Page 13 of Florescentia

Chapter Five

The Nova

Never in my years of consorting with the Otherside had I ever failed.

It was a restless night. I didn’t bother to clean my study. I threw the rug over the damage and locked the room on my way out. As much as I would’ve liked to pretend it hadn’t happened, the damage was there. In my house. In the back of my mind. My failure was omnipresent, like a phantom ice upon my chest, my limbs, in my nose. My shortcoming carved directly into my floor.

Whatever happened was not mindless, not chaos. It was calculated and conscious.

I knew the Peculiars and dwellers of the Otherside were sentient. They understood empathy, or at least recognized it when they were hungry. My Peculiars seemed to express basic emotions with their own needs and wants. Small quirks that pointed to some stream of decision-making, even if it was as simple as a cat’s.

A door couldn’t be opened without a tether to both worlds: myself and my pet shadows. Never had I thought the shadows could close a ritual on their own. I supposed they didn’t need me to close it and had rejected the interaction completely.

What had closed the door was my most pressing question.

I still had luck from the last ritual. I still had time to figure out what had happened before I’d need more.

Best case, this was a fluke. Worst case, I needed to do some research. New moons were unpredictable times, and I was gambling with the unknown. For now, I must let the dust settle and give things a rest.

I stared up at the bed canopy, teeth tearing at my nail as I mapped out my plan.

Today would be busy. I had my Patent Office meeting and tea with Dorian’s family. I could visit the Treasury again—

Oh, fucking hell.

I’d completely forgotten to visit my father. My mother must have been livid.

Change of plans, then. I’d sneak a visit to my father sometime today. I didn’t think he would care when.

The sun began to peek over the buildings across the street, the light gilding the tall windowpanes. I reached over to the dresser for my timepiece: 3:00.

“That can’t be right,” I muttered to myself, slapping the side of the bedside clock before lifting it to my ear. No ticking. “Perfect. Splendid. Just what I need,” I growled, whipping out of bed with the sheets trailing as I tumbled out. On hurried toes, I ran into the hallway and to the end.

The window at the back of the home had a pleasant view of our backyard, and of others’. An ornamental clock sat atop the accent table: 10:00.

I was going to be late.

Oh, by the stars, for once I was going to be late!

The block of my heel rasped lightly under the desk. The small chair was uncomfortable, but I kept my legs crossed and hands on the purse in my lap.

The patent officer glanced over his wire-frame spectacles a couple of times, stealing suspicious glimpses at me. It was an odd thing that you could tell when someone was looking at your forehead, your lips, or even the tip of your nose. They were looking at you but not acknowledging you. I smiled, my lips pulled tight.

“Is there anything I can clarify—”

“What is that?” He thumbed through the papers as if missing something.

“Pardon? Everything should be—”

“On your hand. Do you have an . . . ailment?”

Like a knife to my gut.

I leaned deeper into the back of the chair, fists balling on my purse. “Do you?” I laughed, a poor attempt at easing the insinuation.

His wiry brows knit together. “I worry about the dangers of the chemicals being used on the skin—”

“Oh no, sir, there’s a misunderstanding.” I let out a breathy sigh, leaning forward to point within the folder.