misol spent far too much time sitting at the edge of her bed despite being completely ready for her departure. the girl had half a mind to apologize to her housemate and stay holed up in her room for yet another day rather than join the plans she'd previously accepted. despite the temptation, however, each time she'd imagined the different expressions the other would wear in response, she ultimately couldn't bring herself to do so. she must persevere.
each step was careful and slow, like a deer wandering cautiously through the woods. despite the sun shining down on her, the empty streets on the way to the festival activities brought an eerie silence that sent shivers down her spine. the nagging fear of someone something suddenly jumping out at her from any surrounding direction was almost enough to make misol retreat, but she, instead, began to move with haste; her hands balled up into fists to keep them from shaking violently in fear.
her hurried steps distracted her thoughtsβ so much so, she had almost missed the very person she'd set out to meet.
"eudora." as if she'd been holding her breath throughout the duration of her travel, the other's name escaped from her lips in a sigh of relief. several emotions rushed over misol in only a matter of seconds; comfort, serenity, embarrassment, shame. she couldn't muster up a response, all things considered.
misol was thankful for the shift of attention towards the goods before them.
"i'm unsure..." she hummed quietly. "do you think that different colors might have different meaningsβ like flowers do?"
a warmth spread through eudora at the sight of her housemate β her friend β coming up beside her β even if it is an effort to keep her expression casual, neutral. to pretend she is unboservant ; to not notice the inward slope of misol's shoulders or the subtle tremble in her small hands. the sun's light, half-extinguished.
eudora decides then, suddenly and fiercely, that she will do whatever it takes to bring that light back.
her eyes move back to the tiny satchels before them, their soft colors against the wood grain. βi think so...β she answers after a moment. moonwater grey. reed green. ash white, thin as an old memory. what could these colors represent ?
"maybe it's just about how it makes you feel," eudora says, setting one satchel down, picking another up. she hesitates, then adds, not quite looking at misol, βor maybe it depends on who itβs for...β
eudora glances sideways then β careful, brief. thereβs a question in her trailing gaze she can't give voice, a dozen things she could say but wonβt. instead, she folds a fabric square, fog-gray and cotton soft, and sets it carefully between them, an offering without insistence.
βlike...this one, for example. it feelsβ¦ quieter, like it wouldnβt ask for much. justβ¦ keep watch. does that make sense ?β
around them, the festival hums on β laughter, music, the rush of wind β but in the small space they share, it feels muted, held at bay. eudora breathes in, steadying.
βiβm glad you came,β she adds, finally, quiet but certain.
it's been a restless night and eudora has struggled to get a good night's rest, due to bad dreams. when she wakes in the morning, she findd that a bouquet of *flowers has been delivered to their doorstep. how does your muse react? how do they interpret receiving the flowers?
*snowdrop, "hope after sorrow"
the bouquets are scattered across the front porch β five in total, one for each resident of the farmhouse. eudora, eyes bleary, does not understand it β stumbles barefoot onto the porch to inspect the nearest bundle of flowers, nestled in a cone of newspaper and bound with twine.
the frost-bitten boards of the porch are like an electric shock beneath the bare soles of her feet. the cold clears some of the exhaustion from her limbs, sharpens her senses. she stoops, knees curled to her chest, and picks up a bouquet.
the first thing she notices is how fresh the flowers look, despite the chill morning. even from her vantage on the front porch, she can see frost coating the yellow grass in the yard beyond ; refracting off the stooped stalks of wheat and the tall husks of corn.
but the blooms in her grasp β with their small, tri-petaled flowers perched on deep green stems β are fresh, unwilted, without so much as a leaf curled or browned by the chill.
it's enough to give her pause, to curl something sour in her stomach β even as she smooths a thumb over the soft white flowers.
as she lifts the bouquet toward her nose for a sniff, a small, square card flutters free from the bunch, landing like a whisper at her feet. it settles at her toes ( blue with cold ) for only a moment before she snatches it up, bringing it close to her face alongside the flowers. in neat script, she sees her name printed ; curiously, she flips the card and finds, in that same cramped handwriting, the mantra hope after sorrow.
eudora's fingers tense around the placard, her lips twisting left and then right in an effort to stave off tears. wordlessly, she rises and turns to the door ; passes over the threshold and back into the farmhouse, her bouquet of flowers clenched tight in her grip, the other four forgotten to the cold morning. she does not even think to tell her companions what awaits them on the doorstep β only floats back to her room in a daze, shutting the door behind her.
she moves to the windowsill, with its flecked white paint and a growing array of oddities, among them the flowers from her nightstand, the night she had awoken from the dream with dirt under her nails. the petals are dried now, brown and fading ; when she touches one, it crumbles to dust. beside them is an empty glass milk jar.
eudora upends the half-empty glass of water on her nightstand into the milk jar before freeing her flowers from their newspaper trappings and placing them in their makeshift vase. she spends too long arranging them, almost entranced by the way their petals droop, the translucent white of them, the thin gray veins she can see when the light shines through. finally, she withdraws her hands, folding them in her lap. the card sits there, too, warm from her touch. tears wet her eyes, but she blinks them back.
who could they be from ? surely not her mother someone she knows, for there's no one in the world left for her to call family or friends. not outside of velgrove, anyways.
for the first time since coming inside, she remembers the other flowers scattered on the porch β the bouquets she left behind. again, that sour feeling rises like bile in her throat.
quietly, eudora returns to her bed, abandoning the flowers on her window sill. she pulls the covers up to her chin and watches with half-glazed eyes as the light coming through the warped glass of her window plays off the water in the milk jar. she closes her eyes and pretends, for just a moment, that the flowers could be an offering from somebody she loves β and not the sinister gift she fears it is, another omen from the thing that stalks them all.
town board β week of 124DF10
lady maxime's pregnant cat, lucille, is known to wander freely around velgrove. however, it's been a few days since she's returned home and lady maxime is looking for help to find her cat.
these days, the sun slanted with unusual speed toward the horizon, casting the grove in bars of golden light by early afternoon ; gilding the gutters of homes and the bare branches of trees ; staining the sky with misty orange and electric green, the kinds of sunsets the darkening season did best.
and while eudora had stopped to admire this one tonight β if only for a moment, the pink limning the horizon β she was all too aware that she was losing her light.
two hours prior, lady maxime had peered anxiously after eudora from her doorstep, watching her retreating form β too-large coat flapping in the wind, a bag of home-made cat treats in hand β disappear into the woods beyond her house.
eudora thought it a bit irresponsible to let your pregnant cat wander freely ( during our maiden's harvest, no less... ) although she would never dare to admit so out loud, and certainly not to the kind and concerned face of lady maxime, her silver hair tied tightly back from severe cheekbones and warm, sunken eyes. and anyways, she supposed there were plenty of barn cats on sumyeong's property that lived relatively independent lives, and surely at times they must breed β
thoughts like this kept her occupied as she wandered deeper into the woods, at times tilting her head to admire the slant of light through the trees, at others pausing to click her tongue against her cheek and call lucille ! here kitty, kitty ! into the empty wood, disrupting bird song whenever she did so.
without quite realizing it, eudora's feet ventured off the beaten trail, traversed a different way. so familiar was her path, so distantly in the clouds was her mind, that it did not strike her as good or bad or odd, or anything at all, until she emerged squarely into the clearing.
glassmire's tall towers winked at her in the evening sunlight.
instinctually, she froze, terror squeezing tight in her chest. she had not been back here since β since β
she swallowed down the horror, turned abruptly on her heel. why would her subconscious lead her here, of all places ? she was hardly sure she wanted an answer, hardly sure there was time even to think, with the way the forest was darkening like a photo developing in reverse all around her, losing its details to the fading light.
but then she paused. behind her she could hear β or could have sworn she heard β the faintest of noises, a sort of mewling that beaconed her back.
with trepidation, eudora approached the stone faΓ§ade of the conservatory, its throng of bushes beside the entryway. the ground was soft here ; gentle prints told of a home beneath the thicket of branches. eudora crouched on hands and knees, the heels of her palms sinking into the soft earth, her dark eyes squinting in the low light. in the bush β a fluffy white cat nursing three bald kittens.
a gasp escaped her parted lips ; then a sigh of relief.
it took perhaps too long to work her torso up under the branches, thorns snagging in her hair. but lucille is compliant enough when she finally gets to her ; content, perhaps, to leave her birthing nest and return home at last. eudora wrapped her tenderly in the oversized coat, tucking the kittens safely there with her, holding them like breakable things.
it was over an hour before eudora broke free from the woods, back into the safety of lady maxime's yard. she presented the new mother and her brood with expert gentleness, helping maxime settle the family into a box lined with bits of newspapers and soft old scarves ; she accepted the offer to stay for tea after, and only when she sunk into the wooden chair at maxime's kitchen table did she realize how sore her body had become. her hands wrapped gratefully around her mug, leeching warmth through the ceramic.
"now, about your reward," lady maxime started, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her.
"oh, i really don't need β"
maxime cut her off with a shake of her head. "i imagine once they're old enough to leave their mother, you can have your pick."
who: @vel-misol
where: town square β the decaying tree
when: day two of the harvest festival, 124DF10
the air in velgrove's town square is thick with the spice of the harvest season: sage and cinnamon, apple and sweet dough, woodsmoke and tilled earth.
eudora stands, entirely too awkwardly, at the corner of a pop-up stallβone in a line of such vendors set up across the square, food stalls and home-baked treats, silk scarves and jewelry, paintings and illustrations. tomorrow, she will set up her own stallβa little booth with her photography on display, insignificant, invaluable moments stacked and priced for spare change.
but today, she is nothing more than another face in the crowd ; a local out to enjoy the festival. and she's not alone, either.
her dark eyes roam over the table of this particular stall, its surface laden with a unique set of treasuresβingredients for well wishing satchels: bowls of dried herbs, small carved tokens, chips of crystalline rock, bits of ribbon, stones smooth from riverbeds.
eudora hardly startles when misol's sleeve brushes her own ; only tilts her face in greeting, a soft smile spreading easily across her lips.
"i almost thought you weren't coming," she says, attempting something like a jokeβbut she can't read how misol takes it. perhaps misol is not in the mood for jokes ( and eudora couldn't blame her if she wasn't ).
the woman working the stall is elderly, her face etched with lines, like a map ; the pair of quiet girls lingering at the corner of the stall do not escape her. she waves a gnarled hand at them, curling one finger, gesturing them closer. eudora sidles to the edge of the table obediently, head bowed slightly, sleeve still brushing misol's.
an array of empty fabric pouches, each one hand-dyed, are scattered between the herbs and charms.
choose your colors, the old woman tells them, and eudora nods, already trying to decide. her eyes move over her options, moonwater grey and ash white linen, dried rose and shadowed plum, soft green and wheat gold. her hand extends, hovers, hesitates. her eyes bounce to misol's face.
DREAMWALKERS - your muse finds themself dreaming of walking to the fields for three nights straight. when they wake up in the morning, they find themself in bed back home, but their hands are covered in dirt and there is a handful of flowers in their room. no one claims to have seen them walk to or from the field throughout the night, but all evidence seems to indicate they must have at some point.
the moon is high above her, the soil damp beneath the bare soles of her feet. on either side of her, the grass whispers softly to itself as the night breeze blows, each wispy blade silvered with moonlight. her steps plod with steady rhythm through knee-high grass, moving with a surety lost on the rest of her limbs ; her arms hang limply at her sides, the sleeves of a too-long sweater hiding her hands ; her legs are bare and raised with goosebumps.
she thinks she wants to pause at the statue of the eerie, her stone-faced anger barely concealed behind the frozen pleats of her veil β but her feet carry her past, moving of their own accord. when her head swivels to peer back over one shoulder, she notices the eerie's head has turned to watch her go. the farmhouse is a distant beacon behind her, one pinprick of light in a sea of darkness.
she moves on, sweater snagging on invisible thorns ; eudora tilts her head back to see the sky, and the stars unspool before her, innumerable and brilliant. they seem to vibrate in place, small jewels in the fabric of the night β as she watches, they seem to shimmer and cluster along a smooth white path, like milk cast down the front of a funeral dress. when she looks down again, she falters to a stop, and just in time β the earth yawns open before her. toes curl over the cool lip of earth, feet sinking softly into the mud. something hums through the soles of her feet like a heartbeat.
she leans forward to listen, her torso curving over the side of the grave, her hair falling like a curtain over her shoulders β and for one breathless instant, she hears it murmur her name. her hands move without thought, sinking into the soil. it's warm here β too warm β and something pulses against her palm. when she opens her clenched fist, something trembles there. she mistakes them for white blossoms at first, veined with jade green and silver ; but then they shiver, wings unfurling like petals, and their fuzzy bodies tickle her skin. she cups them close to her face, her clutch of moths β watches them crawl up her fingers to test their wings. powdery puffs of wing dust coat her knuckles. she lifts them higher and higher, arm extending above her head, some aching part of her desperate to see them take flight. she rises on her tiptoes, as if to kiss the stars.
when she wakes, the sun is late-morning high. her window is thrown wide, and golden light slants across the floorboards β but eudora finds her skin cold to the touch.
thereβs dirt on her sheets and a clutch of flowers on her bedside table, pulled up by the roots, soft white and trembling where they shouldnβt be.
eudora turns inwards before him in a silence that he already anticipated. she seems to be pointedly crowding the passel of her thoughts around the spiral sprin Β and moving to turn the knob thatβll push all of it forward. perhaps even outwards, but he has no expectations for it nor of her. so he waits patiently β as always is his manner with anyone. his expression resettles, means nothing by it.
he feels tired, suddenly. itβs the kind of exhaustion that he suspects could not be resolved with a few nights of proper restful slumber. distantly β that is, within the ever-stretching cavern of his mind β haeil can listening to waves crashing loud and angry. above that, there is quietness. empty space. air as thick as salt.
this is another indefinable moment for them, isnβt it? the quality of eudoraβs thoughtful stillness strikes so terribly familiar to haeil β that for a breath, a bed of cropped hair and a bone structure vastly distinct supersedes the physicality of eudora before him. when the wind blows, it carries the subtle scent of sawdust to his nostrils. haeil has the particular suspicion of having something terribly sticky in the palms of his hands, between the spaces of his fingers. was the woman before him sitting on a fallen trunk or a crafted raft?
righting the distorted perception of the present requires a long and heavy sigh, but it does the job well once haeil wills himself to do it. within seconds yang eudora proves to remain right where she had originally plunked down to rest her feet. the airβs clean and crisp, the sky formidably blue, always beautiful above them. there is movement for readjustment from her and haeil watches it happen dimly. he looks up at her just in time to catch her eyes, his own prompting nothing. it doesnβt last.
now staring over at the space past eudora, heβs thinking about rafts once again. the conclusion settles in one of them and sets sail, drifting past santheβs waters.
βthey will eventually. thereβs no choice.β haeil pronounces, certain, like absolution rests not in avoidance but in facing the horrid truth of what theyβre due to live through. βbut iβm dubious as to the method. do you think itβs really wise for any of us to barge into the unknown? althoughβ¦β
what a formidable terror it is, that stately building taking up residence in the sky and over the head of the woods, simultaneously at home and out of place. whose to say that it wasnβt just a cruel turn of destiny, to have them all bear witness and testimony to the anomaly? or is it that they themselves are the incongruence to velgroveβs ever-mutating definition of tranquility? does the town turn cannibal in turns, arbitrarily?
βwould you go?β haeil asks instead. if misolβs sunspot presence meant anything to anyone outside of her corner of the world, then thatβs enough. even if it were just one person, thatβs enough to challenge velgroveβs assertion: that nothing is ever what it seems. βwillingly, i mean. if they ask for volunteers, would you go in there and look for her, even if youβre afraid of what you might find?β
"yes," the word passes like a breath across her lips, lightly parted. something inside her gut sinks even as she says it β an unexplainable sixth sense, the promise of fate slotting into place βbut she would go, she's sure of it, if only because she knows it is what misol would do for her.
what misol deserves.
like so many others, eudora had followed the rumors to velgrove, intent on witnessing something for herself β something for certain, something she could capture between transparent layers of polyester and gelatin and hold onto.
but what she'd found here wasn't just the uncanny chill of a summer storm, or a bottomless lake, or an angry woman made of stone collecting lichen in a field. there was something intangible growing, something inside her and between others, knitting all of them closer together with mismatched threads.
when eudora had first arrived, only sumyeong and his aging mother occupied the farmhouse, and all the ghosts between them ; she'd watched graves and hansol and misol arrive like offerings, with their open hands and soft courage. she saw the way that changed the house into something living, breathing, warm. alive. the way it'd unfurled her fists, how she'd stopped flinching at everything in expectation of a blow.
one of the threads that bound her now tugs unbearably hard, a phantasmal vice around her heart that pulls from somewhere beyond her ; just past the sturdy shield of haeil's shoulders, across the bed of pine needles, past the red caution tape, across the conservatory's threshold. yes, she would go.
"if misol is inside, i'd look for her. if they asked us to." eudora swallows, her throat suddenly dry ; some voiceless, knowing part of her remembering a horror she has yet to experience.
but despite being blind to it now, she can conceptualize misol's fear β the terror of being in some place, perhaps stolen away there β had she even gone willingly ? β the darkness of confusion, the clench of panic in her chest.
she does not voice these things out loud ; can hardly hold haeil's gaze as the thoughts flicker through her mind, too reckless to slow. instead, she lifts her chin, tilts her head at the slightest angle, and poses haeil's question back to him. she waits for his answer perched and patient on her log, like a bird.
"would you go ?" and, after a beat, a little softer β
hour: 0:05.
her gaze settled on graves' face. "where should we start ?"
@eudoravel
hour: 0:02
the echo of her confidence stands brighter than the shake of her fingers, its phantom lingering on his skin. chasing away the cold. the damp. that fill their lungs now. as eudora looks up graves looks down to stare at the dirt and broken shards on the ground. "watch your step," he whispers even as he guides her from mundane danger. and then his gaze rises and they pause. tunnels before them. a sickly green above them and somewhere the distance β
hour: 0:03
sol graves frowns slightly, and pulls the map from his pocket, stares at the familiar scrawl. looks once more.
"there's an incongruity."
on the paper there are three tunnels with the leftmost marked as traveled. only, now an extra tunnel to the left rests in their periphery and one to the right leading down. instinct whispers to avoid that one for as long as they can.
hour: 0:05
"let's try the middle." he decides, dark eyes studying her face. "we'll have to find our way back here anyway and haeil said the officer wasn't very far in when they looked." a body could wait. yang misol could not.
hour: 0:10
the cracked tile path curves into another left (circles, they had to be going in circles now) and before graves can give voice to his certainty something crashes off in the distance followed by an ominous creak, like a too-large house settling its bones. only, the room they stand in is wide, growing violet and red oyster mushrooms in a far corner with spidery cracks and gashes but sturdy looking. solid enough to hold the weight of the tree that seems to be leaning against one of the windows.
another creak. far closer.
something in his stomach sinks and like in the foyer sol graves looks down.
around his feet: a web.
he pushes eudora forward on instinct β "floor," the only word he can get out β following steps behind and in seconds the place they once tread gives way and opens up a three-person-sized hole.
hour: 0:15
"do you want to keep going left or try going down?"
hour: 0:15
"do you want to keep going left or try going down?"
@velxgraves
hour: 0:16
her hair has fallen loose from her ponytail ; her elbow is badly bruised ; her sneakers trail thin, sticky wisps of webbing as she walks too closely to her friend.
the last room had scared her badly, the sudden panic in graves' voice, the floor giving way beneath them β but not nearly as much as her own scream, the way it had burst past her lips unbidden as they fell, how it had lingered in the painful silence that followed for anything to hear, bouncing back at them from the peaking rafters and shadowed corners of the room.
for one wild and reckless moment, she hoped misol heard it. but even after they'd disentangled themselves and dusted off their knees, the only sound she could discern was the unsettling creak of the conservatory and the faint, steady drip of water on stone.
eudora can hardly process graves' question to her now, his expectation that she should make the next choice laying before them β when any direction at all seemed guaranteed to hurt them, or disorient them, or possibly something worse.
"no wonder misol is lost..." eudora ponders aloud, her voice is thick. she swallows, too loud ; but graves is a pillar beside her, a weathered tree that can withstand her weight, and she reaches for his wrist once more. finds the courage.
"let's try going down."
hour: 0:18
the tunnel curves downward into blackness ; the path is smooth and gentle as it dips into the dark. the echoes of their footfalls bounce around them.
the silence between them is warm, determined ; but the tunnel seems to stretch endlessly on. as the angle grows steeper, the floor begins to change β from a smooth, even path into wide, flat steps.
they descend further. neither of them hesitate.
hour: 0:20
the walls begin to glisten as they descend β not stone, but something else. glass, perhaps, or something like it, veined with faint streaks of green and gold. when eudora lifts her hand to trace the surface, her reflection stares back at herβ¦except her eyes donβt move in time with her own.
the air smells faintly of lilies. old water. dust.
the steps widen, flatten. they emerge into a vast chamber with no visible ceiling, only that same muted glow radiating through the walls like the inside of a lantern.
she feels the pull of the place deep in her chest, like gravity turned sideways.
hour: 0:22
βgraves,β she whispers, her voice barely a whisper in the vast cavern. βdo you hear that ?β
a soft ringing, irregular and distant, like glass wind chimes caught in a current. and a second sound: something dragging across the floor, slow, deliberate.
she reaches for her camera on instinct, though the lens fogs instantly, the glass beading with moisture.
hour: 0:23
the sound comes again, clearer this time β the scrape of stone, or bone, or something heavier moving, just out of sight.
(1): a glass spider lily with a small golden chain fused along its stem.
the stall appears suddenly and without fanfare. eudora could swear that she had not seen it the day before β but today, it sits with such conviction among the market regulars that she wonders if she only overlooked it.
an awning of faded red silk extends a limber shadow across her path, and eudora pauses in its chill to examine the delicate wares laid out on the table. her eyes pass over an ornate pocket watch and a pewter trinket box ; linger on a pair of dove-grey gloves stitched with silver thread ; pause briefly on a small mirror clouded with age. she finds herself drifting closer without meaning to.
the merchant's items are scattered in careful disorder across the table ; as she approaches, she notices more hanging from small hooks beneath the awning β tarnished silver hoops and stoppered vials that catches the light like trapped insects. ( they remind her of the moon charm she'd purchased from byeol ; the charm that now swung above her bed frame ). her gaze moves back to the treasures on the tabletop, across glass effigies and antique jewelry until it settles on a small wooden riser toward the right end of the table, laden with miniature glass sculptures.
in her periphery, the merchant moves, but she pays them no mind β her interest is fixed upon the glass sculptures now, each one a different sort of flower, each stem wound delicately in wire. her fingers trace the air above a glass-blown dahlia, its pointed petals pink and iridescent ; then a poppy of blood-red glass, luminous and faintly transparent. at the end of the row sits a spider lily, its petals impossibly thin, each edge wreathed in a whisper of gold leaf. a chain β no more than a thread β winds along its stem.
without thinking, eudora reaches for it, half-expecting it to shatter beneath her touch. but it doesn't β it feels cool and smooth and charged with an energy all its own. alive.
"how much β ? " the words leave her lips before she's quite aware of thinking them, her eyes wrenching free from the spider lily long enough to hold the merchant's gaze.
βit chooses its own keeper,β the merchant murmurs, voice gravelly as the walking path to the lakehouse library. they pluck the glass flower from beneath her touch, and eudora's heart leaps with fear at the thought of them taking it away β but they only pull her hovering hand toward them, flip it palm-side up, and fold the glass spider lily into her grasp. then close her fingers around it and pat her gently clenched fist, once, twice.
eudora wonders at the exchange as she walks back to the farmhouse in the blue wash of dusk, the spider lily warm in her hand.
Λ ΰ£ͺ . .γγ. γβΛγ. Λ ΰ£ͺ .
the first glow.
(ic): it emits a soft, golden light whenever its owner seems happy or sad.
some time later, eudora is tucked away in her bedroom at the farmhouse, cross-legged on an unmade bed. the day's spoils are scattered around her: a stack of developed polaroids and a spool of film, the bundle of fresh lavender snagged at the market, a kerchief of sweet buns purchased at the bakery. despite the chill outside, her windows are thrown wide, curtains twitching softly in the night breeze.
her eyes keep catching on the glass spider lily, laid carefully on the windowsill. the sky is overcast, but some soft light still refracts through its translucent petals. a part of her longs to retrieve it and examine it once again, to stroke its golden stem with the pad of her thumb, the way she had done for almost an hour when she'd first gotten home ; inexplicable, perhaps entranced.
she forces herself to turn away, sighs. unravels the checkered kerchief and pops a bun in her mouth, licks the sugar residue from her fingertips. the flavor reminds her of being very little, of sticky fingers wrapped around a too-big hand, of her brother's endless shadow across the golden fields, of the first stars winking to life in the twilight. an ache, heavy and amber, settles in her chest.
in the corner of her eye, something shimmers.
on the windowsill, the glass lily glows, impossibly dim. eudora blinks and rubs her eyes with her knuckles.
the lily glows on, a faint golden light emanating from somewhere deep within, drifting upward like smoke through its glass petals.
bare legs slip from the sanctuary of her blankets, and the cool night air raises goosebumps almost immediately across her skin. she shivers when the sole of her foot comes in contact with the floorboards ; tucks her hands into the sleeves of her sweater for warmth before crossing her bedroom to the window sill.
the light is fading from the spider lily, like a sunset β but even without picking it up, she can see it's there, inside. the glow fades amber, flickers, then dies.
carefully, almost cautiously, eudora reaches for the miniature flower. her breath is caught in her chest ; her pointer finger trembles as it traces the gold chain fused to the flower's stem. the glass is cold in her hands.
absently, she blows out the candle on her desk and turns back to the bed. she crosses the creaking floorboards, pausing only to rest the spider lily with intense care on her nightstand, before nestling herself back beneath her covers. the blankets are pulled clear over her head, with only the tiniest pocket poked out for gazing through.
it is like this that she waits, in anxiety and anticipation, watching the spider lily for another sign of activity. she wonders briefly at the others β the dahlia, the poppy β what could their powers be ?
her eyes grow heavy as she waits. right before she slips beneath the dark surface of sleep, the spider lily glows once more, then goes out.
YOUR MUSE SEEMS TO HAVE FALLEN UNDER A SLEEPING SPELL BY THE LAKE...
eudora comes to the lake without meaning to ; an aimless walk from the farmhouse across town that had ended abruptly at the water's edge. from somewhere behind her, the library looms β for a moment, she debates turning around and going inside, claiming a table by the windows, perusing the folklore section.
instead, she spreads her scarf across the pebbled shoreline and settles herself in front of the water, her back resting against a mammoth bone of bleached driftwood. the day is cool but clear, and she dressed warmly ; the way the sunlight glitters across the lake's surface is calming, entrancing. the water whispers something low and aching into the stones along the shore, over and over ; if eudora strains her ears, she's sure she can hear its voice, speaking in a tone a lot like her own...
the air grows thick ; heavy clouds move in to cover the sun. even as thunder rumbles low and menacing from somewhere in the distance, she notices the air growing warmer.
on the other side of the lake, she spots a figure emerge from the treeline. human, vaguely girlish. she watches as it picks its way down a low embankment towards the water's edge, all shadow and motion. from this distance, she can only spot the basics β hunched shoulders, too-large clothing, a white-blonde head. something heavy and rectangular swings around its neck.
the figure reaches the walking path around the lake and starts toward the water's edge, and all at once, the memory clicks into place: her arrival. her first week in velgrove. her discovery of the lake, her obsession with its beauty and mythic presence. eudora watches the figure do what she knows it will β first circle the walking path, then split for the lake's edge, camera bumping softly against its sternum.
eudora opens her mouth to call out to the figure β to call out to herself, for she's sure that's who she is seeing, some parallel version of her own body β but her voice dies in her throat.
there is someone else with her.
not with her, with her, but watching β obscured among the trees at the top of the embankment.
the memory-self does the things eudora knows it will β crouches too close to the water to snap a picture of the silvered lake, sways off-balance, plunges a canvas sneaker into cold water. but eudora can only watch the someone else that lingers in the trees, the way their outline bends the light, just slightly, like glass distorting what it traps inside.
a crack of thunder rings across the clearing, startling both her and her memory-self. eudora watches as the alter turn its face up to the sky, winces when the first drops break the surface of the lake.
her memory-self retreats from the water's edge, backtracking to the walking path and the sanctuary of the lakehouse library ( the same way eudora once did, although she can't remember the rain being this heavy, the air feeling so charged ).
when her gaze returns to the treeline, the figure is gone.
her head swivels, scanning the semi-darkness until she spots it again, closer, somehow β the shape of someone half-concealed behind a trunk, where the mist thickens. still hidden, but watching.
something cold ripples through the dream ; not thunder, not wind, just the metallic shiver of being caught on film. eudora opens her mouth to cry out, to call to herself across the water, but her voice is lost, non-existent ; no sound leaves her throat, only a tremor that disturbs the reflection.
ripples fracture her image on the lake surface and erase the watcher from the trees. she blinks, and the memory begins to blur. the younger version of herself dissolves with the water's pull.
this time, she's not inside the library. she's standing just outside, canvas sneakers wet and dripping fat black drops of lakewater onto the gravel path. she's standing just beyond the halo of light that radiates from a singular, uncovered bulb suspended above the entryway. she's standing with an obscured view through the windows inside β the stacks a living, breathing thing beyond the warped glass.
but she's not in them. she's outside. free. eudora turns sharply from the light of the library ; darkness yawns, wide and inviting, in the opposite direction.
and then she's running β
β her wet shoes kicking up stones in her wake. as she plunges forward, she realizes ( vaguely ) that she's not in total darkness β there is a strange, watery light that lets her see her footfalls, fractured and silver and inconsistent ( the way light sources always are in dreams ) but she's thankful for it, thankful for the way it pools at her feet and ripples outward with each pounding beat of her soles, like moonlight across water.
she believes this path will take her home. it doesn't make sense, because the library is far from a straight shot back to the farmhouse, but there's something in chest that's telling her to keep pushing forward, it's taking her home, it's a shortcut. in her mind's eye, the creaky screen door of the farmhouse is already swinging open to envelope her, the warm blooded occupants inside awash in golden light and ready to greet her.
far from whatever slithered in the stacks at her back β
a figure β there, in the road ahead, not much taller than herself. it stood unmoving in the middle of the path, back hunched, a tweed hood drawn up over its head. half-shadow, half-light.
it was turned slightly β for a moment, eudora thought the figure might wave, but it didn't. she slowed, breath catching hot in her chest ; she falters another step, squinting, and that's when she sees it β the way the darkness bends around the figure like the shimmer above asphalt on a hot day.
and then she knows.
the face is wrong. not blank, exactly, but smooth β half-formed, as though someone had tried to remember her features and given up halfway through. and yet: the posture, the jacket, the fall of faded blonde-black hair β all of it was hers.
for a moment, she is only calm, observing ; watching herself as if from behind glass.
then, panic: sharp, animal, rising too fast to think.
she stumbles backwards, gravel scattering like water trickling over stone, heart hammering a staccato beat in her ears. the not-her moves, quick and sure, closing the space between them in a blur that felt more like time skipping than actual motion.
she tries to scream, but her voice dies in her throat. the double lunges.
the last thing she sees is its hand, pale and too long, reaching for the camera on its strap around her neck, like it meant to take it, like it meant to take everything β
she wakes upright in her bed, her pulse still racing, the room around her trembling in the dim. moonlight spills through her curtains, across the egg nested in its handkerchief and onto her bed, painting her sheets silver. her hand moves instinctively to her camera on the nightstand β still there, cool beneath her palm.
for a long time, she doesn't move again. the quiet hum of cricket song, the tick of a clock, the faint rustle of the barn cats outside β all of it works together to ground her back in the moment, piece by piece.
in the morning, she snaps a photograph of her own reflection in her mirror, just to be sure.
PROMPT: your muse finds an unknown package placed at the end of their bed. there is no signage indicating who the package is from, but it is clearly addressed to your muse. how big is the package and how does it look? more importantly, what is inside the package?
how it looks.
small β unassuming. she's lying awake for some time before she notices it, one sock-clad foot striking the brown paper wrapping when she pulls her legs free from the blankets.
her room is still. morning light filters gray and unsteady through the curtains. it feels wrong that something could have arrived without her noticing.
she reaches for it anyway.
the package is wrapped with rough twine, two fibrous strands laid side by side across the crinkly brown paper. when she picks it up, bits of twine flake onto her comforter.
it's about the size of a shoebox, but lighter. even through the paper wrapping, the box feels warm in her hands β like it's leeching heat. she lifts it closer to her face, shakes ; something thwumps softly inside.
there's a faint odor clinging to the paper, like pressed herbs or damp paper left too long inside a cupboard. the first whiff reminds her of home.
there's no card, no return address, no indication who may have left it here β but her name is hand printed on a small paper label affixed to the lower right-hand corner, spelled out in neat, deliberate block letters.
what's inside.
she has to work her fingernails under the double-knot in the twine, un-tie the strands, before she can run a finger along one paper edge. she tests the wrapping for a weak point, a wrinkle or crease she can press until it tears. finally, she finds a place that gives ; the paper peels softly beneath her fingers, the faint smell of pine rising from within.
a layer of moss lines the inside of the box, damp and alive β she notices the pale curl of nearly translucent roots at the box's edge.
nestled within it: a nest no larger than her palm, woven from horsehair and thread. at the center rests a single egg, smaller than her palm and faintly luminous.
its shell is dove gray and dawn pink, veined with hairline cracks.
it looks like it was carved of ceramic or marble, something delicately crafted, but when she moves to touch it she swears she sees it tremble. when she lifts the egg, the shell flexes, barely perceptible β like skin reacting to the warmth of a sudden touch. eudora holds her breath, listening.
for one moment, she thinks she hears a heartbeat
there's no note inside the box, no scrap of paper hidden beneath the roots of the moss ; only the smell of damp earth and lakewater.
later, eudora places the egg in a bowl by her window. she wraps it in a clean white handkerchief embroidered with flowers.
RESPONSE TO TOWN BOARD: the asan family is heading out of town for the week and need someone to help check in on their cat and dog (tiki & ranger) while they're gone.
DAY ONE: THE WINDOW & THE WATCHERS.
sixty-five dollars for the week.
that is the sum they agree upon, mr. asan's voice harsh with static over the landline, eudora's hand copying the address he recites to her in slanted script. sixty-five dollars to check on the dog and the cat twice a day for seven days. it seemed like a fair exchange.
the key is hidden under the plant pot by the door, mr. asan tells her. his instruction plays in her mind as she pedals her bike through the still evening air, purple clinging to the edges of everything. the wind that runs its fingers through her hair is too warm for this time of year, for the way leaves drift down around her to collect in dry piles in the gutters. when eudora leans her bike against the low concrete partition by the front steps, she understands why he'd specified pot: the spotted brown lump clinging listlessly to the side of the terracotta planter can be described as anything but a living plant.
she stoops to retrieve the key hiding underneath it, damp-cool and dirt-speckled. her hair spills over one shoulder at the movement, a dark curtain between her and the world. as she straightens back up, wiping the earth from the key's metal teeth, she notices the curve of lace at the window beside the door, fluttering. the air is still.
the key turns easily, the door opens noiselessly. beyond the threshold, the home is dark and unfamiliar. she lingers at the threshold for a moment, the weight of trespass heavy in her chest.
then, she steps inside.
the air inside the asan home is artificially cold and touched with the faint tang of lemon cleaner. somewhere deeper in the darkness, the A/C machine churns. silvered light slants across the entryway from the window by the door, and eudora realizes with a start that the window is ajar, screen-less, letting in the twilight air.
at once, she moves to close it, fingers curling around the wood edge of the windowpane and pushing downward with a year's worth of wiry, farm-built muscle. she's met with a moment of sticky resistance before the window gives way, sliding closed with a quiet thwump.
when she turns back around, there are eyes.
bright green and unblinking, set in a sleek, black face. eudora's breath falters. her hand slaps the light switch behind her and the kitchen light buzzes to life, casting the figure of a lean cat in stark relief. tiki.
the cat perches on the kitchen counter, her long tail flicking back and forth with lazy agitation. her gaze is level, nose lifted ; eudora gets the sense she is being scrutinized. she raises one stiff arm, awkwardly, fingers wiggling as if in apology. tiki tilts her head, sniffs once at the space just above eudora's knuckles, then turns away with delicate disinterest, paws padding a soft rhythm against the granite.
the sound of those paws, tapping like a clock hand, draws eudora forward. she follows tiki into the kitchen, eyes roaming over the sleek granite countertops, the high-backed chairs tucked neatly under a wooden table, the set of family photographs framed along the mantle.
she stops to examine the owners of the home more closely ; the asan's smiling, arms wrapped around one another, all teeth and color. the moments captured in their photographs feel too bright, somehow, for the hush of the house. she can almost convince herself it is only that β the hush β that unsettles her.
until she hears it: the low, heavy exhale of something large moving in the shadows down the hall.
tiki leaps soundlessly from the counter, landing with middling grace but definite certainty, as though she's heard this particular noise before. she trots down the hall, tail held high, pausing once to glance back at eudora with an impatient flick of her ear.
eudora follows her new guide with trepidation, mouth dry. the sound comes again, closer. wetter. a weight dragged through lungs too large to belong to a human. the light from the kitchen dwindles behind her, replaced by a dim amber glow bleeding from a standing lamp in the high-ceilinged living room.
and there, haloed in the warm light on a patterned rug, she sees it β him. ranger.
the second occupant in her charge is larger than she expected β some indeterminate mix of shepherd and hound, his coat a coarse brindle patched with black.
his eyes lift to meet hers. they are not unkind, but not exactly welcoming, either β watchful, perhaps. he snuffles the air once, nose lifting in her direction, then exhales again β low, steady, like the pull of tidewater out in santhe bay β before his head settles back down between his paws.
these are the greetings she receives from the asan family pets.
eudora lingers, half in the room and half still in the hallway, fists pressing against her denim-clad thighs. she should say something, she thinks. hey boy or good dog. some word to smooth her presence into the space, to earn a modicum of trust. instead, the words dry up in her mouth.
sixty-five dollars, she reminds herself.
she steps into the living room proper, one hand extended carefully before her. ranger's eyes track her movement, lids heavy. tiki yawns, long and theatrical, showing eudora every sharp tooth inside her small head.
"sleepy?" she manages to say into the silence, and the tension fractures, just a little β relief mixing uneasily with something she cannot name. around them, the house remains silent, aware, listening.
the kitchen feels brighter when she returns, tiki trailing like a black shadow behind her, uncertain but intrigued. "right," eudora says into the empty room, because it makes her feel better. "dinner."
she glances toward the fridge, the cabinets. it doesn't take her long to find the pet supplies: the bags of dry food folded closed with a clip, the shelf stacked with tin cans, the jar of treats, the stack of bowls nested under the sink.
when she turns again, she sees that tiki has already stationed herself back on the shiny countertop, tail draping neatly around her paws. she blinks her green eyes once, expectant. in her periphery, another shadow twitches β ranger is a fuzzy black mass in the hallway.
"alright," eudora mutters, feeling encouraged.
she measures carefully, using the kibble-dusted cups inside each food bag, cracking open cans and peeling back metal lids, aware of the way two sets of eyes follow her as she goesβgreen and sharp from the counter, brown and fathomless from the hall.
when she finally sets the bowls down, ranger abandons his post in the hallway and enters the kitchen, the thud of his paws slow and deliberate. he eats without frenzy, muzzle buried in his dish, a steady crunch-crunch of his jaws ; tiki laps the tuna from the top of her kibble with a soft, wet sound, but leaves the dry kibble untouched.
eudora leans back against the counter as they eat, arms crossed. she watches, but she cannot shake the prickle that she is also being watched β not just by the animals, but by the dim corners of the house itself.
when the bowls are empty, tiki licks her paw and swipes it over one ear ; a pointed dismissal. ranger noses his bowl along the kitchen floor, metal scraping across the white linoleum tiles, then pads back down the hallway ; eudora watches his silhouette disappear through the amber doorway on the other end.
she tidies quickly, stacking the bowls in the sink ( she'll deal with those in the morning ) and returning the food bags to their shelf in the pantry. her fingers brush porcelain, metal, the cold bite of the sink faucet as she works. when she finishes, she wipes her palms on the knees of her jeans.
for the first time since arriving, eudora remembers the note tucked into her pocket. mr. asan's instructions to her. she slides it free to examine her own handwriting, clearing a mental checklist as she reads. plant pot, check. feed cat, check. feed dog, check. no need to let ranger out β he had his own doggy door to the backyard.
all that remained was locking up for the night.
outside, the sun has set ; eudora realizes with an uneasy start that she will be biking back to the farmhouse in the dark. anxious to leave, she starts her sweep of the doors: first the back one, locked. then the sliding glass door off the kitchen, also locked. then the front, still warm from her hand on the knob.
she hesitates by the front window β the one she'd found open when she'd first arrived.
"sixty-five dollars," she whispers into the house, the words like a small charm pressed between her teeth. she could really use the money, after all.
behind her, tiki jumps from the counter, landing without sound. eudora doesn't notice ; only slips back outside and into the night, locking the front door.
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