Quote:

The vault was low and he bent his head to step down towards the water. In its limpid tintarron [1] he saw his scarlet reflection but, oddly enough, owing to what seemed to be at first blush an optical illusion, this reflection was not at his feet but further; moreover, it was accompanied by the ripple-warped reflection of a ledge that jutted high above his present position. And finally, the strain on the magic of the image caused it to snap as his red-sweatered, red-capped doublegänger turned and vanished, whereas he, the observer, remained immobile. He now advanced to the very lip of the water and was met there by a genuine reflection, much larger and clearer than the one that had deceived him. He skirted the pool. High up in the deep blue sky jutted the empty ledge whereupon a counterfeit king had just stood. A shiver of alfear ran between his shoulder blades. [2]

[1] precious glass stained a deep blue in Zembla
[2] uncontrollable fear caused by the propinquity of elves

Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire (1966)