Page 11 of Florescentia

The bath was cold by now, cutting my lounging short.

I dried myself carefully, patting down any buildup of oils before slipping a fine deep indigo robe over my shoulders. It was thin, completely sheer. Alençon lace outlined a map of the stars in glass beads and silk floss, finished off with a long-tasseled trim that tickled the backs of my calves.

Along the washroom wall was a vanity. On the surface, a complete collection of blue Whitefriar perfume bottles. I tapped my nail on each of the glasses. The difficult part was choosing just one. I ended on a short round glass with a velvet spray pump. The blue glass distorted the liquid color, but I knew what it was.

I spritzed my neck, then my chest, finishing on my thigh, the smoky scent a ghost of incense and oud.

Through the mirror, my reflection was the centerpiece of my dressing table.

Mirror images were something you were supposed to recognize. At the risk of sounding self-absorbed, my heart skipped every time. It was like looking at someone familiar, but with new features.

The white patches came and went, more of them appearing after rituals before slowly returning my color. Large patches of white started around my eye socket, then spread across my cheek and down to my lips. Every large patch was accompanied by smaller specks of white along the edges. A couple of stray white hairs at my forelock, which I routinely plucked, since the vitiligo did not stop with just the pigment of the skin.

I turned my head from one side to the other, then opened my robe.

My first patch of vitiligo had been high on my chest, directly in the middle. At first it was a circle. Then, as I grew older, it expanded into an elongated, four-pointed star. Then it appeared on other parts of my body: the divots of my elbows, my knees, my inner thighs, and under my breasts. All sharing loose star shapes as the patterns webbed across my body. No two marks were the same, but the placements tended to be vaguely mirrored.

They always reminded me of folding ink between a piece of paper. Most parts were symmetrical, with a few outliers.

There was nothing so awe inspiring as something truly one of a kind, one in millions, never another to be replicated. That was me, in this body, with this skin, with my gifts. It was a blessing.

No one would believe me, but I knew that even my markings were just as alive and enigmatic as the Otherside. That would explain their habit of glowing whenever I neared an opening or a Peculiar, burning as bright as my desire to know it, to touch it.

My father always said I was touched by stars, and I believed him, even now.

I finished my routine with hair oil, brushing my fingers through the coils and properly scrunching the dampened strands to encourage the shape.

The night was calm, embracing the corridor like a wool sheet, the tension in the air holding static. It was palpable. Just stepping out of the water and into the heart of my home demanded energy. Today was heavy, a new moon. Opportunity sang with high voltage, bright and full of danger.

Absinthe and Tonic slunk from the dark corners, intermingling with the tassels of my cover swaying around me.

My library was dark, even after I’d fed the plankton in their wall-mounted bowls. I approached one, a brass holder with an enclosed glass sphere. I repositioned the glass, the water within offering a small sprite of blue light before settling to a faint radiance.

At the center of the room, the large round rug—but no Peculiars.

I looked back at the doorway, where the two black forms paced the entry.

“What is it?” I called to them. “Come.” I swept my arm through the air, my hand pointing to the center of the floor.

They paced, jittering. As if deliberating whether to obey.

“Come,” I said, a harsh strain on the words.

The deliberation ended, and they slid quickly into the room, circling each other before combining in the middle of the rug, just as I’d trained them to do. Their dark expanse flattened, widening before it reached the woven fringe.

I took a globe from the wall, the movement waking particles of light as I approached my task.

I whispered my assurances, whether the Peculiars were listening or not, or even if they didn’t care to hear: “For good measure, and good tidings.”

It was a transaction; no care was really needed. Even if they were not my focus tonight, they reaped the benefits of being near: a good meal for them, no matter what.

I placed the water lamp at my feet, the glow growing stronger as it neared the abyss. With light fingers, I slipped the robe from my shoulders and discarded it on a lounge chair, then lowered myself with my knees edging the void. The vitiligo began to glow as well.

The opening was viscous, liquid. The specular reflection was as pristine as mercury, the glow of my patterns bouncing from the image. A ring around my iris matched the glow of everything else.

With a grounding inhale, I closed my eyes. The smell of rainfall on parched earth, a kiss of sulfur. A metallic tinge to the air. Static crept along my arms, hairs standing on end one by one.

Focus was instrumental in gaining the outcome you wanted. Negative thoughts should be left in the wind as you visualized the things you desired, the feelings you’d have once you were victorious. Let the frequency build, tickling your toes as it rose to the very pit of your stomach, enticing your appetites before swelling your heart, then a lung’s stretch to hold that desire just out of reach, just before your fingertips, within your grasp.