Miras - Nora Roberts May 2026

But the mirrors, of course, would not be ignored.

Mira looked at him—this man with no ghosts, no shadows, nothing but steady warmth and stubborn faith. And for the first time in her life, she looked at a reflection and didn’t flinch. Because when she caught her own eyes in the dark glass of the workshop window, she saw not fear, but courage. And love.

“I need you to look at something,” she said, and opened the locket. Miras - Nora Roberts

“I believe in what I can’t see,” he said simply. “I believe in wood grain and the memory of trees. Why not mirrors?”

“You’re a superstitious old crone in a young woman’s body,” her best friend, Liza, teased, dangling a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes in front of her. “Come on. These are gorgeous.” But the mirrors, of course, would not be ignored

“Put them down,” Mira said, not looking up from the Chippendale desk she was polishing. “They have eyes.”

“Need a hand?” she called, grabbing her umbrella. Because when she caught her own eyes in

“This isn’t a mirror. Not exactly.” The woman unwrapped it. It was a locket—an antique, Victorian, gold filigree. When she opened it, there was no photograph inside. Instead, a tiny, convex sliver of polished obsidian. A mirror no bigger than a thumbnail.