Writing clockpunk versions of fairytales really is my new favourite thing.
There were many things in this place, but there were no mirrors.
When she bothered to consider this at all, she was certain that she must have seen herself at least once, somehow, somewhere; she had not been in this tower forever, regardless of how it felt.
But if she had, she no longer remembered it, the geography of her own face as much as a mystery as the streets below. As with the streets, she caught glimpses of herself from the window-slots, bits of reflection buried in the glass, but never was there anything concrete. There were only the pieces of a mosiac still being formed, like sharp-edged shining things waiting to be set, like insect wings outside of amber.
She could identify herself only by her hair.