Page 102 of Florescentia

The man walked in front of her, guiding her excitedly along the field. His suspenders at his hips, a tan trouser with a loose white shirt.

When he looked back at her, a flash of deep blue eyes and a smile just as bright as the last moment before dusk.

His mouth moved, but no words were audible. She couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but she knew the skip of her breath when he looked at her.

That was all they did, walked. Hand in hand, heart matching heart, and a timeless moment you could play on loop. But it was more than that. It was the week before he passed. It was the last time her heart was light and her lungs breathed easily. The last time she reveled in the sun on her skin, no matter how briefly among the clouds it came.

She laughed. Like birdsong. A genuine squeak of unrestrained joy as she ran barefoot with him through the lavender.

It was the memory she clung to to forget what he looked like the night of the accident.

This was how she wanted to remember.

The greatest thing the memory left me with was a deep coveting. By some miracle, there was also pain, deep within me. An ache like any muscle, like any strain of the body. It stung like I’d been cut by thousands of thickets until the very seams of my skin had become undone.

“You know,” I spoke suddenly, “your little ritual you found today . . .”

It was like her entire body leaned in, hanging on every word.

“It’s a long-proven method for those with your skills,” I told her, “but your friend was right.”

“Calum?”

“There is context missing.” I tipped my head at her, brushing a stubborn coil away from her face. “You need something with a connection to my world.”

Her face lit like cedar sap and fire. Somehow more color came to her face, her white markings as well as the melanistic skin flustering.

“My Peculiars still refuse.” Her words danced around what I knew she was going to ask—and I was going to agree.

Whether or not she was ready was up to her.

Chapter Thirty

The Nova

My chatelaine clamored against the hallway table, and I didn’t care to take off my boots. I ran up the stairs, skipping steps and nearly tripping. There were no thoughts, just a single idea on the tip of my mind.

I threw my hands at the library door handles, flinging them open as my sights were set on the workbench. Piles of papers, open books, tools I swore had gone missing—yet none of it was what I was looking for.

A shadow slipped from behind a withered, potted fern. Tonic.

“Come.” I knelt down, waving it forward. “I need help with something.”

The shadow crept to me in a serpentine path, as if stalling.

“I’m not summoning anything, I just need a small opening,” I explained, clasping my hands in front of me. “Please. I think I can talk to him.”

The form curdled, perking up at the prospect. Its withdrawn nature made me nervous that it continued to refuse.

“Do you know where the grimoire is?”

The form flattened, as if thinking. Then it sped off along the floor toward books in piles. It rummaged around, then one came flying out toward my head.

I caught it, not without some wrist strain upon impact.

“Gentler, next time,” I grumbled. “Thank you.”

There was no time to waste. I swiped my father’s journal to add to the gathering pile of items, then my satchel to help carry it all. By the time I reached the first floor again, I was out of breath.