Page 39 of Florescentia

The day was marked by the resinous scent of yew. A laurel fastened to the entry of my home, a black ribbon to present my mourning. Then, a black crepe on the door handle.

I’d seen my husband’s body, freshly departed from the soul, yet it hadn’t begun to feel as real as it did now, when it was being announced to society. Suddenly I was very aware that my family knew, my neighbors, the rest of the block.

My lungs were made of lead, rigid and unable to expand freely. It was like my body knew to punish me, to smother me for my mistake.

The covered knob turned, and my door opened. Maxim peeked out, wiping his hands with a cloth. His brow furrowed, the wrinkles between them now becoming permanent as he aged, but they had always been there. A chronic worrier.

“Everything is set?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing back inside, “guests will be arriving soon. But he is in the parlor.”

“Did they do a good job?” I tried to joke, my face wet under the black veil. “I suppose any state would be better than last time I saw him.”

He beckoned to me, not ignoring my jests but also not answering them. “Come.”

All windows were opened, for spirits and the stronger odors. Fresh lilies and garlands of white roses. The pollen alone made my throat itch. All mirrors had since been covered in modest sheets, the home cleaned and prepped for visitors, and a presentation for one departed.

The coffin was traditional, old-fashioned. A silk interior and dark wood with custom carvings. The outside inscribed with his Nova and Eclipse birth signs, then symbols from the Everie that the family thought best described his life.

I did not move from the doorway. More bodies entered my house, more than I would care to have at once. Distant relatives of Dorian’s, friends and spouses I’d never met, then eventually my in-laws.

All were shrouded in black or a more traditional deep navy. Star-shaped brooches, thin veils, and gloved hands clutching Everie cards. They would place the cards in a box propped on the foyer table under a large arrangement of pungent blooms.

I smiled, not too much, a somber amount. Every hand was shaken, condolences were traded, then there were no more.

A house full of chattering people, the warmth rising. Despite our home being larger than most, the bodies made it unbearably hot.

For a brief moment, I was standing in front of an open door. Not metaphorically, literally. A breeze swept through my veil, cooling my only exposed skin under the dark customary coverings. The overcast clouds muted the street. Among the mournful mumbles of my company, occasionally I could hear the laugh of playing children running through the street, a dog howling in alarm in the distance, the smell of oncoming rain, the swish of the street trees brushing together.

Would it be so bad to run?

A hand squeezed my shoulder.

Maxim stared back at me.

He jerked his head toward the parlor, indicating it was time I came in from welcoming visitors at the door. Though I would prefer that to having to talk in this state. I didn’t think I could trust what came from my mouth.

The dark crowd assembled in the parlor, the casket in front of the wood-carved fireplace, its mantel covered by a cast-iron case for the warm months.

With each step, my Peculiars slunk along my feet, weaving their way in between my steps. A gathering like this must have been a feast for them.

A sickening taste in my mouth. The nausea and the pounding in my head weren’t helping my composure.

When I reached the front of the room, my Peculiars scattered among the sea of legs.

This part I must do alone.

I cleared my throat. The attendees turned, eager for a few words from a widow.

People were like the Peculiars in that way. We fed off each other’s emotions. Our happiness, our grief, even our anger. It was contagious, cathartic when consuming another’s instead of experiencing it yourself.

“Thank you all for attending.” My voice had a hard time finding its place when addressing so many. I was good with words, with explanations, especially things I understood. But rarely did I have to speak for so many at once. Especially since I had no explanations to give, and I barely understood the circumstances myself. “Dorian would be happy to know he was the cause of such a gathering, of so many he loved.” I couldn’t say he wanted this funeral to begin with, but I had to simply evade such statements.

There were somber nods, pitiful looks.

They didn’t know it was my fault.

I glanced above their heads in the wall mirror, the sheet already half slipped off. My attire was shocking, not just because it was inherently ghastly. From head-to-toe black, the fabric had a glossy sheen to it, a satin weave with small matte star patterns lining the entire outfit. On my veil, a four-pointed star embroidered in front of my face. Everything was covered except for my hands.