Page 83 of Florescentia

He was watching, I knew he was, but he knew better than to show himself.

Today was for me. Not for research, not for chores, not for errands.

I took my camera and left the house with a small purse, just big enough to hold another roll of film. My day to myself would end on the last shutter.

Days off were supposed to be easy. For me? They were disorienting. What did I do for fun? I stayed at home. My idea of fun was sitting still and letting my imagination run wild in a catalog, looking for the next gap in the market. All my typical visits were to my parents’, the Treasury, or the Everium as a treat.

In the end, I landed on window-shopping. I didn’t need to buy anything, just look.

I got up early, dressed in something light with my most comfortable boots for walking. Sometimes the excitement for the task came with the preparation. For some reason, I could only wait for that joy to hit me. It hadn’t come, not yet. But I was eagerly waiting.

From the moment I stepped outside, all I felt was dread. I almost abandoned my mission for leisure altogether.

I stood on my doorstep watching the carriages go by, the steam mobiles sputtering and hissing, and hearing the painfully mundane hum of chatter rise and dim in my ears.

The trees rustled above me. I stared at them because there was no wind. I expected a critter. Though it might have been the other creature who thought himself clever just because he’d hidden himself from my sights.

My driver pulled in front of my home, the steam engine hissing as it stalled. The beastly machine hummed, my uneasy reflection shining in the black paint. A tall, well-dressed man came out to open the door, awaiting my ready departure.

The leaves were no longer moving when I spared them a fleeting look.

I was ready to head east.

The first stop was just as small and quaint as the town itself. Shops with hand-painted signage in the windows and artisanal goods, harborside tourism.

The isle was by calm waters, finished with the sails of small novelty boats and people of leisure in white linen. Swans fluttered by the shores as children threw pieces of pastry into the water.

Tucked into the harbor were charming houses and quiet wealth. The hills were lined with second or third vacation homes, and maybe one more for the kept mistress. All green spaces were manicured, like the perception of wealth depended on every blade of grass being exactly two inches high.

The shop windows were the most interesting. Vibrant displays that weren’t necessarily for advertising, but for aesthetic. The candy store was my first visit. The entire place smelled distinctly like cherries, the nice ones from the Dalmatian coast.

The candies were so colorful you had to wonder what kind of dyes could make such vibrant shades. Butterscotch as orange as the sun, lollipops ranging from greens to reds, sour candies and clover chews. My favorite was sea salt dark chocolate.

I lingered in front of the chocolate bars, the paper wrappings pristine and decorative. I even held one in my hand, tempted to take it to the counter.

There was a rustling beside my ear. My scarf moved over my shoulder, as if someone was fixing its placement. Not a person in sight. Reluctantly abandoning the chocolate, I left.

Clouds began to move from a light overcast to a darker aura.

Along the gutters, water began to collect, the pavement darkening with every splotch. I did not feel anything on my hand, even after removing my glove. Palm to the sky, not even a drop.

Then by my feet, almost in a perfect circle, no water dropping within a two-foot circumference.

“No meddling,” I warned out loud, hoping the shadowy stalker might give me distance.

But when I began down the sidewalk, a distinct crunching sound. I stopped, and so did the crunch.

I reached into my skirt pockets. Lo and behold, an item.

Slowly, I removed it. In the palm of my hand, a half-eaten chocolate bar, the wax paper folded several times in on itself. I pulled the paper from the candy, the bite looking like a small dog had gnawed it off.

With swift feet I stepped to the curb, then stopped. A steam car whipped past me, not even seeing me as I tried to cross the street in the pedestrian crossway.

The metallic horseless carriages zipped past. Shiny machines and careless drivers. When it was just horses, at least their speed was only as fast as their legs. Now, the steam had given birth to a new addiction to speed and efficiency, despite the much more dangerous driving conditions.

It seemed like there was no break in the line of headlights beetling along the roads, not any in which I could safely cross, at least.

Suddenly, the glow of the lights slowed, the sputtering of stalling machinery erupted along the road, and they all stopped. Drivers blared their bells and horns at each other in confusion, some even stepping out to inspect their mobiles.