattered glass in the corner.
Who worked on this?
Just waste, Victor snapped. Nobody cares.
Poppy lifted her chin. I do.
Outside, James approached her. Show me the sketches you keep hidden.
If I talk, Ill be fired, she whispered.
He slipped her a card. Meet me where your boss cant follow. Tomorrow, eight a.m., Platform 13.
Platform 13 was empty, only rusted clocks ticking beneath the roof. Poppy pulled up a 3D model on her tablet: a massive cracked mask, its interior a maze of mirrored walls. Projector beams danced over the shards, spelling out fragmented phrasesyour hands are crooked, youre in debt, youre nothing. The nearer you got to the centre, the more the words faded until the surface was clean, reflecting only the viewers faces.
James stood silent, then said softly, 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 materials. Permissions you decide how far youre willing to go.
The first weeks they scavenged trash: discarded hotel mirrors, Claras broken pottery, empty frames from car boot sales. Nights Poppy cut glass at the abandoned mill, learning to sand edges with grit paper and a hairdryer. Clara fired her ceramic puzzle pieces so they would lock together.
One midnight Victor stormed in. I hear youre building something at the station. Stealing my mirrors now?
The ones I broke? Ive already paid, Poppy thrust out receipts: shed been living on instant noodles, sending every advance to the restorers who pieced together the Venetian canvas.
Without my brand no one knows you. Want to be an artist? Fine, but after the theft trial youll be a mememaking influencer.
Try me. Judges love a good spectacle.
Opening night arrived. The derelict station glowed under ultraviolet light. A line of people snaked along the tracks, each handed an audio guide. Poppy tucked 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. Visitors stepped cautiously, aware that their reflections could bite. Words flickered on the wallspale moth, grey mouse, sevenyear debtorphrases Poppy had recorded in secret when Victor shouted in the basement.
At the centre of the mask lay a bare circle of white light. A viewer emerging from the tunnel of insults saw themselves wholeno cracks, no captions. The music faded into silence.
Applause rose slowly, as if people were relearning how to clap. From the crowd James stepped forward. Author, step into the light.
Poppy rose onto the platform. Light fell on her face, tiny mirror flakes on her denim jacket scattering a rainbow.
Suddenly Victor burst in. All those shards belong to me! She stole my project!
James, microphone in hand, asked, Mr?
Victor Blackwell, ArtMirrorCo, he announced. Do you confirm these words are yours? He gestured to the walls where the fractured phrases ran.
Victor blinked. Its a montage! Defamation!
The hall erupted in laughter. Someone shouted, Welcome to your own reflection! Cameras flashed, a gallery owners face reddened with fury. Two reporters jabbed for comments; the word abuse trended online.
A month later Poppy signed a contract with the National Museum of Modern Art. Portrait on Shards became a touring exhibition. Clara opened a studio called The Glue and began teaching teenagers with special needs. One autumn afternoon, after seeing the kids off at the bus, Poppy stepped onto the museums patio. The autumn sun glinted off the glass doors. James approached with two coffees.
Victor told the press hes
