Imposter Syndrome

Ranunculus

"This is really freaking weird."

Karlo spoke, as the oil painting before them added blossoms to its already-existing ones, painted deftly so, decades upon decades ago—tight purple lilacs sealed nearly shut, a bevy of clustered ranunculus blossoms, rose's kissing cousin, in peach and apricot hues, a centered orchid, holly berries in the foreground, and what appeared to be a flamingo pink—

"Jerusalem artichoke?" Sofie inquired at his right. "Yup, that's exactly what you think it is—"

"Oh. Uh. Ok then..." he trailed off, watching as she squinted her eyes shut once more, before watching as another pale ranunculus blossom grew toward a phantom spot in the painting's background. Pursing her lips, the orchid's petals fluttered, delicately so, as an iris blossom, unnervingly electric blue, popped up to its diagonal right.

"There." She turned to him. "Now you try—"

"Can they be any flowers? Or blossoms?"

She nodded.

"I don't think I'm any good at this, it's been ages—"

"Look, I'm the one meeting Veronica in 48 hours—"

"That's not making me feel any better—"

"You just need to—"

"But what if I can't?"

"Karlo." A statement, not a question. "Do you trust me?" He silently acquiesced. "Do you remember the sparks you brought to Avventura? Again, yes. "Ok. Now, I need you to channel that loose mystical energy. One step at a time, ok?" She rubbed her hands together as he did the same. "Close your eyes, and—" she inhaled slowly, then exhaled, "imagine."

"Imagine...?"

"Your favorite fruit, flowers, blossoms, memories attached to them, whatever gets those juices flowing. What's the first flower you saw on a summer's day? What emotions did you attach? What symbolism, if any? Any pies you made or desserts baked for birthdays? Celebrations?"

Seconds later, she watched in rapt fascination as a tiny cluster of blackberries emerged just beneath a rose which she had based upon the other prototype blossoms.

Blackberries. She reached for her phone, for a swift internet search. Blackberries, symbolic of spiritual neglect or ignorance. Money and prosperity. Putting her phone down, she noticed Karlo's eyes still firmly shut.

"Open them," she spoke finally, murmuring, "oh ye of little faith..." under her breath as Karlo grinned.

"It worked!" Excited, he hugged her, celebrating their tiny victory, his eyes meeting her astonished own.

Biting her lip, she inhaled sharply. "It's definitely a start." She noticed a certain...frisson? A crackle of infinitesimal energy, leftover from an earlier dream-vision? Where did that end...and where did they begin?

A few hours later, they found themselves holed up in the library lounge, the opposite wall's floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with books of every which size and shape. A velvet emerald-hued sofa seat, a tall potted palm, and a striped moss-taupe mat completed the décor, along with added touches—a bronze outstretched hand sculpture upon the coffee table, a framed butterfly print atop a bookshelf. A ladder, for the books themselves. And was that macrame-potted fern in the furthest right corner, beneath a skylight?

It certainly seemed so.

"What now?"

"Multiplication, but this time, with corporeal objects."

He laughed. "When Lazlo said multiplication, I thought—numbers and figures. Math. That sort of thing."

"Most people do," she replied, as she directed him toward the bookshelf. "Choose a book to fixate on, then picture five of them."

"That sounds...challenging."

"And impossible, right?" Sofie bit her lip, barely hiding a smile.

"What if..." he glanced around. "What if the others find out?"

"They probably already have, I've been clumsy with my mental wards lately—"

"What if I...shred a book by accident?"

"There's plenty more where they came from—"

Karlo sighed. But what if—

She touched his shoulder. "You'll be fine."

"Here goes nothing..." he skimmed an upper shelf, second-from-furthest-right, focusing hard, concentrating—

On an inch-wide tome, bright crimson, its color penetrating its parchment surface down to the binding threads and glue. What was the book's name? The title, of course, and an unknown or anonymous author, a publisher—there was always a well-known publisher—the ISBN number to distinguish it from the rest, its pages smelling of fresh-cut timber from the northern forest, pine branches shaking under the weight of several inches of pure white snow—

A duplicate—he imagined—an ISBN number cloned atop a blank book's surface, a publisher, author, title denoted exactly as before, the crimson coloring spreading wide along the tome's surface, liquid ruby, or akin to an Oscar's red carpet, he knew not which—as everything came together in an intricate symphony of cogs and literary machinery, one after the other—

"Omigawd it worked!"

He opened his eyes, having heard Sofie exclaim. Glancing again at the shelf, he spotted not one, but two crimson books of equal height, length, and depth. But—

"Five more times?"

She nodded; more time had passed, minutes upon minutes turning into hours then more. "Yeah...we need at least...thirty..." her voice trailing off as she reached out to stroke the first crimson tome's spine. "Thirty people surrounding the meeting place, for Veronica to avoid a scene—come quietly—surrender herself to the authorities—"

"Thirty?" Karlo's voice dripped incredulity. "We don't have enough time to—"

"The good news is," Sofie interjected, "we have a couple of Goddess League folks that can assist. Carolina and Natalia can probably manage...say...ten apiece. So you're really on the hook for ten yourself. Just make the people look as convincingly authoritative as possible—"

"This is insane," he uttered, rubbing his temple.

"Yeah, well..." She peered out the arch window, spotting glowing tea lights, a wood trellis, and al fresco dining arrangements below, before turning to him once more. "The best ideas often are."