❝ silent, fawn-eyed

the frost-bitten boards of the porch are like an electric shock beneath the bare soles of her feet. the cold clears some of the exhaustion from her limbs, sharpens her senses. she stoops, knees curled to her chest, and picks up a bouquet.

the first thing she notices is how fresh the flowers look, despite the chill morning. even from her vantage on the front porch, she can see frost coating the yellow grass in the yard beyond ; refracting off the stooped stalks of wheat and the tall husks of corn.

but the blooms in her grasp — with their small, tri-petaled flowers perched on deep green stems — are fresh, unwilted, without so much as a leaf curled or browned by the chill.

it's enough to give her pause, to curl something sour in her stomach — even as she smooths a thumb over the soft white flowers.

as she lifts the bouquet toward her nose for a sniff, a small, square card flutters free from the bunch, landing like a whisper at her feet. it settles at her toes ( blue with cold ) for only a moment before she snatches it up, bringing it close to her face alongside the flowers. in neat script, she sees her name printed ; curiously, she flips the card and finds, in that same cramped handwriting, the mantra hope after sorrow.

eudora's fingers tense around the placard, her lips twisting left and then right in an effort to stave off tears. wordlessly, she rises and turns to the door ; passes over the threshold and back into the farmhouse, her bouquet of flowers clenched tight in her grip, the other four forgotten to the cold morning. she does not even think to tell her companions what awaits them on the doorstep — only floats back to her room in a daze, shutting the door behind her.

she moves to the windowsill, with its flecked white paint and a growing array of oddities, among them the flowers from her nightstand, the night she had awoken from the dream with dirt under her nails. the petals are dried now, brown and fading ; when she touches one, it crumbles to dust. beside them is an empty glass milk jar.

eudora upends the half-empty glass of water on her nightstand into the milk jar before freeing her flowers from their newspaper trappings and placing them in their makeshift vase. she spends too long arranging them, almost entranced by the way their petals droop, the translucent white of them, the thin gray veins she can see when the light shines through. finally, she withdraws her hands, folding them in her lap. the card sits there, too, warm from her touch. tears wet her eyes, but she blinks them back.

who could they be from ? surely not her mother someone she knows, for there's no one in the world left for her to call family or friends. not outside of velgrove, anyways.

for the first time since coming inside, she remembers the other flowers scattered on the porch — the bouquets she left behind. again, that sour feeling rises like bile in her throat.

two hours prior, lady maxime had peered anxiously after eudora from her doorstep, watching her retreating form — too-large coat flapping in the wind, a bag of home-made cat treats in hand — disappear into the woods beyond her house.

eudora thought it a bit irresponsible to let your pregnant cat wander freely ( during our maiden's harvest, no less... ) although she would never dare to admit so out loud, and certainly not to the kind and concerned face of lady maxime, her silver hair tied tightly back from severe cheekbones and warm, sunken eyes. and anyways, she supposed there were plenty of barn cats on sumyeong's property that lived relatively independent lives, and surely at times they must breed —

thoughts like this kept her occupied as she wandered deeper into the woods, at times tilting her head to admire the slant of light through the trees, at others pausing to click her tongue against her cheek and call lucille ! here kitty, kitty ! into the empty wood, disrupting bird song whenever she did so.

without quite realizing it, eudora's feet ventured off the beaten trail, traversed a different way. so familiar was her path, so distantly in the clouds was her mind, that it did not strike her as good or bad or odd, or anything at all, until she emerged squarely into the clearing.

glassmire's tall towers winked at her in the evening sunlight.

instinctually, she froze, terror squeezing tight in her chest. she had not been back here since — since —

she swallowed down the horror, turned abruptly on her heel. why would her subconscious lead her here, of all places ? she was hardly sure she wanted an answer, hardly sure there was time even to think, with the way the forest was darkening like a photo developing in reverse all around her, losing its details to the fading light.

but then she paused. behind her she could hear — or could have sworn she heard — the faintest of noises, a sort of mewling that beaconed her back.

with trepidation, eudora approached the stone façade of the conservatory, its throng of bushes beside the entryway. the ground was soft here ; gentle prints told of a home beneath the thicket of branches. eudora crouched on hands and knees, the heels of her palms sinking into the soft earth, her dark eyes squinting in the low light. in the bush — a fluffy white cat nursing three bald kittens.

a gasp escaped her parted lips ; then a sigh of relief.

it took perhaps too long to work her torso up under the branches, thorns snagging in her hair. but lucille is compliant enough when she finally gets to her ; content, perhaps, to leave her birthing nest and return home at last. eudora wrapped her tenderly in the oversized coat, tucking the kittens safely there with her, holding them like breakable things.

it was over an hour before eudora broke free from the woods, back into the safety of lady maxime's yard. she presented the new mother and her brood with expert gentleness, helping maxime settle the family into a box lined with bits of newspapers and soft old scarves ; she accepted the offer to stay for tea after, and only when she sunk into the wooden chair at maxime's kitchen table did she realize how sore her body had become. her hands wrapped gratefully around her mug, leeching warmth through the ceramic.

"now, about your reward," lady maxime started, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her.

"oh, i really don't need —"

she thinks she wants to pause at the statue of the eerie, her stone-faced anger barely concealed behind the frozen pleats of her veil — but her feet carry her past, moving of their own accord. when her head swivels to peer back over one shoulder, she notices the eerie's head has turned to watch her go. the farmhouse is a distant beacon behind her, one pinprick of light in a sea of darkness.

she moves on, sweater snagging on invisible thorns ; eudora tilts her head back to see the sky, and the stars unspool before her, innumerable and brilliant. they seem to vibrate in place, small jewels in the fabric of the night — as she watches, they seem to shimmer and cluster along a smooth white path, like milk cast down the front of a funeral dress. when she looks down again, she falters to a stop, and just in time — the earth yawns open before her. toes curl over the cool lip of earth, feet sinking softly into the mud. something hums through the soles of her feet like a heartbeat.

she leans forward to listen, her torso curving over the side of the grave, her hair falling like a curtain over her shoulders — and for one breathless instant, she hears it murmur her name. her hands move without thought, sinking into the soil. it's warm here — too warm — and something pulses against her palm. when she opens her clenched fist, something trembles there. she mistakes them for white blossoms at first, veined with jade green and silver ; but then they shiver, wings unfurling like petals, and their fuzzy bodies tickle her skin. she cups them close to her face, her clutch of moths — watches them crawl up her fingers to test their wings. powdery puffs of wing dust coat her knuckles. she lifts them higher and higher, arm extending above her head, some aching part of her desperate to see them take flight. she rises on her tiptoes, as if to kiss the stars.

when she wakes, the sun is late-morning high. her window is thrown wide, and golden light slants across the floorboards — but eudora finds her skin cold to the touch.

without thinking, eudora reaches for it, half-expecting it to shatter beneath her touch. but it doesn't — it feels cool and smooth and charged with an energy all its own. alive.

"how much — ? " the words leave her lips before she's quite aware of thinking them, her eyes wrenching free from the spider lily long enough to hold the merchant's gaze.

“it chooses its own keeper,” the merchant murmurs, voice gravelly as the walking path to the lakehouse library. they pluck the glass flower from beneath her touch, and eudora's heart leaps with fear at the thought of them taking it away — but they only pull her hovering hand toward them, flip it palm-side up, and fold the glass spider lily into her grasp. then close her fingers around it and pat her gently clenched fist, once, twice.

eudora wonders at the exchange as she walks back to the farmhouse in the blue wash of dusk, the spider lily warm in her hand.

˖ ࣪ . .　　. 　 ˚　. ˖ ࣪ .

the first glow.

(ic): it emits a soft, golden light whenever its owner seems happy or sad.

some time later, eudora is tucked away in her bedroom at the farmhouse, cross-legged on an unmade bed. the day's spoils are scattered around her: a stack of developed polaroids and a spool of film, the bundle of fresh lavender snagged at the market, a kerchief of sweet buns purchased at the bakery. despite the chill outside, her windows are thrown wide, curtains twitching softly in the night breeze.

her eyes keep catching on the glass spider lily, laid carefully on the windowsill. the sky is overcast, but some soft light still refracts through its translucent petals. a part of her longs to retrieve it and examine it once again, to stroke its golden stem with the pad of her thumb, the way she had done for almost an hour when she'd first gotten home ; inexplicable, perhaps entranced.

she forces herself to turn away, sighs. unravels the checkered kerchief and pops a bun in her mouth, licks the sugar residue from her fingertips. the flavor reminds her of being very little, of sticky fingers wrapped around a too-big hand, of her brother's endless shadow across the golden fields, of the first stars winking to life in the twilight. an ache, heavy and amber, settles in her chest.

in the corner of her eye, something shimmers.

on the windowsill, the glass lily glows, impossibly dim. eudora blinks and rubs her eyes with her knuckles.

the lily glows on, a faint golden light emanating from somewhere deep within, drifting upward like smoke through its glass petals.

bare legs slip from the sanctuary of her blankets, and the cool night air raises goosebumps almost immediately across her skin. she shivers when the sole of her foot comes in contact with the floorboards ; tucks her hands into the sleeves of her sweater for warmth before crossing her bedroom to the window sill.

the light is fading from the spider lily, like a sunset — but even without picking it up, she can see it's there, inside. the glow fades amber, flickers, then dies.

carefully, almost cautiously, eudora reaches for the miniature flower. her breath is caught in her chest ; her pointer finger trembles as it traces the gold chain fused to the flower's stem. the glass is cold in her hands.

absently, she blows out the candle on her desk and turns back to the bed. she crosses the creaking floorboards, pausing only to rest the spider lily with intense care on her nightstand, before nestling herself back beneath her covers. the blankets are pulled clear over her head, with only the tiniest pocket poked out for gazing through.

it is like this that she waits, in anxiety and anticipation, watching the spider lily for another sign of activity. she wonders briefly at the others — the dahlia, the poppy — what could their powers be ?

not with her, with her, but watching — obscured among the trees at the top of the embankment.

the memory-self does the things eudora knows it will — crouches too close to the water to snap a picture of the silvered lake, sways off-balance, plunges a canvas sneaker into cold water. but eudora can only watch the someone else that lingers in the trees, the way their outline bends the light, just slightly, like glass distorting what it traps inside.

a crack of thunder rings across the clearing, startling both her and her memory-self. eudora watches as the alter turn its face up to the sky, winces when the first drops break the surface of the lake.

her memory-self retreats from the water's edge, backtracking to the walking path and the sanctuary of the lakehouse library ( the same way eudora once did, although she can't remember the rain being this heavy, the air feeling so charged ).

when her gaze returns to the treeline, the figure is gone.

her head swivels, scanning the semi-darkness until she spots it again, closer, somehow — the shape of someone half-concealed behind a trunk, where the mist thickens. still hidden, but watching.

something cold ripples through the dream ; not thunder, not wind, just the metallic shiver of being caught on film. eudora opens her mouth to cry out, to call to herself across the water, but her voice is lost, non-existent ; no sound leaves her throat, only a tremor that disturbs the reflection.

ripples fracture her image on the lake surface and erase the watcher from the trees. she blinks, and the memory begins to blur. the younger version of herself dissolves with the water's pull.

— her wet shoes kicking up stones in her wake. as she plunges forward, she realizes ( vaguely ) that she's not in total darkness — there is a strange, watery light that lets her see her footfalls, fractured and silver and inconsistent ( the way light sources always are in dreams ) but she's thankful for it, thankful for the way it pools at her feet and ripples outward with each pounding beat of her soles, like moonlight across water.

she believes this path will take her home. it doesn't make sense, because the library is far from a straight shot back to the farmhouse, but there's something in chest that's telling her to keep pushing forward, it's taking her home, it's a shortcut. in her mind's eye, the creaky screen door of the farmhouse is already swinging open to envelope her, the warm blooded occupants inside awash in golden light and ready to greet her.

far from whatever slithered in the stacks at her back —

a figure — there, in the road ahead, not much taller than herself. it stood unmoving in the middle of the path, back hunched, a tweed hood drawn up over its head. half-shadow, half-light.

it was turned slightly — for a moment, eudora thought the figure might wave, but it didn't. she slowed, breath catching hot in her chest ; she falters another step, squinting, and that's when she sees it — the way the darkness bends around the figure like the shimmer above asphalt on a hot day.

and then she knows.

the face is wrong. not blank, exactly, but smooth — half-formed, as though someone had tried to remember her features and given up halfway through. and yet: the posture, the jacket, the fall of faded blonde-black hair — all of it was hers.

for a moment, she is only calm, observing ; watching herself as if from behind glass.

then, panic: sharp, animal, rising too fast to think.

she stumbles backwards, gravel scattering like water trickling over stone, heart hammering a staccato beat in her ears. the not-her moves, quick and sure, closing the space between them in a blur that felt more like time skipping than actual motion.

she tries to scream, but her voice dies in her throat. the double lunges.

the last thing she sees is its hand, pale and too long, reaching for the camera on its strap around her neck, like it meant to take it, like it meant to take everything —

she wakes upright in her bed, her pulse still racing, the room around her trembling in the dim. moonlight spills through her curtains, across the egg nested in its handkerchief and onto her bed, painting her sheets silver. her hand moves instinctively to her camera on the nightstand — still there, cool beneath her palm.

for a long time, she doesn't move again. the quiet hum of cricket song, the tick of a clock, the faint rustle of the barn cats outside — all of it works together to ground her back in the moment, piece by piece.

what's inside.

she has to work her fingernails under the double-knot in the twine, un-tie the strands, before she can run a finger along one paper edge. she tests the wrapping for a weak point, a wrinkle or crease she can press until it tears. finally, she finds a place that gives ; the paper peels softly beneath her fingers, the faint smell of pine rising from within.

a layer of moss lines the inside of the box, damp and alive — she notices the pale curl of nearly translucent roots at the box's edge.

nestled within it: a nest no larger than her palm, woven from horsehair and thread. at the center rests a single egg, smaller than her palm and faintly luminous.

its shell is dove gray and dawn pink, veined with hairline cracks.

it looks like it was carved of ceramic or marble, something delicately crafted, but when she moves to touch it she swears she sees it tremble. when she lifts the egg, the shell flexes, barely perceptible — like skin reacting to the warmth of a sudden touch. eudora holds her breath, listening.

for one moment, she thinks she hears a heartbeat

there's no note inside the box, no scrap of paper hidden beneath the roots of the moss ; only the smell of damp earth and lakewater.

the air inside the asan home is artificially cold and touched with the faint tang of lemon cleaner. somewhere deeper in the darkness, the A/C machine churns. silvered light slants across the entryway from the window by the door, and eudora realizes with a start that the window is ajar, screen-less, letting in the twilight air.

at once, she moves to close it, fingers curling around the wood edge of the windowpane and pushing downward with a year's worth of wiry, farm-built muscle. she's met with a moment of sticky resistance before the window gives way, sliding closed with a quiet thwump.

when she turns back around, there are eyes.

bright green and unblinking, set in a sleek, black face. eudora's breath falters. her hand slaps the light switch behind her and the kitchen light buzzes to life, casting the figure of a lean cat in stark relief. tiki.

the cat perches on the kitchen counter, her long tail flicking back and forth with lazy agitation. her gaze is level, nose lifted ; eudora gets the sense she is being scrutinized. she raises one stiff arm, awkwardly, fingers wiggling as if in apology. tiki tilts her head, sniffs once at the space just above eudora's knuckles, then turns away with delicate disinterest, paws padding a soft rhythm against the granite.

the sound of those paws, tapping like a clock hand, draws eudora forward. she follows tiki into the kitchen, eyes roaming over the sleek granite countertops, the high-backed chairs tucked neatly under a wooden table, the set of family photographs framed along the mantle.

she stops to examine the owners of the home more closely ; the asan's smiling, arms wrapped around one another, all teeth and color. the moments captured in their photographs feel too bright, somehow, for the hush of the house. she can almost convince herself it is only that — the hush — that unsettles her.

until she hears it: the low, heavy exhale of something large moving in the shadows down the hall.

tiki leaps soundlessly from the counter, landing with middling grace but definite certainty, as though she's heard this particular noise before. she trots down the hall, tail held high, pausing once to glance back at eudora with an impatient flick of her ear.

eudora follows her new guide with trepidation, mouth dry. the sound comes again, closer. wetter. a weight dragged through lungs too large to belong to a human. the light from the kitchen dwindles behind her, replaced by a dim amber glow bleeding from a standing lamp in the high-ceilinged living room.

and there, haloed in the warm light on a patterned rug, she sees it — him. ranger.

the second occupant in her charge is larger than she expected — some indeterminate mix of shepherd and hound, his coat a coarse brindle patched with black.

his eyes lift to meet hers. they are not unkind, but not exactly welcoming, either — watchful, perhaps. he snuffles the air once, nose lifting in her direction, then exhales again — low, steady, like the pull of tidewater out in santhe bay — before his head settles back down between his paws.

these are the greetings she receives from the asan family pets.

eudora lingers, half in the room and half still in the hallway, fists pressing against her denim-clad thighs. she should say something, she thinks. hey boy or good dog. some word to smooth her presence into the space, to earn a modicum of trust. instead, the words dry up in her mouth.

sixty-five dollars, she reminds herself.

she steps into the living room proper, one hand extended carefully before her. ranger's eyes track her movement, lids heavy. tiki yawns, long and theatrical, showing eudora every sharp tooth inside her small head.

"sleepy?" she manages to say into the silence, and the tension fractures, just a little — relief mixing uneasily with something she cannot name. around them, the house remains silent, aware, listening.

the kitchen feels brighter when she returns, tiki trailing like a black shadow behind her, uncertain but intrigued. "right," eudora says into the empty room, because it makes her feel better. "dinner."

she glances toward the fridge, the cabinets. it doesn't take her long to find the pet supplies: the bags of dry food folded closed with a clip, the shelf stacked with tin cans, the jar of treats, the stack of bowls nested under the sink.

when she turns again, she sees that tiki has already stationed herself back on the shiny countertop, tail draping neatly around her paws. she blinks her green eyes once, expectant. in her periphery, another shadow twitches — ranger is a fuzzy black mass in the hallway.

"alright," eudora mutters, feeling encouraged.

she measures carefully, using the kibble-dusted cups inside each food bag, cracking open cans and peeling back metal lids, aware of the way two sets of eyes follow her as she goes—green and sharp from the counter, brown and fathomless from the hall.

when she finally sets the bowls down, ranger abandons his post in the hallway and enters the kitchen, the thud of his paws slow and deliberate. he eats without frenzy, muzzle buried in his dish, a steady crunch-crunch of his jaws ; tiki laps the tuna from the top of her kibble with a soft, wet sound, but leaves the dry kibble untouched.

eudora leans back against the counter as they eat, arms crossed. she watches, but she cannot shake the prickle that she is also being watched — not just by the animals, but by the dim corners of the house itself.

when the bowls are empty, tiki licks her paw and swipes it over one ear ; a pointed dismissal. ranger noses his bowl along the kitchen floor, metal scraping across the white linoleum tiles, then pads back down the hallway ; eudora watches his silhouette disappear through the amber doorway on the other end.

she tidies quickly, stacking the bowls in the sink ( she'll deal with those in the morning ) and returning the food bags to their shelf in the pantry. her fingers brush porcelain, metal, the cold bite of the sink faucet as she works. when she finishes, she wipes her palms on the knees of her jeans.

for the first time since arriving, eudora remembers the note tucked into her pocket. mr. asan's instructions to her. she slides it free to examine her own handwriting, clearing a mental checklist as she reads. plant pot, check. feed cat, check. feed dog, check. no need to let ranger out — he had his own doggy door to the backyard.

all that remained was locking up for the night.

outside, the sun has set ; eudora realizes with an uneasy start that she will be biking back to the farmhouse in the dark. anxious to leave, she starts her sweep of the doors: first the back one, locked. then the sliding glass door off the kitchen, also locked. then the front, still warm from her hand on the knob.

she hesitates by the front window — the one she'd found open when she'd first arrived.

"sixty-five dollars," she whispers into the house, the words like a small charm pressed between her teeth. she could really use the money, after all.