Chapter Twenty-One The Nova
Chapter Twenty-One
The Nova
I thought if I stared at the Treasury shelves long enough, the answers would jump out in front of me. It wasn’t as though I thought that would happen literally, but more like I hoped by being in a setting that inspired thinking, it might come to me naturally.
“Lucia?” A voice up on the skywalk overhead.
Calum was leaning against the railing, his sleeves rolled and suspenders exposed.
“I nearly didn’t recognize you in such casual clothing,” he commented, tucking a pencil behind his ear while he shifted folders under his arm. “Is Maxim helping you, or do you need assistance?”
A darkness formed on the ceiling.
My gut sank.
It was like a water leak at first, then it turned pitch black. It spread across the painted fresco, becoming a starry expanse. Yet, only I could see such an ominous thing.
Calum’s brows furrowed, still waiting on his answer.
“I might.” As I watched the shadow behind him, a small rumbling began in my ears.
“Well, what is the subject today?” He perked up, walking to the other side of the skywalk before disappearing into the arch.
“Do no harm,” I warned quietly.
Calum emerged from the floor-level door, having also discarded his other folders full of responsibilities to help.
“I’m looking for mentions of shadows, in Astrium specifically,” I said slowly.
“Celestial beings or symbolism?” he countered as he pulled the library ladder across the shelves.
The shadows on the ceiling began to drip, forming on the ground as they landed.
“Celestial being,” I said, then called up to him as he climbed the ladder, “maybe even how to banish one.”
“Are you getting night terrors?” Calum peeked down at me.
Another shadow crawled along the top of the bookshelf, a vague human form above Calum, claws drawn. It stilled, but it was posturing as if to snatch him.
Was it bluffing?
Was I willing to find out?
“Actually,” I said quickly, hurrying to the nearest book within reach, “never mind. I will just take this.”
Calum looked almost deflated, like he’d been looking forward to something other than his desk job. But with accepted defeat, he stepped back down the ladder, and the shadows retreated.
“I’m so sorry to be a bother.” I smiled apologetically, but he just gave me an understanding nod.
“Well, you know where to find me if Maxim can’t be of use,” he chirped. “Back to processing applications.” The faux-excited tone made it seem funny, despite the poor man’s boredom.
“I will let you know,” I assured him. “It’s a good time to be distracted. Maybe I will have more musings to entertain.”
“I shall hope so,” he sighed, nodding before retreating.
The shadows on the ceiling shrank back, the colors of the fresco became vibrant again, and the only evidence of the illusion was locked within my mind. A memorable warning.
Among the last living flowers in my garden were irises.
It was no coincidence that the only color left was from the indigo blooms with white spots along the petals.
Or perhaps it was a pure accident that they were the last to go.
I clipped them at the base, one more use of their beauty before the next Ortuam season, when the world would explode with color.
Along with the flowers, I wore some of my lesser-used dressings.
The robe was made of a heavy silk, but even the heaviest weight did not overheat. The robe was a sky blue, large gold starbursts embroidered in gold floss. The bell sleeves were made of a sheer fabric, the same stars scattered with smaller ones along the trim.
I prepared a salve, for a dewy finish that complemented both tones of my lips. Coated my lashes with mascara to cover the peppered white hairs along my inner brow and lash line. There were only a couple, so it was easier to just make them black.
My hair was brushed out, then I added a heavier oil to give form to the curls.
I twisted half of it up. A mother-of-pearl hair stick with a moon charm held the top half in place, with the exception of a few stray curls around my face and ears.
I felt like some painting from the Middle Ages, a princess in the tower, luring the dragon of my own making.
It had taken a while, but the library was eventually cleaned more thoroughly.
Scrubbed and swept as much as I could without doing any major repairs.
Candles were scattered around the room, all the water lamps covered.
A sheet tucked against the highest bookshelf, bookends holding the fabric in place along the wall.
In front of this improvised backdrop, my camera on a tripod. It was boxy, its bellows freshly oiled and hydrated. It was larger and less practical than my smaller pinhole cameras, but it was my only camera that used pneuma-types.
I prepared three wet plates in their own separate dark slides.
The first one was already fastened to the back of the camera, and I adjusted the length of the bellows for focus.
I removed the cap from the lens and screwed in the long air trigger that would allow me to push the shutter myself.
It was pretty much a thin rubber tube with a squeeze-bulb atomizer on the end, like one on a perfume bottle.
A lonely stool stood before the backdrop, lining up with the camera directly.
My Peculiars started around the legs of the stool and the tripod, their trembles a question of what I was doing.
I took my place before the camera, brushing my fingers through my hair, inhaling the scent of the perfume mixing with my fresh-cut iris. With the bloom by my face, the petals were soft on my cheek. Held behind my back was the atomizer trigger. It was set to capture only a portrait composition.
With as much stillness as I could manage, I squeezed the atomizer. A lightning flash and a puff of smoke went off with the camera shutter.
I was quiet, my Peculiars were still. I released a breath when I knew the shutter was done and I wouldn’t blur the image. I crept to the camera, removed the image plate, and brought it back to the table.
The piece of metal slipped into the fixing solution.
The negative outline of myself slowly melted into a positive.
The downside to having two different skin tones was that I would never have both perfectly exposed on camera.
I aimed for middle exposure, which worked best with the added light of the flash.
Within the black-and-white image, a color bloomed around my impression. It was a deep blue and a small haze of periwinkle.
As I rocked the image in the wet solution, a tickle at the back of my neck, then down my arms.
Have I piqued your curiosity?
Luckily, I was a woman of demonstration. I was no stranger to exhibition, for myself or my inventions. At heart, maybe I was a saleswoman. A business mind. An advertiser who knew how to think backward, how to appetize, and how to fulfill those stirrings.
The second plate was strapped into the back of the camera, just like before. The flash powder was refilled in its holder.
With the trigger in hand, I returned to my place. I waited for something, I didn’t know what. But I felt the presence, something watching. Some said audiences made it harder to perform. In my experience, I could agree to that sentiment. It was different with an audience of one curious creature.
I opened my robe, exposing my chest down the middle.
My skin began to tingle, a low vibration just subtle enough to almost miss it. My markings cast a subtle glow, welcoming what awaited in the dark.
He was here. He just wasn’t ready to be known.
I traced the flower head along my cheek, then languidly across my neck. I swore I could feel my skin electrify under the touch. The scent was strong, burning the inside of my nose the more time I spent around it. I dragged it over my chest and between my breasts, a light tickle.
I squeezed the trigger again.
A snap and an explosion, a blinding light. My vision was burned, but it slowly faded as my eyes adjusted.
It was safe to breathe again, but I held back. I was still, searching the dark room for movement. There was a ringing in my ears, my skin roughened as the hairs stood on end.
“Are you shy?” I said aloud.
It was ridiculous, calling into the dark like that. But I knew he was there, whether he wanted to show himself or not.
There was no reply.
I slipped off the stool, removed the plate from the back of the camera, and returned to the table. The second plate slid into the solution. There I was again, a mirage etched into the metal. You couldn’t see the glow of my patterns with the flash, but a white ring around my iris was prominent.
The colors began to form, a slow development of blue and purple.
Then it all darkened.
The colors turned black in an instant, like a poorly done titration. The image was gone, just a black slate, and the only things visible were the ones that glowed. The things that recognized the void—my eyes and markings, bright as ever in the sensitive film.
I prepped the camera for the last time, latching in the final plate.
With the knowledge of his presence, I went slower this time. Adjusting the bellows, wiping the lens, refilling the flash, even checking the extended trigger. Once I was done with that, I took time to inspect the tripod, my nails.
I stepped toward the stool, but just as I was about to reach it, I turned around as if my silly little head had forgotten something.
The stool flew over my head and hit the shutters of the window, landing on top of my workbench. The chemicals splashed, the metal plates chiming against each other as they hit the floor.
I could no longer bite back the smirk pulling at my lips.
A temper, I could work with. An ego, I could bend. Things with inflated self-importance made mistakes: impulsive, costly mistakes. It was only about finding a breaking point.