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couldn’t see him as the psycho Yseult had made him out to be. There was a sadness in his eyes, something vulnerable that made a violent nature seem unlikely.
    As I crossed the quad to the dorm, students were congregating in little clusters on the lawn, digesting their evening meal with cigarettes and coffee. Thankfully, I got back to my room unnoticed. The purple drape over the mirror was like a garish neon sign announcing: S OMETHING S CARY U NDERNEATH ! I half wondered whether the actual mirror would be less distracting, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of dodging my own reflection every time I passed it.
    I changed into my pajamas and ate my baguettes with Camembert and read a little more of The Phantom of the Opera until my eyes were grainy and sore. I knew I should stop reading and go to sleep, but as tired as I was, Yseult’s rumors about my room still haunted me.
    I snuck another glance at the covered mirror. It was only a piece of glass, for God’s sake. That first night when I’d heard those whispers and seen the phantom reflection, I had been severely jet-lagged, had drunk two glasses of wine with lunch, and had walked three miles around the city before returning to an empty room. Most likely, what I’d experienced had been the product of fatigue, dehydration, and my overactive imagination.
    I didn’t want to give in to my fears. In fact, last year when I was having those nightmares, the only thing that really helped was acknowledging and confronting them. Once I had realized they were just a product of my subconscious, the nightmares had subsided and I’d regained control over my life.
    If I was going to survive living on my own in a foreign city, I had to take control. I crept toward the mirror and stood in front of it, issuing a challenge to some unseen foe. Before I could reconsider, I tore the drape from the mirror so I was staring at my own reflection. I didn’t blink. And I didn’t look away.
    My reflection was normal—no distortions, no otherworldly voices, no ghosts. But the prickles of fear along my neck lingered until I thought of a more permanent solution. Why didn’t I just take the mirror down?
    Tentatively, I approached the mirror from the side and grabbed it with both hands, pulling gently at first to try to unhook it from the wall. But the mirror didn’t budge. I tried again, tugging harder this time, but it remained fixed in place. If I ever succeeded in removing it, I’d probably take half of the wall with it. I drew back, out of breath from my exertions.
    That’s when I saw a flicker of light inside the mirror. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but then the light began to recede slowly into the darkness until it disappeared completely.
    I grabbed the drape and threw it back over the mirror, then jumped into bed. Every hair on my body stood on end. That light I’d seen had looked like a candle being carried down a darkened hallway and being snuffed out. But that was impossible.
    Either I was going crazy . . . or Yseult’s rumors were true. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

C HAPTER 4
    S aturday seemed interminable. I had a ton of homework to do, but I was finding it difficult to concentrate with a purple enshrouded mirror in the room. So I went to the library to study. Saint-Antoine’s library was much smaller than the huge Gothic affair at Lockwood, but its intimacy suited me. It was on the second level of the administrative building so the windows overlooked Rue Saint-Antoine. I had to finish reading Candide, study for my Gothic Architecture quiz, write a three-page essay on the economic effects of the Black Death, analyze mythical allusions in Dante’s Inferno, and write a proposal for the libretto contest for Opera class. I was pretty sure I wanted to do some kind of modern retelling of The Phantom of the Opera, but I wasn’t sure how to adapt the story. Elise and I would have to get together and