Layered sheets of charcoal and ash swept in to blot away the snowy puffs that only moments ago had sailed like clipper ships across a crisp, blue artificial sky. The murk and smudge smothered the sunbeams and shadows that had dappled the square and made the cheerful pastels of the stucco façades seem dirty and blighted.
“You should see the weather when he’s mad,” said Bern.
He and Lille said goodbye and strolled off hand in hand to a small cottage that made the only break in an otherwise solid wall of townhouses, shops and churches. The alleys flanking it, bricked off, led nowhere.
Luther’s comeuppance made me see the ‘Burg in a much less flattering light. What Victoria had said was basically true. The place was just a bunch of caves with prettified fronts. I had yet to see a building that went more than one room deep.
This made Luther much less than the god-like figure I made him out to be in my first encounters. The ‘Burg was just a playground and Luther a big kid bullying toddlers until a grownup came by to put him in his place.
I couldn’t imagine the sorts of marvels folks like Victoria could create from the fabric of this world. In my eyes, Root had just become a bigger and more exciting place.
I followed Karla back through the rose garden and into the salmon-colored stucco façade of the townhouse with the sitting room. Her invitation was unspoken but understood. Where else would I go? That chamber was home.
But then I remembered Luther’s edict. “Your place—is that considered part of the ‘Burg?”
She wrinkled her nose and smoothed her hair down. “Who cares?”
“Well, because Luther said we couldn’t—“
“Ah, don’t listen to him. He is nothing but bluster. This lady, Victoria, she hurts his pride. He is just acting out to save face. Always he threatens, but does nothing.”
We pushed through the shaggy corridor until we reached her dome. Patches of shell pulsed with soft, diffused light. Blips like fireflies glided along a network of slender strands threading between the bumps and spines. It looked like a toadstool decorated for Christmas.
Karla touched her fingers to the wall and cracks appeared in the seamless surface, outlining the hatch. She pulled on a loop of root and opened it.
The interior brightened as we entered.
I collapsed among the futons and pillows heaped in the middle of the floor, lying back with my hands tucked behind my head. Rays filtering through the stained glass skylight danced on the wall.
“That window … it’s almost looks like the actual sun is shining behind it. That’s pretty cool. How did you manage that?”
“Ah, it is nothing,” she said, fluffing and stacking the pillows beside me. “It is not as nice as the real one,”
“Real one?”
“I tell you. This is a famous art from Bernini. I make a copy from my memory, but my memory and my skill is not perfect.”
“Are you kidding? It looks great.”
“Thank you. But you should see the real one someday. It is from San Pietro Basilica. Made of stone, not glass you realize. Alabaster. The Piazza San Pietro, it is only a few block away from our flat. When I would go for mass, I would always watch this dove, how it changes in the light. In church, I am always this way, thinking my own thoughts, never paying attention to the priest.”
“Yeah well, join the club. I used to daydream all the time during services. Back when I used to go, that is.”
She sat down directly across from me, fidgeting with the pillows and fussing her bangs until her left eye was well-obscured by a solid wedge of hair. She looked over at me, a grave expression adding years to her looks.
