but to bring it back to life.
These days, however, her strolls are confined to the circumference of her bedroom, and no further. Her bones are brittle, her skin tissue paper thin. And, although she has been content with the view of her work from her bedroom window, today she yearns for something more. Today, her frustration boils over.
In a corner of the bedroom, near the door but not close enough, Copper-Eye lies on the wooden floor. She cannot feel her legs; her body has grown stiff. She’ll never forgive herself for taking her eyes off the girl she brought into this world, even though it was only for a few seconds as she was changing the bedpan. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end for me, she thinks, her muscles rock hard and swollen. We were supposed to see this to the end. Together.
Through her copper eye, she sees the girl’s aura glow. Energy leaves her body like steam and sits heavily in the air of the room, painting it a dull amber. Suddenly, something ripples under the flesh on her face and breaks through her skin. She doesn’t scream, nor cry out for help. Copper-Eye knows better than that. So, she prays. Not to any deity in particular, but to any that are willing to lend her their ears. For the first time in decades, and the last, she is terrified.
As the vessel that brought the woman at the window into this world begins to grow and spread out along the bedroom floor, her copper eye pops out of its socket and rolls to the woman’s wrinkled feet. With strain, she bends down and picks the eyeball up, then takes in the flowering garden where Copper-Eye lay mere seconds ago.
“You said it wasn’t time,” the woman says to the new-born flowers, rolling the copper eye around the palm of her hand. It’s heavy and wet. “That she wouldn’t be ready. But you will bring her to me.”
She stretches her mouth wide and pushes the eye between her lips. Squeezing her eyes tight, she swallows.
Once the ball has made its way down into her gut, the woman opens her eyes to an assault of psychedelic patterns, prisms, and energies. Adjusting to this strange, new world, she swoons but manages to keep herself steady, for the moment. She’ll have to lie down soon, but for now...
The woman switches her attention to the shimmering rope that now connects her belly to Delphi’s heart. She isn’t sure how she knows this for certain, but she does. From what she can tell, Delphi is too far away. Judging by the taut pull of the rope, she’s no doubt in the city.
One of the new flowers grows and rises to meet her. It’s dark and maroon and carries a glorious serenade that brings a smile to her dry lips. The woman plucks the flower and the song dies. It’s perfect.
As the sun lowers behind the distant mountains and turns the sky a rosy pink, something catches her attention in the distance. She attempts to focus her eyes and realizes it’s a bus. Student Adventure Tours is written on its side.
But it’s not a bus, and those are not students crammed into it, blasting music and chatting amongst each other.
It’s an offering.
More flowers for the ever-growing garden of the Rose Mother.
Chapter Five
Day One
I’m eighteen years old, and spent the morning milling around the depths of Chinatown pretending to look for Changbai Mountain ginseng roots Copper-Eye has sent me to get for some spell she’s wanting to cast later today. What I’m actually doing is following a chick between the aisles of shouting vendors selling their wares until she finally looks up at me from her tatty shopping list and grins. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. We strike up a casual conversation, nothing particularly exciting other than a few What’s-your-names, Where’d-you-come-froms and What-are-you-here-fors. She doesn’t tell me her name right away, says she’s dealt with too many fae in the past to give it up so quickly. But she does part with various other titbits: she’s an eye mage, a seer. Part one of three identical sisters. She’s also eighteen. Single. And wondering if I have any plans after finding my ginseng.
She takes me to a tiny bar nestled in an alleyway a few blocks from Chinatown. It’s eleven o’ clock, so there aren’t many patrons about, save a crusty prostitute chewing the ear off an old man by the jukebox