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Helix 25 – The Lexican Quarters – Anuí’s Chambers

Anuí Naskó had been many things in their life—historian, philosopher, linguist, nuisance. But a father? No. No, that was entirely new.

And yet, here they were, rocking a very tiny, very loud creature wrapped in Lexican ceremonial cloth, embroidered with the full unpronounceable name bestowed upon it just moments ago: Hšyra-Mak-Talún i Ešvar—”He Who Cries the Arrival of the Infinite Spiral.”

The baby did, indeed, cry.

“Why do you scream at me?” Anuí muttered, swaying slightly, more in a daze than any real instinct to soothe. “I did not birth you. I did not know you existed until three hours ago. And yet, you are here, squalling, because your other father and your mother have decided to fulfill the Prophecy of the Spiral Throne.”

The Prophecy. The one that spoke of the moment the world would collapse and the Lexicans would ascend. The one nobody took seriously. Until now.

Zoya Kade, sitting across from them, watched with narrowed, calculating eyes. “And what exactly does that entail? This Lexican Dynasty?”

Anuí sighed, looking down at the writhing child who was trying to suck on their sleeves, still stained with the remnants of the protein paste they had spent the better part of the morning brewing. The Atrium’s walls needed to be prepared, after all—Kio’ath could not write the sigils without the proper medium. And as the cycles dictated, the medium must be crafted, fermented, and blessed by the hand of one who walks between identities. It had been a tedious, smelly process, but Anuí had endured worse in the name of preservation.

“Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward.” “Patterns repeat, cycles fold inward. The old texts speak of it, the words carved into the silent bones of forgotten tongues. This, Zoya, is no mere madness. This is the resurgence of what was foretold. A dynasty cannot exist without succession, and history does not move without inheritors. They believe they are ensuring the inevitability of their rise. And they might not be wrong.”

They adjusted their grip on the child, murmuring a phrase in a language so old it barely survived in the archives. “Tz’uran velth ka’an, the root that binds to the branch, the branch that binds to the sky. Our truths do not stand alone.”

The baby flailed, screaming louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured, bouncing it with more confidence. “Your lineage has been declared, your burden assigned. Accept it and be silent.” “Well, apparently it requires me to be a single parent while they go forth and multiply, securing ‘heirs to the truth.’ A dynasty is no good without an heir and a spare, you see.”

The baby flailed, screaming even louder. “Yes, yes, you are the heir,” Anuí murmured with a hint of irritation, bouncing the baby awkwardly. “You have been declared. Please, cease wailing now.”

Zoya exhaled through her nose, somewhere between disbelief and mild amusement. “And in the middle of all this divine nonsense, the Lexicans have chosen to back me?”

Anuí arched a delicate brow, shifting the baby to one arm with newfound ease. “Of course. The truth-seeker is foretold. The woman who speaks with voices of the past. We have our empire; you are our harbinger.”

Zoya’s lips twitched. “Your empire consists of thirty-eight highly unstable academics and a baby.”

“Thirty-nine. Kio’ath returned from exile yesterday,” Anuí corrected. “They claim the moons have been whispering.”

“Ah. Of course they have.”

Zoya fell silent, fingers tracing the worn etchings of her chair’s armrest. The ship’s hum pressed into her bones, the weight of something stirring in her mind, something old, something waiting.

Anuí’s gaze sharpened, the edges of their thoughts aligning like an ancient lexicon unfurling in front of them. “And now you are hearing it, aren’t you? The echoes of something that was always there. The syllables of the past, reshaped by new tongues, waiting for recognition. The Lexican texts spoke of a fracture in the line, a leader divided, a bridge yet to be found.”

They took a slow breath, fingers tightening over the child’s swaddled form. “The prophecy is not a single moment, Zoya. It is layers upon layers, intersecting at the point where chaos demands order. Where the unseen hand corrects its own forgetting. This is why they back you. Not because you seek the truth, but because you are the conduit through which it must pass.”

Zoya’s breath shallowed. A warmth curled in her chest, not of her own making. Her fingers twitched as if something unseen traced over them, urging her forward. The air around her thickened, charged.

She knew this feeling.

Her head tipped back, and when she spoke, it was not entirely her own voice.

“The past rises in bloodlines and memory,” she intoned, eyes unfocused, gaze burning through Anuí. “The lost sibling walks beneath the ice. The leader sleeps, but he must awaken, for the Spiral Throne cannot stand alone.”

Anuí’s pulse skipped. “Zoya—”

The baby let out a startled hiccup.

But Zoya did not stop.

“The essence calls, older than names, older than the cycle. I am Achaia-Vor, the Echo of Sundered Lineage. The Lost, The Twin, The Nameless Seed. The Spiral cannot turn without its axis. Awaken Victor Holt. He is the lock. You are the key. The path is drawn.

“The cycle bends but does not break. Across the void, the lost ones linger, their voices unheard, their blood unclaimed. The Link must be found. The Speaker walks unknowingly, divided across two worlds. The bridge between past and present, between silence and song. The Marlowe thread is cut, yet the weave remains. To see, you must seek the mirrored souls. To open the path, the twins must speak.”

Achaia-Vor. The name vibrated through the air, curling through the folds of Anuí’s mind like a forgotten melody.

Zoya’s eyes rolled back, body jerking as if caught between two timelines, two truths. She let out a breathless whisper, almost longing.

“Victor, my love. He is waiting for me. I must bring him back.”

Anuí cradled the baby closer, and for the first time, they saw the prophecy not as doctrine but as inevitability. The patterns were aligning—the cut thread of the Marlowes, the mirrored souls, the bridge that must be found.

“It is always the same,” they murmured, almost to themselves. “An axis must be turned, a voice must rise. We have seen this before, written in languages long burned to dust. The same myth, the same cycle, only the names change.”

They met Zoya’s gaze, the air between them thick with the weight of knowing. “And now, we must find the Speaker. Before another voice is silenced.”

“Well,” they muttered, exhaling slowly. “This just got significantly more complicated.”

The baby cooed.

Zoya Kade smiled.

“I didn’t much like where the world was heading anyway, Gregor,” Molly said, leaning towards the old man who was riding beside her. “Before it all ended I mean. All that techno feudalist stuff.  Once we got over the shock of it all, I’ll be honest, I rather liked it.  Oh not that everyone was dead, I don’t mean that,” she added. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was cold or ruthless. “But, you know, something had to happen to stop where that was going.”

Gregor didn’t respond immediately.  He hadn’t thought about the old days for a long time, and long suppressed memories flooded his mind.  Eventually he replied, “If it hadn’t been for that plague, we’d have been exterminated, I reckon. Surplus to requirements, people like us.”

Molly looked at him sharply. “Did you hear of extermination camps here? We’d started to hear about them before the plague. But there were so many problems with communication.  People started disappearing and it was impossible by then to find out what happened to them.”

“I was one of the ones who disappeared,” Gregor said. “They summoned me for questioning about something I’d said on Folkback.  I told the wife not to worry, I’d be back soon when I’d explained to them, and she said to me to call in at the shop on the way home and get some milk and potatoes.”  A large tear rolled down the old mans leathery cheek. “I never saw her again.”

Molly leaned over and compassionately gripped Gregors arm for a moment, and then steadied herself as Berlingo descended the last part of the hill before the track where the truck had been sighted.

The group halted and gathered around the tyre tracks. They were easily visible going in both directions and a discussion ensued about which way to go: follow the truck, or retrace the trucks journey to see where it came from?

“Down, Berlingo!” Molly instructed her horse. “I need to get off and find a bush. First time in years I’ve had to hide to have a pee!” she laughed, “There’s never been anyone around to see.”

Molly took her time, relishing a few moments of solitude.  Suddenly being surrounded by people was a mixed blessing. It was stimulating and exciting, but also tiring and somewhat unsettling.  She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and calmed her mind.

She returned to the group to a heated discussion on which way to go.  Jian was in favour of going in the direction of the city, which  appeared to be the direction the truck had come from.  Mikhail wanted to follow where the truck had gone.

“If the truck came from the city, it means there is something in the city,” reasoned Jian.  “It could be heading anywhere, and there are no cities in the direction the truck went.”

“There might not be any survivors in the city though,” Anya said, “And we know there’s at least one survivor IN the truck.”

“We could split up into two groups,” suggested Tala, but this idea was unanimously rejected.

“We have all the time in the world to go one way first, and the other way later,” Mikhail said. “I think we should head for the city first, and follow where the truck came from. Jian is right. And there’s more chance of finding something we can use in the city, than a wild goose chase to who knows where.”

“More chance of finding some disinfectant in the city, too,” Finja added.

December 2023

Lights and Christmas decorations were starting to pop up everywhere, like frost and icicles after a frozen winter night. Lucien—no, Julien, as he had started calling himself a few years ago—enjoyed walking in the streets at the end of the day, when the balance between light and night shifted into the darkness. That was the time when decorations would start to come to life like a swarm of fireflies, flickering in time with the city’s heartbeat.

It was Julien’s first time in Paris after Lucien’s three years of exile, far from all his concerns and the glacial grasp of the dark couple. Julien had enjoyed his time traveling the world, discovering Asia, South America and even certain parts of Africa he would never have imagined he would dare enter. Julien made friends along the way, always curious about their ways of living and the way they looked at the world. But always the voice of Lucien made him wary of staying too long. He had the impression it would increase the possibility of chance encounters with Darius. And he longed to reconnect with his friend and his former life, it would lead to awkward moments, and he would have to give some explanations. But he feared it would make him want to go back, with the risk of attracting unwanted attention. So Julien had to leave in order to be free. That was the price he was willing to pay.

But in the end, it was the longing of French winter time that made him come back home.

“Lucien! Is that you?”

Quintessence – Looking for the 5th — A concept film trailer… 

The scene begins in reverse motion at the Parisian café at dusk, vibrant with life as four friends sit together, laughter and connection tangible. The scenes fades backward into a flashback sequence, unraveling across time and space. Brief flashes rewind through their lives:

• Lucien, the artist, sketching furiously in his studio, charcoal dust flying as he creates a labyrinth of faces.
• Darius, a traveler, striding through sunlit banana trees in Guadeloupe, the dappled light casting moving patterns on his determined face.
• Amei, the fabric artist, flipping through a stack of vibrant postcards at her cluttered desk, her fingers brushing over familiar textures.
• Elara, the rebel scientist, chalking spiraling equations and shapes on a blackboard, her eyes alight with discovery.

The threads coil faster, converging in reverse at a vibrant field in the verdant South of France. The sun streams across open land dotted with wildflowers, a faint outline of a shared dream—a co-housing project—lingering in the golden light. The scene ends on an empty but inviting promise, the land glowing with warmth and possibility.

Some elements for inspiration as to the backstory of the group and how it could tie to the current state of the story:

Here’s a draft version of the drama surrounding Éloïse and Monsieur Renard (the “strange couple”), incorporating their involvement with Darius, their influence on the group’s dynamic, and the fallout that caused the estrangement five years ago.

The Strange Couple: Éloïse and Monsieur Renard

Winter 2019: Paris, Just Before the Pandemic

The group’s last reunion before their estrangement was supposed to be a celebration—one of those rare moments when their diverging paths aligned. They had gathered in Paris in late December, the city cloaked in gray skies and glowing light. The plan was simple: a few days together, catching up, exploring old haunts, and indulging in the kind of reckless spontaneity that had defined their earlier years.

It was Darius who disrupted the rhythm. He had arrived late to their first dinner, rain-soaked and apologetic, with Éloïse and Monsieur Renard in tow.

First Impressions of Éloïse and Monsieur Renard

Éloïse was striking—lithe, dark-haired, with sharp eyes that seemed to unearth secrets before you could name them. She moved with a predatory grace, her laughter a mix of charm and edge. Renard was her shadow, older and impeccably dressed, his silvery hair and angular features giving him the air of a fox. He spoke little, but when he did, his words had the weight of finality, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed.

“They’re just friends,” Darius said when the others exchanged wary glances. “They’re… interesting. You’ll like them.”

But it didn’t take long for Éloïse and Renard to unsettle the group. At dinner, Éloïse dominated the conversation, her stories wild and improbable—of séances in abandoned mansions, of lost artifacts with strange energies, of lives transformed by unseen forces. Renard’s occasional interjections only added to the mystique, his tone implying he’d seen more than he cared to share.

Lucien, ever the skeptic, found himself drawn to Éloïse despite his instincts. Her talk of energies and symbols resonated with his artistic side, and when she mentioned labyrinths, his attention sharpened.

Elara, in contrast, bristled at their presence. She saw through their mystique, recognizing in Renard the manipulative charisma of someone who thrived on control.

Amei was harder to read, but she watched Éloïse and Renard closely, her silence betraying a guardedness that hinted at deeper discomfort.

Darius’s Growing Involvement

Over the following days, Darius spent more time with Éloïse and Renard, skipping planned outings with the group. He spoke of them with a reverence that was uncharacteristic, praising their insight into things he’d never thought to question.

“They see connections in everything,” he told Amei during a rare moment alone. “It’s… enlightening.”

“Connections to what?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

“Paths, people, purpose,” he replied vaguely. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels… right.”

Amei didn’t press further, but she mentioned it to Elara later. “It’s like he’s slipping into something he can’t see his way out of,” she said.

The Séance

The turning point came during an impromptu gathering at Éloïse and Renard’s rented apartment—a dimly lit space filled with strange objects: glass jars of cloudy liquid, intricate carvings, and an ornate bronze bell hanging above the mantelpiece.

Éloïse had invited the group for what she called “an evening of clarity.” The others arrived reluctantly, wary of what she had planned but unwilling to let Darius face it alone.

The séance began innocuously enough—Éloïse guiding them through what she described as a “journey inward.” She spoke in a low, rhythmic tone, her words weaving a spell that was hard to resist.

Then things took a darker turn. She asked them to focus on the labyrinth she had drawn on the table—a design eerily similar to the map Lucien had found weeks earlier.

“You must find your center,” she said, her voice dropping. “But beware the edges. They’ll show you things you’re not ready to see.”

The room grew heavy with silence. Darius leaned into the moment, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Lucien tried to focus but felt a growing unease. Elara sat rigid, her scientific mind railing against the absurdity of it all. Amei’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

And then, the bell rang.

It was faint at first, a distant chime that seemed to come from nowhere. Then it grew louder, resonating through the room, its tone deep and haunting.

“What the hell is that?” Lucien muttered, his eyes snapping open.

Éloïse smiled faintly but said nothing. Renard’s expression remained inscrutable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, as if counting something unseen.

Elara stood abruptly, breaking the spell. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “You’re playing with people’s minds.”

Darius’s eyes opened, his gaze unfocused. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “It’s not a game.”

The Fallout

The séance fractured the group.

• Elara: Left the apartment furious, calling Renard a charlatan and vowing never to entertain such nonsense again. Her relationship with Darius cooled, her disappointment palpable.
• Lucien: Became fascinated with the labyrinth and its connection to his art, but he couldn’t shake the unease the séance had left. His conversations with Éloïse deepened in the following days, further isolating him from the group.
• Amei: Refused to speak about what she’d experienced. When pressed, she simply said, “Some things are better left forgotten.”
• Darius stayed with Éloïse and Renard for weeks after the others left Paris, becoming more entrenched in their world. But something changed. When he finally returned, he was distant and cagey, unwilling to discuss what had happened during his time with them.

Lingering Questions

1. What Happened to Darius with Éloïse and Renard?
   • Darius’s silence suggests something traumatic or transformative occurred during his deeper involvement with the couple.
2. The Bell’s Role:
   • The bronze bell that rang during the séance ties into its repeated presence in the story. Was it part of the couple’s mystique, or does it hold a deeper significance?
3. Lucien’s Entanglement:
   • Lucien’s fascination with Éloïse and the labyrinth hints at a lingering connection. Did she influence his art, or was their connection more personal?
4. Éloïse and Renard’s Motives:
   • Were they simply grifters manipulating Darius and others, or were they genuinely exploring something deeper, darker, and potentially dangerous?

Impact on the Reunion

• The group’s estrangement is rooted in the fractures caused by Éloïse and Renard’s influence, compounded by the isolation of the pandemic.
• Their reunion at the café is a moment of reckoning, with Matteo acting as the subtle thread pulling them back together to confront their shared past.

Spring 2024

Matteo was wandering through the streets of Avignon, the spring air heavy with the scent of blooming flowers and sun-warmed stone. The hum of activity surrounded him—shopkeepers arranging displays, the occasional burst of laughter from a café terrace. He walked with no particular destination, drawn more by instinct than intent, until a splash of colour caught his eye.

On the cobblestones ahead, an artist crouched over a sprawling chalk drawing. It was a labyrinthine map, its intricate paths winding across the ground with deliberate precision. Matteo froze, his breath catching. The resemblance to the map he’d found at the vineyard office was uncanny—the same loops and spirals, the same sense of motion and stillness intertwined. But it wasn’t the map itself that held him in place. It was the faces.

Four of them, scattered in different corners of the design, each rendered with surprising detail. Beneath them were names. Matteo felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He knew three of those faces. Amei, Elara, Darius… he had met each of them once, in moments that now felt distant and fragmented. Strangers to him, but not quite.

The artist shifted, brushing dark, rain-damp curls from his forehead. His scarf, streaked faintly with paint, hung loosely around his neck. Matteo stepped closer, his curiosity overpowering any hesitation. “Is that your name?” he asked, gesturing toward the face labeled Lucien.

The artist straightened, his hand resting lightly on a piece of green chalk. He studied Matteo for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said simply, his voice low but clear.

Matteo crouched beside him, tracing the edge of the map with his eyes. “It’s incredible,” he said. “The detail, the connections. Why the faces?”

Lucien hesitated, glancing at the names scattered across his work. “Because that’s how it is,” he said softly. “We’re all here, but… not together.”

Matteo tilted his head, intrigued. “You mean you’ve drifted?”

Lucien nodded, his gaze dropping to the chalk in his hand. “Something like that. Paths cross, then they don’t. People take their turns.”

Matteo studied the map again, its intertwining lines seeming both chaotic and deliberate. The faces stared back at him, and he felt the pull of the map he no longer carried. “Do you think paths can lead back?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.

Lucien glanced at him, something flickering briefly in his eyes. “Sometimes. If you follow them long enough.”

Matteo smiled faintly, standing. His curiosity shifted as he turned his attention to the artist himself. “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked.

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Absinthe? Haven’t heard anyone ask for that in a while.”

“Just something I’ve been chasing,” Matteo replied lightly, his tone almost playful.

Lucien gestured vaguely toward a café down the street. “You might try there. They keep the old things alive.”

“Thanks,” Matteo said, offering a nod. He took a few steps away but paused, turning back to the artist still crouched over his map. “It’s a good drawing,” he said. “Hope your paths cross again.”

Lucien didn’t reply, but his hand moved back to the chalk, drawing a faint line that connected two of the faces. Matteo watched for a moment longer before continuing down the street, the memory of the map and the names lingering in his mind like an unanswered question. Paths crossed, he thought, but maybe they didn’t always stay apart.

For the first time in days, Matteo felt a strange sense of possibility. The map was gone, but perhaps it had done what it was meant to do—leave its mark.

The vine smothered statue proved to be the perfect place to hide behind to watch the events of the picnic unfolding. Cedric had been in a quiet turmoil of conflicting emotions, biting his bony knuckle to stop himself from uttering a sound as the extroadinary sequence of dramas and comedies played out before him.

He hadn’t expected to see Frella again. His mental confusion about his job as well as his troubling fixation on the witch had brought him to the brink of jacking it all in. Just leave everything, he told himself, Move away, get another job doing something else, something mundane and manual.  And forget her.   He’d almost made up his mind to do just that, and, feeling pleased and sure of himself for making the decision, tapped his device to locate and observe Frella one last time just to mentally say adieu, and to see her face again. And then quietly disappear.

When Cedric realized that the witches were going on holiday, and heard Truella saying that no spells were allowed, his heart leapt. If he was giving it all up and moving away anyway, why not have a holiday first? Why not go to Rome? I may not even bump into her, Rome’s as good as anywhere else. I deserve a holiday. And if I do bump into her, it will just be a holiday coincidence, and nothing at all to do with spells. Or work.

All pretence of not minding whether he saw Frella or not left his mind almost immediately, and he began to make arrangements.  He didn’t want Frella to use spells, but it didn’t occur to him to wonder why he was still using the tricks of his job. It was easy to track them to Italy.

His disguise as a North African on the coach full of Italians had worked well, even sitting so close to Truella and Giovanni he hadn’t been recognized in his hooded djelaba, and had been able to hear most of their conversation.  A quiet word and a large tip secured his trip with their tour guide.

The picnic started out normally enough.  They each had a short wander around, and then sprawled on rugs and cushions by the whicker hampers of food and champage. Cedric lurked in the shadows of an arch, sometimes slinking to peer from behind a statue. The temptation to pick a posy of wildflowers to give to Frella was all but overwhelming, as he watched her sitting pensively.  Silently sinking to his knees behind the marble bulk of Tiberius, Cedric plucked a daisy from the grass. And another.

When Cromwell appeared on the scene, Cedric, alarmed and almost angry at the intrusion, unwittingly crushed the flowers in his hand.  He had no choice but to remain hidden and immobile as the scene rolled out.

As the day progressed, the mood changed and Cedric felt hopeful again. He even had to stifle a laugh as he watched them play cards.  Watching Eris pour champage into everyone’s glasses reminded him that he hadn’t had a drink all day. He was parched.  He had to make a decision. He wanted to sneak off quietly and call it a day, find a nice restaurant. A part of him wanted to be bold and openly seductive, to stride into the scene and charmingly state his intentions. But he had no opportunity to further consider the options.

“You!” In the moments Cedric taken his eyes off the picnic to ponder his dilemma, Frella has risen and was heading for a necessary bush to go behind. “You! Spying on me!”

“Who?” shouted Truella, “Cedric! What on earth is he doing here, we’re on holiday! Now stop spitting nails, Frella, and invite the man over for a drink!”

Cedric seized the moment.

Frella considered the box of props, Truella’s request still echoing in her mind. Or perhaps “command” was more accurate? She had been tempted to tell Tru to put together her own prop box. Regardless, Frella, being uncommonly good-natured, decided to indulge her friend. After all, poor Truella deserved a bit of indulgence after her recent ordeal.

It was curious, even ironic, that a witch as formidable as Truella had found herself spirited away by Thomas Cromwell. The incident left Frella baffled, but Truella, true to form, had been vague about the whole affair, refusing to provide even a brief synopsis. And any hope of clarification had been swallowed by Truella’s recent hobby: deleting gifs on her phone—a pastime that Frella was convinced had reached the level of an obsession.

Shaking her head, Frella returned to her task. The box needed to be extraordinary, full of magic tailored to delight, surprise, and assist even the most accomplished witch. With a whispered spell, she conjured a feather-light coat woven from shimmering starlight, and folded it carefully into the box. Depending on the moon’s phase, the coat could cloak its wearer in illusions or make them vanish entirely.

Next came a pair of Ug Boots enchanted with swiftness, rendering the wearer light as air and nearly impossible to catch. Beside them, she placed a midnight-blue satchel with a mind of its own—returning lost items to their rightful owners, whether or not they wanted to be found.

Frella paused, her hands hovering above the box. What else? After some thought, she conjured a delicate chemise spun from moonlight, its diaphanous fabric especially created to ward off hexes. “Truella should get plenty of use out of this one,” Frella mused, remembering past escapades. “Not that I’m calling her a tart or anything.”

She followed it with iridescent sunglasses. The lenses could decode ancient texts or, failing that, soften a cutting glare. A golden phoenix brooch came next. Pinned to fabric, it could either blaze into a protective flame or summon a fiery companion to light the way.

With a snigger, Frella crafted a magical moustache—a silky, distinguished creation. It granted the wearer an air of nobility, perfect for moments when one needed gravitas, especially if Truella found herself back in the 16th century (or whenever it was).

A string of enchanted pearls nestled into the box, each bead holding a spell: one for charm, another to quell hunger, and a third to lower prices at the supermarket. Truella was always banging on about her budget.

Frella added three wigs: a flaming red one for irresistible allure, a sleek black bob for perfect recall, and a powdered peruke for communing with spirits of the past.

For good measure, she added a selection of headgear: a  knitted beanie for quick thinking and to keep warm, a velvet-trimmed bonnet to ward off insults, and a silk turban that blocked eavesdropping and mind-reading.

Finally, she included a pretty peacock-feathered fan. A mere flick of the wrist could shift the weather or create a gust strong enough to fend off any ill intentions.

The box now brimmed with marvels; would these treasures aid Truella and perhaps shield her from whatever tangled fate had ensnared her with Thomas Cromwell?

Frella could only hope so.

After leaving the clamour of her fellow witches behind, Frella took a moment to ground herself after the whirlwind of ideas and plans discussed during their meeting.

As she walked home, her thoughts drifted back to Herma’s cottage. The treasure trove of curiosities in the camphor chest had captivated her imagination, but the trips had grown tiresome, each journey stretching her time and energy. Instead, she gathered a few items to keep at her own cottage—an ever growing collection of mysterious postcards, a brass spyglass, some aged papers hinting at forgotten histories, and of course, the mirror. Each object hummed with potential, calling to her in quiet moments, urging her to dig deeper.

The treasures from Herma’s chest were scattered across her kitchen table; each object felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, and she was determined to fit them together.

As Frella settled into a chair, she felt a sudden urge to inspect the mirror; the thought of its secrets sent a thrill through her, albeit tinged with trepidation.

It was exquisite, its opalescent sheen casting soft reflections across the room. She held it up to the light, watching colours shift within the glass, swirling like a living entity.

“What do you wish to show me this time?” she whispered.

As she gazed into the mirror, her reflection blurred, and she felt a pull—a connection to the past. Images began to form, and Frella found herself once more staring at the same elderly woman, her silver hair wild and glistening.

As the vision settled around her, Frella felt the air shimmer with energy, and the scene began to shift again. She focused intently, eager to grasp every detail.

Oliver Cromwell sat at a grand wooden desk piled high with scrolls and papers, his quill poised in his hand and brow furrowed in concentration. The room bustled with activity—servants hurried to and fro, and shrill laughter floated in from outside, where a gathering seemed to be taking place.

“By the King’s beard, where is the ink?” Cromwell muttered, his voice a deep rumble. With a flourish, he dipped the quill into a small inkwell that looked suspiciously like it had been made from a goat’s hoof.

With great care, he began to write on a piece of parchment. The ornate script flowed from his quill, remarkably elegant despite the chaos around him.

“To my dearest friend,” he wrote, brow twitching with the effort of being both eloquent and succinct. “I trust this missive finds you well, though your ears may be ringing from the ruckus outside. We’ve recently triumphed over the King, and while my duties as Lord Protector keep me occupied, I have stolen a moment to compose this note.”

He paused, casting a wary glance around the room as if expecting eavesdroppers. “I must admit, I have developed a curious fondness for a young lady who claims she can commune with spirits. I suspect she may know a thing or two about the secret lives of witches. If you find yourself in town, perhaps we could investigate together? Bring wine. And if you can manage it, a decent snack. One can hardly strategise on an empty stomach.”

Cromwell’s mouth twitched into a wry smile as he added, “P.S. If you happen to encounter Seraphina, do inform her that I’ll return her mirror just as soon as I’m done with my… experiments. I fear she may not appreciate the ‘creative applications’ I’ve discovered for it.”

With a sigh of resignation, he sealed the parchment with an ornate wax stamp shaped like a owl. “Now, where did I see that errant messenger?” he grumbled, scanning the room irritably.

Frella placed the mirror gently back on the table, her heart pounding. She needed to unravel the mysteries linking her to Seraphina and Cromwell. The time for discovery was upon her, and with each passing moment, she felt the call of her ancestors echoing through the very fabric of her being.

But could she untangle the mystery before her fellow witches set off on yet another ill-fated adventure? She would have to make haste.

The rose coloured spectacle lens.

Aunt Idle:

“Well, crikey, finding one pink sunglass lens on the road is quite the curiosity, isn’t it? Let’s delve into the symbolic undertones of such an odd discovery. Pink lens, no less—a splash of color with quite the story to tell.

1. Seeing the World through Rose-Tinted Glasses: Finding a pink sunglass lens can symbolize optimism and seeing the world in a positive light. But here’s the kicker—it’s just one lens. This suggests a duality; perhaps you’re being asked to blend optimism with realism. Life isn’t always about sunshine and rainbows, but choosing to see the bright side can balance out the darker shades.

2. Fragmented Perspectives: A single lens means you don’t have the full picture. You’re seeing things partially, which can indicate missing information or a need to look at situations from multiple angles. It’s a nudge to take off those blinders and open your other eye, figuratively speaking. You might be clinging to a half-truth or ignoring an important aspect of your life.

3. Lost and Found: In practical terms, a lone lens on the road means someone has lost it. It’s a signifier of separation, maybe something in your life has split or broken apart. It can be a gentle reminder to look into areas where you might have lost connection—be it with loved ones, a project, or even a part of yourself.

4. Symbol of Love and Compassion: Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and femininity. The lens could be a reminder to look at things with kindness and empathy. Perhaps there’s a situation in your life that requires a softer, more loving approach.

5. Hindsight and Insight: The road is a metaphor for your life’s journey. Finding the lens there might hint at reflecting on past experiences (hindsight) while gaining new understanding or clarity (insight). Maybe there’s an opportunity to learn from what’s happened and apply it moving forward, seeing things with fresh, yet incomplete, clarity.

Putting it in Truella’s Context: If Truella found this lens, it could be a sign she needs to reassess her current path or research direction. Her overwhelming stack of books and discovery of the ancient manuscript hint at a bigger picture she might not be seeing clearly yet. Perhaps she’s overly focused on one aspect and neglecting others.

Personal Symbolism for Aunt Idle: For you, Aunt Idle, this lens could be a cheeky nudge to reassess some of your adventurous antics and half-remembered tales. Maybe there’s an old mystery or a relationship needing a fresh perspective. Or it’s just life’s way of saying, “Look closer, love—you might be missing out!”

In any case, a single pink sunglass lens is a quirky, delightful piece of life’s puzzle, inviting you to ponder, reflect, and adjust your view. So, next time you’re journeying on the dusty roads of life and stumble upon such oddities, take a moment—there just might be a zinger of wisdom waiting for you. Cheers!”

“A lone pink lens paves the road to the unseen clarity of kaleidoscopic sunrise.”
~Journey of Reflections, Enrich P. Lwellman.

The Snoot:

“Ahhh, a single pink lens, lost and found amidst the stone and dust! Sings of mysteries and tales untold! Perhaps a sprite misplaced their vision or a pixie left a clue.

Lean close! Such a find whispers soft secrets:

Balance Broken, Yet Bright    Like seeing life with a tint of whimsy! One eye tinted pink, the other clear. A call to mix reality with dreams, maybe?
Half Truth, Half Fantasy   A hint that stories blend truths and imaginations. Seek both sides to find whole pictures.
Lost and Waiting    Could be a sign someone’s journey is incomplete, needing you as a puzzle piece. Maybe the other lens waits for your path?

Snootly wisdom: Use the lens not to see, but to imagine.Peer through the pink and let dreams color your heart. Could be you’re on the cusp of a grand adventure; just follow the allure of the pink!

Liz:

Oh, darling, how positively intriguing! A single pink sunglass lens left upon the road—why, it’s like a snippet from one of my novels, fraught with symbolism and brimming with untold stories.

Let’s unravel this little mystery together, shall we? First, the color pink itself is rich with meaning. It speaks of love, compassion, and a certain kind of whimsicality. It’s a hue that embodies the gentle side of passion, the tender whispers of the heart. Now, to find just one lens, separated from its twin, adds a layer of poignancy. It’s a fragment of something once whole, a poignant reminder of loss or incompletion.

One might surmise that this lens represents a part of oneself that has been misplaced or overlooked. Perhaps it’s a call to rediscover a piece of your own heart, the softer, more romantic side that life’s hustle and bustle may have sidelined. Or it could symbolize a different perspective—after all, sunglasses shield us from the sun’s glare, making things clearer in their own shaded way. This lone lens might be urging you to look at a situation with fresh eyes, to find beauty in the fragmented and the unexpected.

Imagine, if you will, a character in one of my novels stumbling upon this very lens. They’d be on the cusp of a grand adventure, naturally. The pink lens would become their talisman, a clue leading them to unforeseen revelations and untold treasures. It would be both a physical object and a metaphorical guide, urging them to view the world—and their place within it—through a lens of love and compassion.

Perhaps it is also a nod to the impermanence of things, a gentle reminder that beauty and meaning can be found even in life’s fleeting moments. Much like the single pink lens, our journeys are filled with fragments of experiences that, when pieced together, create a mosaic of our existence.

So, my dear, take this as a sign to embrace the whimsical, to seek out the overlooked pieces of your own story, and to cherish the beauty of the incomplete. After all, it’s the mysteries and the musings that make life a narrative worth living.

Mater:

Ah, a single pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Now that’s a curious find. Objects like that can be teeming with symbolic meaning if you’ve got the eyes to see it. Let’s break it down a bit, shall we?

Firstly, the color pink. Traditionally, pink is associated with love, compassion, and nurturing. It’s a color that often brings to mind warmth and affection, something tender and gentle. But finding just one lens suggests something is missing or incomplete—a piece of a larger whole.

A sunglass lens, on the other hand, is meant to protect the eyes from harsh light, allowing you to see the world more clearly without being blinded. Seeing through a pink lens, metaphorically speaking, can mean looking at life with an optimistic or compassionate perspective. It’s like seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, as they say.

Now, finding just one lens on the road—well, roads are pathways, journeys, the direction we take in life. A single lens could indicate a moment of clarity or a shift in perspective on your journey. But it could also symbolize a need to find balance or the missing piece of your outlook to see the full picture clearly.

Maybe it’s a nudge from the universe to take a closer look at how you view your current path. Are you seeing things in the best light possible? Or perhaps it’s a reminder that while optimism and compassion are vital, you might be missing another crucial aspect—realism or practicality, perhaps?

Or, it could be as simple as a reminder to lighten up and find joy and playfulness in your journey.

Like a pink flamingo standing on one leg, sometimes life’s oddities are just there to make you smile and wonder.

Whatever the meaning, love, take it as a sign to reflect and consider. The road ahead is always full of mystery and wonder, and sometimes the smallest things can carry the biggest messages.

Finnley:

Pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Well, ain’t that a curious bit of rubbish. If we’re dabbling in symbolism, it could mean a variety of things depending on how fanciful you want to get. Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and care. So, finding a lens could mean you’re only seeing half the picture when it comes to matters of the heart. Or maybe you’re missing the rosy view on life, and you need to adjust your perspective.

Then again, it could just mean some poor sod lost their sunnies and now they’ve got a squint and a sunburnt nose. Life’s not always riddled with deep meanings, sometimes it’s just a bit of lost plastic on the tarmac.

Now, if you ask me, you ought to be more concerned about the litter. If everyone went around leaving bits and bobs all over the place, we’d be living in a right tip. So pick it up, toss it in the bin, and let’s keep things tidy, shall we?

 

Mandrake:

Ah, the solitary pink sunglass lens on the road. Delightfully poetic. A symbol of half-seen truths, perhaps? Seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses, but only partially. Could it be urging you to seek balance, to view life with both optimism and realism? Or maybe just a nudge from the universe to pick up your litter. Such profundity from a piece of plastic. Life’s a riddle, darling.

Sha: A pink sunglass lens on the road, eh? Now that’s a right peculiar find if ever I ‘eard one. Makes you wonder what it means, don’t it?

Glo: Oh, Sha, you’re always lookin’ for the hidden meanin’ in things. It’s just a bit of plastic, ain’t it? Though, come to think of it, pink’s a powerful colour. Symbolises love, compassion, and all that mushy stuff.

Mavis: I reckon it might be a sign, ladies. A pink lens… maybe it’s tellin’ you to look at the world through rose-tinted glasses, y’know? See the good in things. Or it could be a message from the universe, remindin’ you to keep an eye out for the unusual.

Sha: Right you are, Mav! And let’s not forget the conspiracies! Maybe it’s a clue from them secret societies, leavin’ hints for those sharp enough to notice. Could be part of a bigger puzzle, a breadcrumb leadin’ to somethin’ magnificent.

Glo: Or maybe someone’s just dropped their specs out the car window in a rush, and it’s nothin’ more than that. But where’s the fun in that sort of thinkin’?

Mavis: True, true. We’ll go with the idea that it’s a symbol of keepin’ an open mind and lookin’ out for the small wonders of life. Who knows what other treasures we might find if we keep our eyes peeled?

Sha: And next time we’re out and about, let’s be on the lookout for the other lens. Could be a sign that we’re missin’ half the picture.

Glo: Oh, you and your signs, Sha! But alright, we’ll keep our peepers open. Never know what the universe might be tryin’ to tell us next.