The mirror showed the world as a mortal would see it; her glamours and illusions layered like the painting of a master; each one insignificant in itself but contributing to the whole like a single note in a symphony. She was old in the mirror – old enough to have a grown-up son but not so ancient that she couldn't be a little wild. It was enough. A child of the Fae who had turned her back on her heritage and been banished for it, she nonetheless enjoyed the longevity of her peers, giving the appearance of age to the mortals around her. It would soon be time to move on; appear to die and start life again as a young woman, but not yet.
Saturday. Her favourite day of the week. Saturdays were made to study the form on the horses and Ashdown and Epsom and have a flutter on one or two; visit her friend Beryl for fish and chips at teatime and wander down to Bingo where she wasn't too young to flirt with some of the mortal men who thought a spinster an easy mark.
A shadow through the frosted glass in the front door alerted her before the furtive tapping and gave her time to check her katana was still in the umbrella stand. You could never be too careful with callers these days. If it wasn't thieves and con-men pretending to read the meter it was displaced elves looking for an easy sacrifice to get them back to Faery.