Voice-linker chimed, and Spring caressed its smooth yellow trumpet.
“Jass, baby, how are you doing?” Harnna drowned the room with tangible concern.
“Lonely,” Spring said, melancholy dripping from the word. “Bored. Mother, can I access the library, kennels, stable? Anything to pass my time. I won’t leave the estate, I just need something to do.”
Harnna went silent for several long seconds before answering. “Your father said we must stay away from you, and treat you normally. Normally, you would be free to go anywhere you want. But please don’t leave the premises. Even before this unfortunate incident, you needed our permission before you went for a stroll.”
Spring’s lips drew into a smile. “Should I ask the maids to take me where I want to go, or can I have a map or something to find my way around the estate?”
“Ask the maids,” Harnna’s response was expected, yet disappointing. Spring would have preferred the manor’s blueprint, but left without a choice, decided to wander about and form a rough mental sketch instead.
“Thank you, Mother.”
I could use the razor from the bathroom to make tiny, fast-healing cuts on marble steeds and hounds, but I must apply a numbing agent, such as high lavender, before slashing them. Otherwise, the animals might attack me or draw unwanted attention.
“How was your outing?” Harnna asked, and Spring indulged the woman in idle chitchat for a quarter of an hour before taking a shower and calling for lunch. Once she had sated her composter, she went to the ground floor, snatching the first maid she found and had the terrified girl take her to the library.
The maid stepped stiffly as she approached the three-meter-tall door made of polished goldwood, its surface so glossy it nearly sparkled like the metal by which it was named. The girl pulled on the matte-black knob, opening the door with surprising ease.
Spring took in the scent of old leather and entered the extravagant room dotted with dormant lighters. However, upon taking in the sight, she found herself disappointed.
The library is smaller than my bedroom. She glanced up at the walls lined with books, realizing the room was two stories tall, divided into four tiers by wooden balconies, and domed with a transparent roof made of glass or some similar material.
It has a first floor entrance. She noted the door on the second balcony.
“Do you need anything else, Young Miss?” the maid asked, itching to escape Spring’s presence.
“Is there a librarian, or someone who tends to the books?” Spring asked, confusing the young woman.
“We dust the room regularly, Young Miss,” the maid said, her voice hesitant.
“You may leave,” Spring dismissed the girl while stopping herself from rolling her eyes at the stupid answer.
She focused on rows upon rows of books bound in dark-brown leather adorned with silvered letters. Most titles were long, clearly labeling the volumes’ content, such as Memoirs of Bruce the XIV, Account of Battle of Greenden, The First Tide of Horrors, and The Founding of the Searing Flame Mountain. However, there were shorter, more intriguing ones as well, The Mistake, being one of them.
Spring ignored the history section, and searched for grafting manuals and indexes of known implants. She found what she had been searching for on the second floor and browsed the titles for ten-odd minutes.
Flame-Flower Use and Grafting, Comprehensive List of Defensive Implants, Comprehensive List of Muscle Reinforcing Implants, she took six books off the shelf and headed back to the ground floor, where two desks, a sofa, and a pair of comfortable armchairs awaited the interested readers.
Spring sat at the nearest desk, set the books aside, and opened the one regarding flame orchids. It says nothing about growing flame orchids into flame-flowers, the recipe is the Flames family’s secret. These publicly known grafting options result in inferior second level grafts. Searings should have a secret library and a grafting laboratory somewhere within their estate. Grafting books they keep outside that area are dregs they feed the common hunters, but I still need to read this. Jasmine Searing has just acquired a flame-flower, she should be curious about what she can do with it.
The intricate orchid pattern on the back of Spring’s hand glowed red and slowly emerged from her skin, its beautiful flower demanding sustenance. Spring fed her graft a bit of coal and a tiny chip of thunder egg. Sated, the flame orchid closed before retreating beneath her skin.
“Voracious little fellow, aren’t you?” Being a plant herself, Spring knew the flame orchid could not understand her words, but it could catch the friendly intent behind them.
The artistic scar outline released a strand of smoke in response and Spring smiled.
It’s best to befriend grafts with evolutionary potential. Second-face, second-voice and such can only advance through grafting, and due to their artificial nature they are closer to “applants” than “implants”.
Spring returned the book to its place and searched for tomes on herbal remedies before returning once more to the ground floor. She read until the natural light disappeared, then retired to her room to have dinner.
“Bring me some high lavender oil. I’m having trouble sleeping.” Spring ordered the maids just as they scurried out.
She knew that asking for the mild sedative would make someone run to notify Harnna and her husband, but she had read a book on herbal medicine, and left it open in the section mentioning nightmares and potential cures, one of them being high lavender essential oil. It was a tiny, if overly obvious hint, since she knew someone would check the books she had read.
***
“Hey, hon, I’m home,” Land shouted after opening the door to his spacious house in the outer city.
“How was your outing? Did you grab some ale with the gang?” a feminine, silky voice replied from inside.
“We had some lamb and grabbed a few mugs at Marz’s. How was your day?”
“Relaxing. My next rotation is in three weeks, so I’m making the best of my time here. Come over to the kitchen, I prepared something sweet for you.”
Land took his shoes off and hung his jacket before heading to the back of the house. “How’s Jackie? Did she brag about how great she did? Darren told me she scored sixty points.”
Land passed the dining room, its light wooden furnishing painted crimson by the setting sun’s red rays.
“She was full of herself and took her friends out for a few rounds. I guess every generation is the same.”
Land dove through the kitchen’s beaded curtain door and smiled, watching Trish decorate biscuits. The brunette was stunning. She worked behind a counter, a frilly white-yellow apron on the inviting curves of her bare shoulders. He gazed at those sharp blue eyes, focused on the final pattern she drew in whipped cream.
Land did not notice the pale scar which marred his wife’s face from just left of her nose all the way beneath her left ear. He did not see her wrinkles, nor the dark bags under her eyes from all the sleepless nights she spent in the weald.
“How’s Mir?” Trish asked about her old love rival with absolute calm. “Did she ask to have your babies again?”
Land swallowed and lowered his gaze, catching the explicit design of an entwined couple Trish had been drawing on the large biscuit.
Land looked back up at Trish, who winked. “I’ve whipped too much cream. Do you think I should add another woman?”
“Hon, you know you’re the only woman in my life. I don’t need others.”
Trish could not tell which answer would have made her sadder, a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she touched her lower belly, running her fingers across her apron, feeling the rough scar tissue through the cloth. Her chin quivered as she wanted to say the words she had told her husband tens of times over the last fifteen years, but she bit her lip and held them to herself.
She wiped her teary eyes and gave Land an ugly smile, sadder than if she had shed tears.
“Luckily, I have a backup plan for all this cream.” With a brisk motion, Trisha undid her apron, which fell to the ground, revealing her nude form.
Trish stood with knees slightly bent to hide the savage old wound an elder dog had inflicted on her a decade and a half ago, shredding her guts and more. Land felt a stab of pain in his heart, thinking how he had arrived late. He walked over to her, still seeing the nineteen-year-old who had once undressed before him in a remarkably similar fashion while they were out camping with their class.
He hugged her and kissed her forehead.
“Hon, let it go. We’re both alive, and our lives are good enough.”
“Thank you.” Trisha nodded into his shoulder. “It would’ve been profound, if you weren’t squeezing my ass.”
The middle-aged couple laughed and kissed.
Voice-linker chimed, and Spring caressed its smooth yellow trumpet.
“Jass, baby, how are you doing?” Harnna drowned the room with tangible concern.
“Lonely,” Spring said, melancholy dripping from the word. “Bored. Mother, can I access the library, kennels, stable? Anything to pass my time. I won’t leave the estate, I just need something to do.”
Harnna went silent for several long seconds before answering. “Your father said we must stay away from you, and treat you normally. Normally, you would be free to go anywhere you want. But please don’t leave the premises. Even before this unfortunate incident, you needed our permission before you went for a stroll.”
Spring’s lips drew into a smile. “Should I ask the maids to take me where I want to go, or can I have a map or something to find my way around the estate?”
“Ask the maids,” Harnna’s response was expected, yet disappointing. Spring would have preferred the manor’s blueprint, but left without a choice, decided to wander about and form a rough mental sketch instead.
“Thank you, Mother.”
I could use the razor from the bathroom to make tiny, fast-healing cuts on marble steeds and hounds, but I must apply a numbing agent, such as high lavender, before slashing them. Otherwise, the animals might attack me or draw unwanted attention.
“How was your outing?” Harnna asked, and Spring indulged the woman in idle chitchat for a quarter of an hour before taking a shower and calling for lunch. Once she had sated her composter, she went to the ground floor, snatching the first maid she found and had the terrified girl take her to the library.
The maid stepped stiffly as she approached the three-meter-tall door made of polished goldwood, its surface so glossy it nearly sparkled like the metal by which it was named. The girl pulled on the matte-black knob, opening the door with surprising ease.
Spring took in the scent of old leather and entered the extravagant room dotted with dormant lighters. However, upon taking in the sight, she found herself disappointed.
The library is smaller than my bedroom. She glanced up at the walls lined with books, realizing the room was two stories tall, divided into four tiers by wooden balconies, and domed with a transparent roof made of glass or some similar material.
It has a first floor entrance. She noted the door on the second balcony.
“Do you need anything else, Young Miss?” the maid asked, itching to escape Spring’s presence.
“Is there a librarian, or someone who tends to the books?” Spring asked, confusing the young woman.
“We dust the room regularly, Young Miss,” the maid said, her voice hesitant.
“You may leave,” Spring dismissed the girl while stopping herself from rolling her eyes at the stupid answer.
She focused on rows upon rows of books bound in dark-brown leather adorned with silvered letters. Most titles were long, clearly labeling the volumes’ content, such as Memoirs of Bruce the XIV, Account of Battle of Greenden, The First Tide of Horrors, and The Founding of the Searing Flame Mountain. However, there were shorter, more intriguing ones as well, The Mistake, being one of them.
Spring ignored the history section, and searched for grafting manuals and indexes of known implants. She found what she had been searching for on the second floor and browsed the titles for ten-odd minutes.
Flame-Flower Use and Grafting, Comprehensive List of Defensive Implants, Comprehensive List of Muscle Reinforcing Implants, she took six books off the shelf and headed back to the ground floor, where two desks, a sofa, and a pair of comfortable armchairs awaited the interested readers.
Spring sat at the nearest desk, set the books aside, and opened the one regarding flame orchids. It says nothing about growing flame orchids into flame-flowers, the recipe is the Flames family’s secret. These publicly known grafting options result in inferior second level grafts. Searings should have a secret library and a grafting laboratory somewhere within their estate. Grafting books they keep outside that area are dregs they feed the common hunters, but I still need to read this. Jasmine Searing has just acquired a flame-flower, she should be curious about what she can do with it.
The intricate orchid pattern on the back of Spring’s hand glowed red and slowly emerged from her skin, its beautiful flower demanding sustenance. Spring fed her graft a bit of coal and a tiny chip of thunder egg. Sated, the flame orchid closed before retreating beneath her skin.
“Voracious little fellow, aren’t you?” Being a plant herself, Spring knew the flame orchid could not understand her words, but it could catch the friendly intent behind them.
The artistic scar outline released a strand of smoke in response and Spring smiled.
It’s best to befriend grafts with evolutionary potential. Second-face, second-voice and such can only advance through grafting, and due to their artificial nature they are closer to “applants” than “implants”.
Spring returned the book to its place and searched for tomes on herbal remedies before returning once more to the ground floor. She read until the natural light disappeared, then retired to her room to have dinner.
“Bring me some high lavender oil. I’m having trouble sleeping.” Spring ordered the maids just as they scurried out.
She knew that asking for the mild sedative would make someone run to notify Harnna and her husband, but she had read a book on herbal medicine, and left it open in the section mentioning nightmares and potential cures, one of them being high lavender essential oil. It was a tiny, if overly obvious hint, since she knew someone would check the books she had read.
***
“Hey, hon, I’m home,” Land shouted after opening the door to his spacious house in the outer city.
“How was your outing? Did you grab some ale with the gang?” a feminine, silky voice replied from inside.
“We had some lamb and grabbed a few mugs at Marz’s. How was your day?”
“Relaxing. My next rotation is in three weeks, so I’m making the best of my time here. Come over to the kitchen, I prepared something sweet for you.”
Land took his shoes off and hung his jacket before heading to the back of the house. “How’s Jackie? Did she brag about how great she did? Darren told me she scored sixty points.”
Land passed the dining room, its light wooden furnishing painted crimson by the setting sun’s red rays.
“She was full of herself and took her friends out for a few rounds. I guess every generation is the same.”
Land dove through the kitchen’s beaded curtain door and smiled, watching Trish decorate biscuits. The brunette was stunning. She worked behind a counter, a frilly white-yellow apron on the inviting curves of her bare shoulders. He gazed at those sharp blue eyes, focused on the final pattern she drew in whipped cream.
Land did not notice the pale scar which marred his wife’s face from just left of her nose all the way beneath her left ear. He did not see her wrinkles, nor the dark bags under her eyes from all the sleepless nights she spent in the weald.
“How’s Mir?” Trish asked about her old love rival with absolute calm. “Did she ask to have your babies again?”
Land swallowed and lowered his gaze, catching the explicit design of an entwined couple Trish had been drawing on the large biscuit.
Land looked back up at Trish, who winked. “I’ve whipped too much cream. Do you think I should add another woman?”
“Hon, you know you’re the only woman in my life. I don’t need others.”
Trish could not tell which answer would have made her sadder, a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she touched her lower belly, running her fingers across her apron, feeling the rough scar tissue through the cloth. Her chin quivered as she wanted to say the words she had told her husband tens of times over the last fifteen years, but she bit her lip and held them to herself.
She wiped her teary eyes and gave Land an ugly smile, sadder than if she had shed tears.
“Luckily, I have a backup plan for all this cream.” With a brisk motion, Trisha undid her apron, which fell to the ground, revealing her nude form.
Trish stood with knees slightly bent to hide the savage old wound an elder dog had inflicted on her a decade and a half ago, shredding her guts and more. Land felt a stab of pain in his heart, thinking how he had arrived late. He walked over to her, still seeing the nineteen-year-old who had once undressed before him in a remarkably similar fashion while they were out camping with their class.
He hugged her and kissed her forehead.
“Hon, let it go. We’re both alive, and our lives are good enough.”
“Thank you.” Trisha nodded into his shoulder. “It would’ve been profound, if you weren’t squeezing my ass.”
The middle-aged couple laughed and kissed.
