It was, for all intents and purposes, the closest thing Cleavendale had to a luxury home theater system.
And it was utterly and completely broken.
It had begun three days ago, when the mirror refused to display anything other than a single sheep standing motionless in a distant field.
A fat, judgmental-looking sheep.
Chewing.
Endlessly.
Lord Stitchcroft scowled and flicked his scry-wand with increasing irritation.
"Show me the Grand Tournament!" he demanded.
The sheep continued chewing.
"The Royal Court?"
The sheep blinked.
"The secret vault of the Underwire Archives?"
The sheep scratched its ear.
Fuming, Thimbleby jabbed the wand aggressively at the mirror, causing a faint blue spark to flicker from the tip, only for the mirror to display a new vision.
A second sheep.
Great. Now it was two sheep.
Determined to salvage his investment, Thimbleby attempted to scry into more interesting locations.
"Show me Lady Morganda's Forbidden Tower!" he commanded, eager for a glimpse of the reclusive sorceress.
The mirror shuddered, flickered ominously, then displayed the following message in flaming gold script:
"This vision is unavailable in your region. Please consult the Grand Scrying Guild for permissions."
Thimbleby gaped. "What do you mean, unavailable? It worked last week!"
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"Magical broadcasting rights have been restricted by the Enchanter's Guild," the mirror replied smugly.
Thimbleby ground his teeth. "Fine. Show me the King’s private war council!"
The mirror paused, then displayed:
"ERROR 403: You lack sufficient nobility to access this vision."
"Sufficient what? I'm a Viscount!"
The mirror did not elaborate.
Thimbleby took a deep, slow breath.
"Fine. Show me the palace gardens."
The mirror shuddered, then:
"This scrying request has timed out. Try again later."
Thimbleby, feeling personally insulted, hurled a cushion at the glass.
The mirror did not react. The sheep, however, remained disappointingly unfazed.
After hours of futile commands, Thimbleby decided to reset the mirror. He waved the scry-wand in a complicated figure-eight motion, muttered the reboot incantation, and waited.
Nothing happened.
He shook the wand. Still nothing.
He banged it against the table, a time-honored fix for all malfunctioning artifacts.
The wand promptly zapped his fingers, flew across the room, and lodged itself in a fruit bowl.
By the time he retrieved it, the mirror had spontaneously switched to a vision of a chicken standing on a fence post.
No sound. No action. Just the chicken.
Watching.
Thimbleby eventually coaxed the mirror into displaying something of actual interest—a thrilling joust between two famed knights, Sir Brando the Unbreakable and Dame Felmara the Swift.
Just as their lances met in midair, the mirror suddenly flickered and switched to…
A merchant counting coins.
Thimbleby screamed into a pillow.
Even when the mirror functioned properly, there was nothing remotely interesting to watch. Every vision it displayed was insufferably dull:
-
A man sweeping a floor.
-
A pot of stew simmering.
-
A woman knitting.
-
That same chicken, still standing on the fence post.
At one point, he found himself watching a random hallway, utterly empty except for the occasional flicker of torchlight.
For an hour.
The highlight? A mouse scurrying past.
After one particularly dull session, Thimbleby left the room to have a stiff drink.
When he returned, the mirror had dimmed itself and displayed an infuriatingly smug message:
"Are you still gazing? Tap your scry-wand to continue."
His left eye twitched.
By day four, Thimbleby had given up.
Nothing worked.
Nothing made sense.
He had yelled, pleaded, threatened, and even offered the mirror a small dish of milk (a last-ditch tactic that sometimes pacified enchanted objects).
The mirror remained unmoved.
And so, with the dignity of a broken man, Thimbleby grabbed the nearest velvet tablecloth, threw it over the glass, and declared, "This household no longer requires scrying!"
Alphonse, his ever-patient butler, simply nodded.
On the fifth day, Thimbleby finally sent a formal complaint to the Grand Tuning Wizard’s Guild, the esteemed order responsible for maintaining enchanted mirrors.
A week later, he received a response:
"Dear Lord Stitchcroft,"
"Thank you for your inquiry regarding your Scry-Vision Looking Glass. Our finest tuning wizards will be dispatched within an estimated timeframe of 3 to 8 months to assess the issue. Please ensure you are available for the entire service window, as rescheduling may result in an additional delay of 6-12 weeks."
"Sincerely,"
"The Grand Tuning Wizard’s Guild, Dept. of Spectral Maintenance"
Thimbleby stared at the absurdly long waiting period, tore the letter in half, and promptly decided to invest in a good book instead.
At least those didn’t require a tuning wizard.