He wasn’t sure why he loved the queen, but he was sure it had something to do with the fact he was in a royal world. Why not love a queen?

On legs as unsteady as his resolve, Morris paced the ornate carpet, window to door, bed on one side, wardrobe and vanity on the other. His hands absently smoothed or tugged his attire, all ruffles and decorative stitching. He felt regal; he felt silly.

A glint of afternoon sun took its course through the window, off the vanity’s large mirror, and into his eyes, bringing a moment of clarity. Ceasing his steps, Morris considered the sheet of glass, so beautifully set in carved and painted wood. Two side steps brought his image within view, which struck him as absurd, a jester to marry a queen and become a monarch.

It was the wrong sort of funny though.

“Looking glass,” he muttered to himself, a phrase, a nearly meaningless combination of syllables. All the same, they tugged at the back of his mind, as he mused, “I wonder…”

“Morris!” came a now familiar shreek.