Page 59 of Florescentia

“I’m no stranger to the feeling.”

“I see a lot of him in you,” she laughed. “I suppose that’s a good thing, considering where you are now.”

“We can agree it is a blessing and a curse.” I smiled, glancing at the books on the wall, the empty slot where the one in my hand belonged.

Her brow furrowed, and her mouth opened to say something more, but I had already left my seat.

I faced the books, my nose nearly touching them as I looked through the titles, the worn spines and the smell of bibliosmia pulling my attention.

My mother collected her robe, then the faint sound of steps back up the stairs.

Next to the empty slot were a few books of interest, many of them more worn than the rest. It was clear this area of the library was the most used, according to how the books had settled. Even the colors on some of them were worn away to a pale drab from the years of hands caressing them.

I returned the ruined book into the empty spot.

The library was nearly whole again.

If he couldn’t tell me what he was so afraid of, I would bet my last dollar that it would be in that journal.

Chapter Seventeen

The Nova

I found a spare box of fragrant petals and one vial of oil stashed in a forgotten corner of a cabinet, just enough for a midnight bath.

The moonlight formed a crescent in the circular window above my head, the steam dancing about my face as I stared at the bare roof beams. They said too many warm baths would drive women insane, but I was past worrying about water.

With palms cupped over my eyes, I tried to force any light away, no matter how dim. Pressing on them made small stars flicker in and out, little phantoms winking.

There was very little I could do to diminish the stress. It was like a small demon was forever sitting on my chest. Some nights I thought it was one of my familiars looking for comfort. Turned out, it was just a very human condition. The physical manifestation of stress was the least-surprising specter in my home.

I glanced over to the stool, my father’s journal propped open. I was about a quarter of the way through deciphering his work. One thing I knew for sure—this was not gibberish. The water portal worked for Altair, but would it work for me too? Where it led, I did not know, but it was the perfect time to find out.

It was clear by now that there was something in this book that Altair didn’t want me to know. But what else was there under the surface?

I closed my eyes again, clearing my thoughts as best I could. The darkness was calm, my senses and nerves dampened. Meditative breaths, followed by the slowing beats of the heart.

“Florescentia.” The incantation came as light as a breath.

My body slipped down to the bottom of the tub, my knees pulling up as I sank below the waterline. A fuzzy silence filled my ears, pressing against my eardrums. The conditioned bath suspended my hair, the strands licking my face with gentle sweeps.

Water wasn’t just about transformation or being able to flow with where the world took you; it was introspective, it had memory. Submersion allowed you to hear your own blood, the beats of your heart, every bump and shift of your organs as the water suspended you. There was never a drop of water on this earth that had ever been created from scratch or destroyed; it had seen the beginning, and it would see the end.

My lips broke the surface first as I gasped for air, sitting up as my lungs filled.

As I brushed my hair from my face, I reached for the ledge to lift myself from the basin.

Except, there was no ledge.

I rubbed the water from my bleary eyes. I was in the bathroom still, but the basin was no longer, and I was on the floor. As still as a mirrored lake, the room was filled with shallow water.

I placed my hand on the submerged floor, but I felt something soft.

In my hands, water grass. Disturbing it pulled up a cloud of silt.

Within the darkened water, small glints of light. Small fry darted through the liquid, a glow to them that pulsed when they moved faster.

I waded over to my vanity, the desk overtaken by stubborn vines. On the back of the chair was a robe, the bottom soaking as I wrapped it around me. The fabric stuck to my legs as droplets splashed up with every step.