Page 66 of Florescentia

When my sights returned to the cliff above, an aura.

There you are.

Lucia stood at the peak. A soft glow of white and blue, much like the ones of her markings.

Will you join him?

The thought was like a knife in my throat, and I swallowed it back.

She is considering it.

While joining the unknown would certainly move the plan along, I wouldn’t get my hopes any higher. Her will to live was too strong. Stubbornly, she knew she had work to do. It would be the only thing that kept her from peace. The hunger for knowledge that some killed for.

As she stared, I wondered if she could see me. I was sure she always had the itch at the back of her neck, a chill that told her I was always watching, always there.

She disappeared from view, the aura fading into the night.

Chapter Twenty

The Nova

It was far too hot for a veil, but I wore it anyway.

My scalp itched from the beating sun, the whining of bugs from the scalding-dry dirt calling to me among the hot stones.

By midday, the sun and smog together made the outdoors unbearable. Sweat clustered on my shoulders and crawled down my back. The light bounced from the dry path and into my face among reflective pieces of granite headstones.

The vitiligo on my hand was already red. My cheek stung; surely it would be pink under the deep blue lace of the veil.

My dress was a similar shade, an Astrium star brooch pinned to my collar. My sleeves were slightly sheer and patterned, but no matter how light the fabric, I was still clammy as a fever patient. The heaviness of my petticoats under the dress put more stress on me than I was used to. A walking suit was built for that—walking. Moving. Doing important work. This ceremonial mourning attire was built for wallowing widows with nothing to do.

That may have been harsh. But it was true. They didn’t build clothes for woman who worked, because then they would do work. Fashion was a prison.

“We were thinking, as the executor of his will, if you would send us some support in these trying times? We have to pay for Clara’s finishing school, and the funeral—”

“I paid for the funeral.” My eyesight was trained on the ground, making sure not to trip. A bead of sweat raced down my brow, then tickled by my ear.

“We organized the catering,” his mother corrected.

“Yes, because the most important part of a funeral is making sure the living don’t starve for the hour they’re there.”

Her wrinkled lips pressed together, somehow creating more lines. “I have responsibilities to my living child.”

“And I respect that,” I sighed, “but I think there is a more appropriate time to approach me for money, and it isn’t this instance. What happened to the rent you collect from the tenements you inherited from the last familial passing?”

She didn’t like that answer; her arm looped in mine stiffened.

I loved my sister-in-law, and Dorian, but their mother made it so not one thing could happen without her centering herself. Every donation needed a photograph, every goodwill needed a public announcement, and apparently every child gone meant she could leech the sympathy from everyone in her general vicinity for the entire mourning period.

Maybe I would donate it all to the cat sanctuary.

We approached the grave, the black stone polished enough to make it as reflective as a mirror. Time would wear it down as the years went by. I imagined lichen and weeds sprouting around, the carved name fading with centuries of corrosion.

But for now, it was shiny and new. Pretty to view for all who pretended to care. His mother placed a small bunch of flowers just under his name. She stayed crouching, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. It would be cold to call her performative; that was her son. But I felt a certain kind of way while sharing grief; to perform so publicly when all I’d like to do was retreat home felt false.

Knowing the grave was empty made me smile, but only for a minute.

She backed away, allowing me my turn. I tucked a couple of bulbs and seeds into the partly freshly turned dirt. Hopefully flowers for years to come. There were no more flowers from the garden, and I’d forgotten to buy some on the way over. The prearranged bouquets were ugly, anyway. Devoid of meaning and care.