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Her reflection took another sip. “You’re trying to assert your dominance over me. Yet, I’m the one glaring down at you,” she said with a low, sultry voice. “Now, why don’t you be a good girl and answer me?”

Alice took another sip, never breaking eye contact. After a deep breath, she answered, “Sylvia destroyed all the good stuff.”

Alice’s reflection glared into Alice’s eyes. She said with a deep, gravelly voice, “That’s my good girl.”

“You don’t quite say it like him.”

Her reflection leaned back, clutching the soft purple robe below her neck. “I said it perfectly,” she retorted.

Alice smiled. “You said it like an animal in its death throes. Your voice is too low.”

“I resent that. My voice is not too low. It’s perfect.”

Alice cleared her throat, and with a lower pitch, she said, “That’s my good girl.”

“It’s exactly the same way I said it.”

“No, it’s not. Mine is smoother. Like when I told him, ‘That’s my good boy,’ but an octave lower. Yours is all gravelly.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Seated next to Alice on the tile floor, The Book of the Dead pulsed and shook vigorously, mimicking the movements of a tap dancer’s routine. A rhythmic cadence of unusual and odd timing. More random, but always shaking. The book suspended its dance.

“Why does it shake?” Alice’s reflection asked.

“Don’t know. Happened earlier. Hasn’t stopped. It’s like it’s calling to something . . . or someone.”

“Maybe it’s trying to call Hugo.”

Alice scowled at her reflection. “Don’t joke. I’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” Alice’s reflection took another sip. “By the way, when are you making more of the good stuff? I like your non-magical kind, but I could use something with a kick.”

Alice set her glass on the floor and crossed her arms. “I haven’t really been in the mood to make any more. Besides, Sylvia destroyed my hourglass and my vats and most of my equipment. I haven’t . . . haven’t felt like it. We’re lucky a few of these survived, so drink up.”

“Don’t you have two of those magical hour glasses? And when are you going to decorate? It’s Christmas time. It’s in eight days, and you still haven’t decorated.” She took another sip.

Alice scowled at her reflection.

Her reflection added, “I get it, you’re mopey and sad and depressed, but it’s one of your favorite times of the year. Get to decorating. It’ll make you feel better.”

Alice leaned her head back, glaring up at the ceiling. “Please don’t start. I’m not in the mood for an argument.”

“It might cheer you up.”

“You know what would cheer me up.” She took a sip of wine. “It’s all I want for Christmas, and I’m not going to get it.”

“You’re full of shit,” Alice’s reflection said.

“Excuse me?” Alice sat up. Her back arched as she leaned forward.

“You heard me. You act like you’re the only one in the whole world who’s suffering right now. Mopey. Sad. Don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, neither do I. I miss him as much as you do, but at least I took the time to put up a strand of garland in this bathroom. It’s not going to bring him back, but it can at least make me feel something.”

“Sure. Why don’t I put up a tree? Clearly, he’s not answering when I call for him because I don’t have my tree up,” Alice said, with each word raising her voice to near shouting. “A Christmas tree. Why didn’t I think of it? A Christmas tree will bring him back.”