Tonight I sleep with paper eyelids, lead embossing dreams across them. First comes the taste in my dreams, even before I can hear voices or make out faces. I'm remembering my eighth birthday, can feel butter whirling on my tongue and cloves kissing my lips. Heloise, my elder sister who absolutely detested needlework, had spent days embroidering a little overdress for me with bluebells and bluebonnets and lavender. Only in my dream, the flowers have little cooking knives draping off the petals, and instead of sweetgrass and wildflowers embroidered along the hem, it's waves. Mom comes up from behind to give me a hug while father crouches in front of me, clutching my little hands. Both of my parents could cook wonderfully, but father especially, so when he hands me focaccia stuffed with rosemary and dried caraberries I can't help but squeal for joy. Mama whirls me around up into her arms and pulls few little jars of out of her skirt pocket. Back then we all lived isolated on a peninsula, and to buy glassware like that was a long trip inland. The bottles are twisted glass with wide glass corks in the top, squat and blue and green. Mama smiles down at me while I'm placed down on a large wooden counter top.
"Here dolca, I'm gonna open up the bottles and you close your eyes, and let's see how many you can guess right, okay?" I nod, clap my hands. I love games, riddles, memory or guessing, Heloise and I would play for hours trying to outwit each other. I hold my hands over my eyes and do a terrible job covering up my peeking. I can see mama stabbing each of the corks with her silver-scaled knife to undo the jars until Lou catches me peeking and claps her hands over mine.
"Here's the first jar, what do you smell?" Tingly notes, sharp and sweet that make the front of my tongue pucker.
"Candied lime?"
"Mhmm, good job. Two more." She uncorks the second jar with a Pop! Immediately sweet notes are flooding my senses, drifting up to settle on my tongue. It's sweet and full and thick and foral, and I don't know it quite as well as the candied lime, but it's been tasted maybe twice within the last year and so the memory of thick waffles come to mind.
"Elderberry syrup? I'm not completely certain though."
"Don't apologize for things that have not hurt us. But yes, you're right, and I am surprised." Lou leans over to whisper in my ear, "You just won me two francs! Now I'm glad I didn't quit the overskirt when I wanted to." I open my eyes to mom scowling at Lou playfully. She usually never bets on me, and suddenly I am hit with an air of grown-upness. I can feel my body curl around the blanket and pull it closer to me in a warm embrace, ready for what's coming next. I know what's supposed to happen. Mother will uncork the jar and hold it up to my nose. It's a scent I didn't know way back then, very earthy, but it wasn't a plant I could place. After a few moments of guessing, Lou asked to give me a hint, and walked out of the room. Thats when I heard the yowl of a strange animal. I opened my eyes to Lou holding out a fuzzy lump with light purple eyes and a deep purple snout, almost black.
"What is that?" Mother laughs at my startled expression.
"It's a cat, remember, father had one when he was a child?" I vaguely remember father describing an orange cat named Remy. They don't live out here naturally though I could wager a guess that plenty of the wealthiest in the city owned them. I had never seen one in person before but Lou dropped the snarling mass into my arms and it didn't stop gazing about the room or glaring at anyone who looked it in the eye, but it did nestle deeper into my arms. I know what comes next, even in this comatose state. I'm supposed to hold the cat closer and open the jar of syrup, letting it lick off my fingers while I sipped a bit with a spoon. That's what supposed to happen. But as I go to scooch further backwards, the cat whirls towards me, and instead of eyes it has creamy nerium flowers gouged into its eye sockets. And it paws towards, me up my chest and licks my cheeks and I go cold. Nerium is one of the most poisonous flowers I've ever read of, it cannot be touched, spores inhaled, or nectar salvaged. But the cat continues to lick my face, even as I'm going stiff, and then with it's wet maw, my eyes are nudged shut.
YOU ARE READING
Mad Honey
FantasyWIP - Azalea is an academy trained spy, an occasional assassin. She's sent on mission to find and interrogate a boy who has been watching the academy, and her. But things go wrong when she is kidnapped and thrown into a conspiracy much bigger than h...
