Chapter Two The Nova
Chapter Two
The Nova
There were many hours in a day, but never enough.
I rose as early as the birds, yet my husband beat me every time, just a dip in the mattress as proof of his slumber.
The mid-June heat radiated from my skin, the sheets sticking as I peeled them off. Not even the silken pillow slip could stop my hair from becoming undone during my rest, thick curls sticking to me as I coaxed them back with a ribbon.
The ceiling windows cast light across the room, creeping slowly toward the bed as the beams straightened. The curtains waving from gusts of hot air failed to make the room any more tolerable.
The Laxamentum months were hard in the townhome.
The air would rise and become stale until it reached the ceiling.
Opening windows would only stir the air, not relieve the staleness.
The heat from outside came from the surrounding buildings, unable to escape through the wind tunnels pushing it around the city grid.
There was no use throwing on a robe. I was already sweating in my nightgown.
As my feet touched the ground, my toes searched for my house slippers before I shoved them on. Then I gathered my empty water glass, tipping it to my lips as if some miracle of a drop would still be there.
The moment I stepped into the hallway, a breeze from the wind outside passed through the front window and out the back. While a temporary pleasure, it was still hot air.
Getting down two flights of stairs to the first floor was enough to make me short of breath.
In the next home, I might settle for a single-floor cottage.
By the time I’d climbed down to the ground floor, the noises from the street were clearer, specters and flashes of light playing like a performance of puppets in a shadow theater behind the curtains.
The smell of fresh-ground coffee beans and oats collected in the air, a phonograph mumbling from the parlor.
I was lucky to have the sort of life where, no matter the excitement of my conquests, some things never changed, never failed.
Waking up with a roof over my head was one; a plate of pomegranate seeds beside a pressed coffee every morning was another. Then the partner responsible was always reading the paper, like clockwork.
Dorian didn’t look up from his papers, but I caught the twitch of his brow as I appeared in his periphery.
“You didn’t wake me.” I stood in front of the window, casting a shadow over him.
Dorian peeked over the top of his paper, a curled piece of black hair dangling in front of a pair of ocean-blue irises.
“I knew better than to wake the beast.” His eyes were stern, and so were his words, until he abandoned his paper facade to reveal a witty grin. “I would say I wanted you to save all your energy for the upcoming patent appointment, but I know you could do it in your sleep.”
“If only I could attend to things in my sleep, I could have so much more time to do what I please.” I plucked a pomegranate seed from the crystal bowl, meeting him at eye level. “Maybe a cloning machine will be my next invention. Any ideas?”
He folded the newspaper across his lap, neatly pressing the seams back into place, as if they were never undone in the first place. “Not in the slightest.”
“I thought engineers could make anything,” I teased, circling the table between us before plopping down beside him on the love seat, chewing the fruit meat around the seed as I spoke.
He let out a languid sigh and then patted my knee. “They can, but most don’t have genius wives with impossible ideas.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed the bowl, holding a seed up to his lips. “If you say any more sweet things, your teeth may rot.”
His gaze lifted, a concerned hitch in his brow as his tongue swiped against the inside of his mouth, then across the front of his teeth. “No, I believe they are all intact. I will take your feedback into consideration.”
“No more jokes, you will be late for travel.” I popped another seed into my mouth and rose. “We have a busy week. You have everything you need?”
“The notes are in my satchel—”
“Pens?”
“Yes, several.”
“The expensive ones? Can’t give them the wrong impression.”
“Yes, the silver. And—”
“Lucky watch?”
He held up his hand, a silver timepiece with the face on the underside of his wrist.
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. “You’ve got it, then.” I opened them to find an amused look on his face. “What is it?”
He shook his head, placed his papers on the table, and stood. “I’m the one who should be nervous. It’s like you are the one up for the promotion.”
“What’s yours is mine, even promotions.” I smiled, possibly too wide. My eyes gave it away most times.
He stood before me, his hands on either side of my face.
First, a pause. He took a deep breath, and so did I.
Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out the light blue silk he’d bought for me on our wedding day, and secured it around my neck in a bow.
We didn’t have much money back then; most of the gifts were heirlooms. But he wanted something new, just mine.
A thin, pale scarf with the faintest whisper of blue was all he could scrape up the money to buy. It remained my favorite accessory.
“I’m sorry, don’t let my jitters rub off on you,” I whispered. “I’m proud of you. They’ll love you. You will return a changed man with a new salary.”
“It’s only three days.”
“A good number of things can change between now and then”—I rose on the tips of my toes to kiss each cheek—“for the better.”
“For the better,” he repeated, ending the promise with a kiss on the head. “You won’t even know I’m gone.”
“Good, be swift.” I gave a small shove to his chest. “You’ll be late to the train.”
“Yes, my dearest Lucia,” he laughed, leaning over to grab his satchel, perched against the sofa. “Don’t forget, your father asked to see you.”
“Right . . .” I tightened his tie, fussing with a couple of traces of cat hair that were hoping to hitch a ride on his lapel.
Reluctantly, I let him go. He left in a new suit, his stride confident. He was one of those people who moved like water. Nothing could ruin his mood, trip his heel. He just went where the path wandered, trusting he would find his way back, even when venturing in the dark.
Most would assume my anxiety came from money insecurity.
They would be half correct. But we were not poor, nor rich, neither uncomfortable nor wanting.
Strokes of luck had served us well, with very little friction.
But I’d seen my parents scrape by all our lives.
I’d promised myself I would never do the same.
We had some money, prestige. While my inventions had supported our fortunes so far, Dorian was happier working till dawn with me than working for others.
The greatest gift life could afford was one of fulfillment and joy. We had the former accomplished, but the latter was still not true for him. I’d pushed, I really had. He’d worked as an engineer for so long, designing things for other people, that he’d lost sight of creating for himself.
The man was made to admire the stars, and he could do that properly as an astronomical engineer. The observatory upstate, in the mountains where the sky became thin, was a haven for a man like him. It might mean buying a second home, but it would be worth it if it meant he was happy.
What he didn’t know was that the position was already his. He would interview, he would compete with others just as qualified, but ultimately, that position had been his the minute my hand dipped through to the Otherside last night.
Now, I could prepare a celebration for his return.
Astraea, the city among stars.
The name Astraea was derived from the word astēr, meaning “star.” Most believed the name was due to the pedestals we called home, the impossibly tall abodes that stretched higher than the clouds, to touch the sky.
This was rather simple thinking, and there wasn’t much wrong with it aside from the fact the name had come before the buildings, before any major modern construction. Before Astraea was the greatest city on the coast of the Americas.
We were a city among stars because we worshipped them, lived according to them; we were, religiously and culturally, governed by them. Back when the first people settled in the state, the stars were the only thing they had. To map, to guide, to feed their routine.
Unlike people, stars were reliable. The same spots in the sky every night for as long as people remembered to look up. They were a religion so old that it had left a permanent mark on its survivors; as entertainment, as loose guidance, it was culturally ingrained.
They were also fun, a commercial gimmick sometimes.
People believed the stars were divine and cards told fortunes, yet no one believed in fantastical things like magic and sorcery.
I supposed what you could not physically observe was harder to believe than something that worked in mysterious ways.
For the stars had survived since old times, and would expire long after we were gone—the closest things we had to gods to observe us.
Now here we were, getting closer to the stars with every day that went by, until finally we’d build something so tall that it would topple us all, and the next people could start anew.
Perhaps it was nihilistic thinking, but nothing grand lasted longer than polished brass.
A hiss of steam in my ear, the clop of hooves in passing, and a fresco of street food lining the cobblestone path where my feet were planted.
The road was narrow, a deep valley between monstrously tall structures.
The light twinkled high on the facades of brass and stone, of steel and brick, glimmering as the sun dwindled in the last moments before dusk.
A river of people and the occasional horse or delivery mobile pulling wares along.
People avoiding hooves, hooves avoiding wheels, wheels avoiding people.
Every Laxamentum, families spent the hottest days of the season on the curbside for a most delicious endeavor.