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escritoireazulFollow the thorns.
Perhaps it is only the way the path twists, undulating throughout every inch of the space, but the little shop room feels much larger than it looks. Lucinda eases herself along the path, but no matter how carefully she steps, her skirt disturbs the flowers and petals shower down in her wake.
Candles and lanterns are hidden somewhere behind the flowers, and what light reaches her is hazy, colored by bits of paper –
and is that surface greenery unfurling there? But when she looks closer at that particular shadow, whatever she thought she saw is gone
– and she must strain to see.
At last the paths spirals and spirals – but surely, that is impossible, there would be no room for such thing – and she is deposited at the end. Brass thorns litter her feet, and she is pleased that she is the sort to wear sturdy boots into the spite instead of the thin slippers so favored elsewhere.
In front of the thorns is a doorway, and bits of tattered lace dangle and twist together into what is almost a door. Some she recognizes as that used on hats and one piece, shot through with sparkling thread, brings to mind one of the veils she’s seen on her quiet trips to the palace.
She brushes aside the lace and steps into the darkness beyond.
