Lanie Bross: Fates

When she felt better, Corinthe gathered the petals Miranda had requested for her tonics, thanked the plants, then squeezed back through the narrow door.

In the kitchen, Miranda sat at the table, surrounded by vials and dried leaves. She ground something between two small flat rocks, so engrossed in her task that she didn’t even look up when Corinthe set the petals down next to her.

Quietly, so as not to disturb her Guardian’s work, Corinthe made her way to her bedroom. It wasn’t a very big space, maybe half the size of the main room, but she had managed to make it her own. An old lamp, draped with a piece of gauzy red material, sat on a battered nightstand next to her bed. The floor was covered with oddly shaped scraps of rug. It should have been hideous—oranges and greens and pinks all mixed together—but somehow, it worked. Corinthe kicked off her shoes and kneaded her toes into the plush rug.

She’d tacked an old sailcloth to the wall over her bed. She’d found it discarded at the Marina, tossed aside because of a small tear in the fabric, and had known at once what she would do with it. Now the plain white cloth was covered in bold blue-and-green swirls around a starburst of yellow that formed an abstract sky.

A dark, jagged steeple dominated the left side of the canvas. A postcard was taped to the wall next to the makeshift canvas: Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. The painting reminded her of Pyralis, where the perpetual twilight stained everything purple and blue.

It was a crude rendition, but it was hers, and she loved it anyway.

Ten years ago, when she had opened her eyes and found herself on a strange rooftop in a strange world, the stars overhead were the only things she recognized. She’d stood, alone and terrified, staring up at the sky for hours, watching it begin to glow, with a mixture of fascination and dread.

When the sun had finally crested the horizon in a burst of light, she’d scrambled to hide in the dark recesses of the roof. She’d never seen the sun rise before, except in marbles. The world around her had brightened until it was blinding, until she had cried for the first time, from terror and anguish, and felt the pain of those hot tears and the humiliation of snot running into her mouth: all of it new. Miranda had found her there, cowering in the shadow of a water tank. She had spoken to her, explained, coaxed her out of hiding. She’d given her a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses and slipped them coolly over her face, bringing some relief to the intensity. Together, they’d sat in the sunlight and Corinthe had squinted through the tinted plastic lenses, watching the world around her emerge.

“Am I the only one?” tiny Corinthe had asked suddenly, peering up at Miranda with sudden curiosity.

“No. There are many of you,” she’d explained.

“Where are they? Why can’t I see them?”

Miranda had smiled. “They’re all around, but you can’t see them because they blend in. That’s what they’re meant to do—to live among humans as one of them. And that’s what you’re meant to do from now on, too.”

Corinthe could still remember how those words had washed over her consciousness like an icy wave: exiled here, in this foreign, terrible world full of obscene noises and blasts of light.

Only the stars in the sky were the same. The stars remained constant in every alternate world, the same constellations dancing across the darkened sky. It had always fascinated Corinthe to watch them move. When she was a Fate, she could commune with the Unseen Ones simply by standing at the river of knowledge and asking a question with her heart. She had asked them once if the sky moved or if Pyralis did. The answer had come back to her in silent pulsing waves:

We exist nowhere and everywhere; therefore, we move with all and none.

The statement felt so profound that Corinthe had spent endless energy trying to make sense of it, trying to find the beginning and the end of the universe in her mind.

She knew such thoughts were pointless, though; there were infinite realms in the universe, all connected by one membrane: the Crossroad. She’d been through it once and it had nearly torn her apart.

She finished undressing and slid into a soft pink robe. Silently, she padded back out to the kitchen, where Miranda now worked over a pot of steaming water, humming. Miranda always hummed when she was lost in a task or deep in thought. Next to her, on the table, were several crumpled ticket stubs, which Corinthe recognized vaguely as belonging to the city’s transportation systems. That meant Miranda had been riding again.

“Why do you ride the buses?” Corinthe asked suddenly. She had always wanted to know, but Miranda hardly ever answered a question directly.

Miranda didn’t look up. “You never know where an opportunity will arise.”

“Opportunity for what?” Corinthe asked.

“For anything and everything,” Miranda said with a smile.

Corinthe shook her head. Miranda had strange habits. She’d been known to ride around on the city buses for hours, speaking with humans. Corinthe had tried this once, hoping she might come into contact with other Executors. But it had forced her to interact with humans—and talking to them had proved too confusing. Miranda, however, seemed invigorated after these outings. Corinthe had never understood why. Perhaps it was like Corinthe’s interest in clothing—unexplainable, a fluke, a small bit of Humana that appealed to her.

Corinthe drew a bath, as hot as she could stand it. The water turned her skin pink, and she scrubbed her whole body carefully: between her toes, under her fingernails, behind her ears. Death had a way of clinging to skin, and Corinthe hated the way it felt—like her whole body was wrapped up in a cold, clammy grip.

Later, as Corinthe sat on her bed, towel drying her long hair, Miranda came in without a sound and set a steaming cup on the nightstand. She moved behind Corinthe on the bed and began to run a comb gently through her tangled waves. Miranda’s fingers brushed over her scalp as she worked the sections into a neat braid.

Corinthe missed the way her hair would wind itself daily into a long, perfect braid in Pyralis. Somehow, she could never seem to tame the wild mane here in this world.

“It’s getting harder to remember,” Corinthe admitted.

Miranda didn’t ask what or why. She just squeezed Corinthe’s shoulder tenderly, stood up, and left her alone with her thoughts.

Corinthe pulled on her favorite pajamas and lay back on the bed. This was the closest she came to actual sleep, something neither she nor Miranda actually needed—not like humans did, anyway. The bed was simply a place where she liked to sit and remember.

It was here that the memories of Pyralis resurfaced—mossy, dimly lit, sweet, like the gardens themselves.

The longing rose up, threatened to choke her.

Corinthe blinked her eyes open. The ceiling was strangely blurry.

“I’m ready to go home,” she whispered.

The room was silent.

Corinthe closed her eyes and tried again to picture Pyralis Terra. But this time, instead, she saw a pair of brown eyes gazing at her, and felt the single skating touch of a hand, like a butterfly’s wing against her shoulder.

The party was in full swing by the time Luc arrived. He knew Karen would be pissed. He’d tried calling her, but she was obviously screening his calls.

After he got off his shift at the boatyard, he’d come home to change, only to find out his dad hadn’t bothered shopping that afternoon. There was nothing in the fridge except some mustard and beer. And the old, cracked cookie jar where they kept extra money was almost empty.

Thankfully, Luc had been paid, and his shift money would cover something for dinner. Jas was already too skinny—and Dad, well, he’d just head down to the bar and forget he needed to eat. So Luc walked to a nearby convenience store and picked up some microwavable sandwiches and a couple of Twix.