Your reflection seems static at first, only the maid whose body you share staring back at you. You heave a sigh and are ready to turn away from it when you see a slight shimmer, as though the reflection was liquid rather than a solid mirror. You continue to stare as your reflection shifts. You arms thicken as do the hairs on them. Your fingers get less slender. You watch as your hair seems to retract in size to the serviceable length you'd had it at before changing. You can see the hips widen and the chest change shape. You recognize the man taking shape before you. It is you.
You feel overjoyed at this, partially. You reach out and touch the reflection and feel your body changing to fit the one you left behind. But you feel a desperate attempt to pull you back. It's her, the maid. She begs you not to leave her, not to leave her alone again. She begs for your help, but the changes are already under way. You feel your soul torn from her and find yourself blinking confusedly. Once again you're male and you run to the window to see that the trees and mansion looking as old as they were when you first arrived at this crazy place. You look down at your body and even realize that you're still wearing the clothes you had on when you left. A quick check of the time reveals that you've truly only been here for a few minutes.
You turn around and look at the room once again. You hadn't taken note of it before, but you notice an old yellowed picture by the bed. As you approach it recognize the owners of the mansion, though the look slightly older. You also see a young man, dressed in fine clothes. His brows are furrowed and his teeth seem clenched, his mouth turned downward into a slight scowl. You study his face closely, or as closely as you can considering the age of the photograph. He's the man's son, that much seems to be clear, but he bares little in common with the woman.
"It's her son." you whisper aloud. Still you see no sign the maid who's body you'd been trapped in. Why isn't she there? Perhaps they didn't feel it necessary to take her photograph, her being the maid. Perhaps, though, she wasn't there. Perhaps she'd been turned out on the street after her pregnancy was revealed. Perhaps worse. You search the room for any sort of clue. Most of the guest house looks not much different then most modern places, but the wardrobe contains a small drawer and the bottom of which surrounded by a cloth wrap is a book. You take it to the desk and slowly unwrap it. The old cracked brown leather bonding and brittle yellow pages reveal it's age. You open it carefully. It's a journal. You carefully turn the pages and read.
It reveals the life of a young man, presumably the one in the picture. His story tells of growing up with the man and woman who owned the house, and of not feeling particularly loved by anyone around him. His father regarding him with a standoffish nature, and his mother even more coldly. The other servants regard him with friendship, but also with a fair amount of pity. As the pages wear on he discovers that the lady of the house isn't his mother. Rather it was a maid that once lived there and was reported to have seduced the master.
"That's not true." you find yourself saying aloud. The bastard must have told his wife some story and the maid didn't have the courage to speak up. The journal ends abruptly with the boy leaving to try and find what became of his mother. The rest of the pages are blank. You realize now how the story played out so long ago. You think of her, the maid who's body you shared. How she didn't want you to go. Was that why you became her? Would she have had the courage to tell the true story if you'd been there? You gaze over your shoulder and glance at the mirror behind you, Maybe, you think to yourself, it's not too late.
You turn your chair to face the mirror. You're sitting diagonal to it, so you can't quite see your reflection. You went became her the last time you looked in the mirror, if you do so again will you go back. Will something even worse happen to you? You just don't know. On one hand you feel afraid to try, but on the other hand you feel afraid not to. You left her. You may have been able to help, but you left her alone. Perhaps you can try again. But do you want to risk it.