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Phalaenopsis orchidae. It sits alone in a little vial of water atop his desk, frail and pink-hearted, its delicate petals unfurling like the wings of a moth. Thus the name: moth orchid. Moren plucks the vial up and holds it to the light. The Hortorium has no such orchids—they grow more practical things downstairs, herbs and fruiting vines for tinctures, and vegetables on arching metal structures made to facilitate the harvest.
He brings the little flower to his nose. It is already drooping, overwatered. These delicate little beasts grow on trees, their root systems dry and nearly brittle, woven into moss and lichen in the open air. Moren frees it from its watery prison and lays it on a bit of clean paper on his desk. It might not survive, but it remains a beautiful specimen. It will dry nicely for his collection.
He notes the name and classification, the date of harvest (this morning, he guesses), the region (Lydha Lran, the southern slopes of Handmirror Lake). The harvester’s initials. G. K.
On another piece of paper, thick and creamy, well-made, he writes:
Thank you for the specimen. I do not have one like it yet. M.
A passing child takes the note and runs off with it, chirping her thanks for the ha’penny tip. Moren smiles and returns to his books.
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A brief passage from a book of poems, originating from the Kingdom of Voeburt, thirty years before the Flood. It is written in a careful hand, each letter perfectly formed and spaced as though it were crafted by one of the writing-machines one can find in curiosity shops in Eulmore.
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
When Granson lifts the paper to his nose, he can smell old paper, the bitter bite of ink, a faint whiff of roses. He smiles and tucks it into a safe place in his satchel. He ought to get a book to keep track of such things. There are two other such poems slotted together, between his leather toolkit and a sturdy cardstock pamphlet for the Hunter’s Guild.
Giott and Cerigg are waiting for him near the bridge. They hail him with waves, and he makes sure to fasten his satchel firmly around his waist before turning to look back. The aetheryte plaza isn’t too busy this early in the morning, just a steady trickle of activity between the Hortorium and the markets. He scans the upper balcony for a familiar figure, robed and austere, but no one is there. He checks the sheath of his greatsword one more time and turns away.
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An old Voeburtan coin, black with age, sits on a shard of pottery. There is no note or name with it, but he knows its origin. He watched Granson set off for Ahm Araeng from a quiet corner of the aetheryte plaza, stubbled from the night before, a lick of hair still standing up at the back of his head.
There’s no reason to hide himself, but Moren likes the anonymity. The mystery. They dance around each other, passing gifts and sometimes words, only ever in private. He is a bookish man, he knows, more comfortable with his tomes and relics than in the busy, noisy locales Granson frequents. The Wandering Stairs, for instance.
He has it on good authority that Granson does little more than lurk, unless his friends can persuade him to join them for a drink, but Moren has no wish to disturb that delicate equilibrium. It would feel… selfish. Extravagant. He is not an extravagant man.
He turns the coin over in his fingers, rubbing away sand and tarnish. It needs a good scrubbing, and then it will be fit for display along with the other little items of historical significance he’s been compiling with Granson’s quiet help.
He gets out a notecard. Voeburtan ten-pence. Ahm Araeng, circa two hundred years before the Flood. Precise location unknown.
He stops, hovers with his pen above the page so long it drops a blot of ink and he’s forced to start again. He could be more precise with his notations, if he were bold enough to enquire. Is he? Bold?
He pulls another sheet of paper toward himself and begins anew.
Please advise as to the location of acquisition. It is a unique mint, and I should like to be precise in the event of further archaeological surveys in the area.
A sprig of lavender finds its way into the envelope. For a story, he finds a bright-eyed young student to play message-runner and sends them on their way.
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Came by the Cabinet, but you were out. I’ve set the coordinates below, best as I can recall. If you want to hear the whole story, come by the Wandering Stairs later, maybe three o’clock. It’s quiet that time of day. G.
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A small wooden container opens to reveal a collection of tea, pressed into flat discs in the old Ahm Araengian style. Each disc is carefully wrapped in tissue-paper and stamped with the symbol of the Cabinet of Curiosity. A leaflet tucked beneath opens to curling, fanciful script that reads, simply, For the cold nights.
The Empty is cold at night. Granson settles on his haunches by the fire, watching as Giott pokes the coals to keep them burning brightly. The weather is erratic here, the temperatures extreme. It’s the desert’s harsher, undead cousin: brimming with energy but all of it as stopped-up as an old wine bottle whose cork has gone stiff and bloated. Their job is to help loosen that seal.
“Pot’s boiling,” Giott says. Dinner has already settled in his stomach, and overhead the stars are endless, so dense in the sky he can barely pick out the constellations he knows. He scribbles down a few, for Moren, while he waits for the tea to brew.
The Centaur is barely visible here. The very tip of his spear seems to rest on the horizon, like it’s got too heavy for him to hold. The Queen and the Bishop are swarmed by a multitude of lesser stars so I can barely make em out. If I might have the pleasure of borrowing your spyglass next time, I’ll try and sketch out the ones that burn especially bright.
There’s one blue-green one just to the left of the Maiden’s breast that looks like a jewel. Maybe I’ll name it after you.
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That star is known as the Crone’s Eye. It belongs to the threefold interpretation of the Goddess constellation—Maiden, Matron, Hag. It is said to bring wisdom and foresight to those who behold it, for it is a fleeting star, appearing clearly only at certain times of year, and only at certain places on the planet. Places that, until recently, were quite impossible to reach.
I shall take your proposition as a compliment.
-M
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A single earring made of glass, gone cloudy with time. A seed pearl connects the green glass droplet with the yellow-gold hook. It is well-made, despite the cheap materials; a hastily scribbled note marks the location of discovery as Gatetown beach.
Moren does something he’s never done before: he takes it home. His apartment is small but cozy, one room divided by panel screens into living, sleeping, and working. Iin this last alcove he settles on a stool and pulls the lamp close to examine the finer details. The hint of a fingerprint on the glass drop. A bit of sand still caught between seed pearl and wire. He cleans it with careful strokes of a brush and props his chin on his hand to admire it.
There’s no way of knowing its origins. Its mate long since lost, its materials simple and easily acquired… It wasn’t made in Eulmore, but that’s as far as he dares to guess. The historical implications, if any, are minimal.
It won’t matter if it never makes its way to a display case. If it’s never labeled, never ooh’ed and aah’ed over by youngsters or curious visitors to the Cabinet. He rolls the glass drop over in his fingers, thoughtful. Then, in a moment of uncharacteristic spontaneity, he lifts it and pushes the hook through his ear. He hasn’t worn earrings in a while, but it doesn’t take much to set the hook in place—just a tiny pinch, and then nothing.
He looks at himself in the mirror. His long hair conceals the earring for the most part, but an errant breeze will reveal it; and, most importantly, he will know that it’s there.
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Glad you decided to keep the earring. It suits you. G.
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A little pot of lavender-scented cream sits on the bedside table. It’s delicate, herbal and clean-smelling—it infuses the sheets as Moren stretches his arms over his head and sinks deeper into the mattress.
Above him, Granson hovers, trapped in stillness, catching his breath. Sweat sheens his chest and shoulders; his hair sticks to his forehead and wisps outward at the crown, as if perpetually mussed by invisible hands. His own press hard into Moren’s waist, softened by the balm. He hadn’t meant for this particular gift to be the tipping point, but here they are.
“Please,” Moren whispers, barely a breath of air. "More." His thighs clasp tight to Granson’s flanks if he were a bucking horse, sliding for purchase.
“I’m close,” Granson warns, but he obeys. Elbows in the mattress, lips to Moren’s cheek. His hips roll of their own accord. The early morning light spills in through cracked shades and paints Moren’s pale skin in roses. He groans and kisses him, his sweet mouth, his eager tongue, usually so reticent and refined. His strokes grow shallower, faster. “Moren…”
“Mmh… yes… Granson, oh, yes …”
The symphony grows to a crescendo: the creaking bed, the shared gasps and cries, the slap of skin to skin. Moren opens for him, accepts him, holds him close as deep shudders wrack his body.
In the aftermath, Granson rolls off him and pulls him close, tucking him beneath his chin. Moren’s whole body is lax and warm and smells of lavender.
“How long?” Moren asks once they’ve both caught their breath. “Before you must leave again.”
“A week, maybe two.” His skin still tingles, but there’s a lassitude rolling over him like an ocean wave, creeping stealthily along the sand to drag him down into slumber. He strokes the hair back from Moren’s face and plants a kiss there, at the corner of his eye where faint lines have begun to gather, delicate as spider’s webs. “I’ll bring you back something nice.”
“From the Empty?” Moren asks doubtfully.
“There are things growing there… strange, wondrous things.” Granson’s eyes fall shut, every muscle soft and pleasantly weary. “They will make excellent additions to your collection.”