Excerpt: What Not To Tell A Skeleton

The falling petal is the failing performer. Isabel, whose voice has the flowers bloom, will see her flourishing field turn into a graveyard.

She belonged to House of BellowJaw, which meant she was a servant who commanded Banshees and Farshees, but her FlickerSpine masters often lent her the freedom to travel and sing.

They wanted an earth treated well by the flowers. If she could keep the town and the flora happy, they’ll make sure to keep her singing.

For the moment, Isabel lived with her nephew, Belfree, a thousand year old man resurrected every few decades, of House of FlickerSpine, currently in his twenties.

The checkerboard floors were polished and the dark wooden shelves were dusted, so she took this moment of freedom for some fresh air.

There was a stench from the ground of Belfree’s cemetery. The makings of something wicked. Her hands shook as she knelt to grab a flower. The edges of its vibrant, red petals were a sickly white.

‘Do not fall sick yet’, she must know the roses only parted their lips when she sang, so why did she whisper?

“Our performer is losing her will,” they said, their mouths under their palms, “and soon we will lose our performers.”

Belfree’s customers had just traded in an earring of direforge for whatever amount of flowers they desired. She ignored the comments; knowing they had taken one too many flowers and that Belfree would curse them for it.

Isabel forced tears from her eyes. To make sure they were genuine, she had stolen a rare metal from Belfree: an alloy of shadowrought and mournweld, fused with the memories of grief-stricken ghosts.

Two lovers who lost each other to a curse placed on them by the sun, who saw one shine too bright and forced the other forever into night:

The first had blonde hair and snow-white teeth that reflected a smile on the faces of all she gazed upon. The other woman had raven hair and skin like caramel, with teeth whiter still.

When these two women were seen together, their union was the night well spent that carried into morning. You could not help but smile and daydream and wake back from their spell as if you’ve had a good night’s rest.

Tineéan accused the two of heresy when their light shined brighter than his own and a group of worshipers built eternal shrines to their false divinity all across town.

He tried to burn them down, to dismantle the shrines with his twin hands, but they were held strong with faith and love. Stronger than Tineéan’s own power, who relied on fear. Tineéan grabbed his flaming spine, rode his twin hands and spoke the names of the two whose fates were so intertwined: Isolde and Sylwen.

If you listened closely, you can still hear a feeble beating in the mournweld: a grieving heart unable to turn away from the shadows to face the light; to face her lover.

***

Isabel clutched dirt. An earth that shivered in her grasp as would the nestling to shake powder from her bosom and sing.

She licked her palm; tasted the attempt of a dying bird to take flight and extracted the song:

“Here lies potential for a beauty, not fragile nor momentary: (a daughter and her half-brother)

Who lack strength to play but revel in their traits; the agile and imaginary (he but feather and bone)

Here they’ll begin, their tales compile in this cemetery: (and when the boy’s not necessary)

She’ll recognize his tragic nature: vulnerable and temporary. (so different from her own)”

And at the soothing trill, the dirt, injected with an elden thrill, grew a flower that whispered to Isabel. A whisper of warning.

That the moment winter should extinguish a rising set of FlickerSpine wings, an unwilling but vengeful spirit will be unleashed upon the world.

***

Her steps towards Rell’s home were accentuated by the artificial snow of early March; snow that swirled as if the town were shaken by some outside participant of the weather.

A gentle earthquake that nonetheless played a part in her clumsy dance towards the Piano School for The Deaf.

Boots upon the sidewalk were as fingers on the piano. No sound played in her ear other than the rumble of the earth beneath her. Contact with the sidewalk a reminder of Rell’s own playing. Rather than play by ear, her sister Rell played by vibrations through her feet.

She taught Isabel to do the same. Even as she walked, she heard the sound of Rell and her performing together at the center of town. An event that fails to gather any listeners other than rats that consume the flowers in bloom.

So they stopped playing. And when they stopped seeing each other, the flowers grew as arrogant as trees could reach for the sky.

The sisters grew arrogant, too.

***

Isabel arrived at Rell’s school, not cold nor wet with melted snow. She knocked on the door.

The gargoyles above stared her down as she walked up the stairs, a command resounding from their jaws to something below.

There were futuretell flowers; a beautiful plant with three white bulbs at its center, violet petals closed, keeping them from witnessing all of time, all at once.

A command to open up, but only slightly.

‘I’ve been watching you since you were born, child,’ the flowers whispered.

Isabel shut her eyes with force and shook her head; a shout from hell wanting to slip from her lips, but she fell mute. As if the futuretells had cast the silhouette of some horrid curse on Isabel; but because it did not fit the shape of her body, it lifted almost at once.

And yet, all that escaped was a hiss. Rell opened the door for Isabel, pausing for a moment. Then spoke,

“Sister! There’s too much to say, and not enough privacy to say it. Come in.”

Rell explained to Isabel that she’s been listening to the flowers, the ghosts and rats that roam the town. The flowers panic that they’re dying. The ghosts rave with madness that less and less of the town’s citizens are afraid of them.

And the rats expect to have a buffet unfit even for such lowly creatures.

“Often there’s more to such chaos than people choose to see. Find Belfree; he should be at the edge of town, ready to die,” said Rell.