Aperture
the opening eye
When it rises, something you closed off is asking, quietly, to be looked at again.
Scrying Instruments · Est. MMXVII
Scry the
Scry the
dark glass.
A hand-poured obsidian mirror, ground across nine moons until the surface forgets it was ever stone. Draw a finger across the glass — and something beneath it answers.
Touch the glass
01 — The Glass
Volcanic glass, ground to silence.
Obsidian is what fire leaves behind when it cools too quickly to remember its own shape. We quarry it from a single spent cinder field, then knap each disc by hand along its natural conchoidal fracture — no wheel, no diamond saw, only pressure and patience.
Backed in blackened silver leaf and polished through nine passes of jeweler's rouge, the finished surface returns almost no light of its own. What you see in it, therefore, arrives from somewhere else. Keepers call this the threshold depth — the point at which the eye stops reading a reflection and starts reading a room that isn't there.
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FacetConchoidal, hand-knapped
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BackingBlackened silver leaf
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PolishNine passes, jeweler's rouge
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OriginCinder fields of Lípari
02 — Scrying
A rite in four breaths.
01
Still the room
Snuff every white light. Leave a single candle at your back so the flame never touches the glass.
02
Breathe the mist
Breathe once upon the surface. Let the mist bloom and clear of its own accord — do not wipe it.
03
Unfocus the eye
Look past the surface, never at it. The first shapes to rise are always your own — let them pass.
04
Ask but once
Speak your question under the breath, then wait. When the last ripple stills, the glass has answered.
03 — Visions
Six marks that surface most.
Wend
a path that turns back
The road you thought was forward is a circle. You will pass this place once more.
Ember
what still burns unseen
A warmth you buried has not gone out. Feed it, or it will smoulder on its own terms.
Hollow
the space a name leaves
An absence shaped exactly like someone. Do not rush to fill it; measure it first.
Tide
return, and return again
What left will come back changed — and so will you, by the time it does.
Veil
thin places between
The boundary here is worn through. Speak softly — you may be overheard from the other side.
04 — Accounts
What the keepers report.
I saw my grandmother's kitchen in it, down to the chipped blue cup on the sill. I never owned such a cup. I do now — I went and found one.
It does not show you the future. It shows you the one thing you have been very carefully refusing to look at. That is worse, and far more useful.
I cleaned it once with the wrong cloth. It sulked for a week — showed me nothing but my own tired face. Lesson learned. Chamois only.
By appointment only
Every mirror is waiting to be looked into.
We pour a limited number each season and pair each glass with its keeper by correspondence. Tell us the room it will live in, and the question you would bring to it.
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