Claudia woke from a dream of fire. Francine had sat before a blazing hearth, shivering as if still cold. Her pale hands had toyed with a creased page, stained with soot and the brown of old blood. She had breathed in, sharp and bracing, before unfolding the worn paper. Eyes wide, she had traced the notes scribbled along the margins. Notes Claudia recognised as her own hand. Thoughts from a forgotten life. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” Francine had whispered again and again, her voice like chalk dust.

Claudia stirred, restless, as the dream faded. That page was important... or had been once. The dream slipped away and all that remained were flowers.

~~~

Another dream of Francine. She seemed older than before, the brown of her hair kissed by strands of silver. Her hands caressed the pages of an old journal with torn out pages. My journal, Claudia remembered.

Claudia’s awareness shifted and stirred. In the dim blur of her awareness, Claudia could sense flowers blooming all around her. Flowers that had once been parts of her. They flared with light as Claudia fought to remember, fought to stay within this dream.

Francine seemed so very sad. The corners of her eyes were creased with grief. Claudia remembered the next page of the journal. A small and silly sketch of their father as a crow’s doll befriending birds in the garden. It would make Francine smile, Claudia was sure of it, if only she would turn the page.

Francine sobbed and snapped the journal shut, moving to pack it away in a box.

Claudia ached, her own grief flaring. Turn the page, she willed. Just turn the page...

If only she could speak. If only she could reach up and out, tumbling back up towards the sky to ease her sister’s pain.

If only Francine would dream of Claudia in return, so she wouldn’t sway unheard in a field of silent blooms.

Dream…

The strange girl had said she dreamed, and sent dreams of her own. Dreams unheeded, and yet perhaps…

Claudia gathered herself, her awareness blooming outwards. Blinking the eye of her dispersed mind, she reached. Nearby, just within reach, she felt the answering buds of her own curiosity. Intense yearning to seek, to find, to discover, captured in a sun-yellow lotus.

Turn the page, turn the page, turn the page...

Urged by the force of Claudia’s will, the lotus dissolved into a small orb of fizzing light. Like a shooting star, it sailed up into the false sky of the caged garden. Faster, surely, than she herself had fallen, it passed through the tangled vines and beyond sight.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Claudia swayed and dreamed, the vision of Francine’s grief clouded by visions of star-shaped blooms. Not yet, I mustn’t sleep, I want to see...

Claudia hovered on the edge of dreaming, until a small sunburst flared above Francine’s weeping form. Claudia watched as Francine stood with a start. “Claudia?” she whispered. The sunburst sank gently, like the setting of the sun, passing through the crown of Francine’s head.

At once, Francine clawed open the box by her feet. “Turn the page,” she murmured, retrieving the journal once more. Opening the book to the first of the remaining pages, Francine flipped it over. With a sobbing giggle, Francine cradled the journal to her chest, laughing and crying in equal measure.

Glad for Francine’s smile, Claudia relaxed her hold on the vision, and faded once more into dreams of flowers.

~~~

Another dream. Francine seemed older again. Yet more silver in her braided tresses. She stood in her linen work dress, sleeves rolled up her arms, sweat beading on her forehead as she polished glassware and scrubbed her benches.

One of Claudia’s surviving journals lay on the bench top, opened flat as Francine began to work. Crystals were laid and fires lit beneath her crucible. Francine reached for a bundle of herbs when her hand wavered.

Claudia watched with growing dismay as Francine paused, seeming to fold in on herself, before she sighed and extinguished her flame.

Weary and disheartened, Francine began to pack away copper tools and shining jars of glass.

No, Claudia thought, burning with intent. No, I want to see her work…

With a panicked flare, Claudia reached once more for her flowers. She called for her adventurousness, her impulsiveness, her wilfulness to know what happens next. Show me!

With a burning sparkle of magenta, mauve, and emerald green, Claudia wished upon her own fallen lights. More flowers dissolved to sparkling flares, racing towards the realms above.

Claudia’s vision remained steady, even as Francine sank into a nearby chair, shoulders shaking with defeat as she lay her face in her palms.

Only moments passed before the lights erupted into Francine’s workroom, flitting about like hummingbirds. One by one, they dove towards Francine, sinking like glowing embers into her skin, bathing her heart in pulsing light before fading away.

With a gasp, Francine jerked in her chair, looking up. “Claudia?”

Show me! Claudia willed. Show me what you can make!

With short, panting gasps, Francine gazed at her box of tools. Clenching her fists in resolution, Francine stood and began again, once more laying out the tools of her craft.

“I can do this... I can do this for you, Claudia.”

Francine lit a purple flame beneath the copper of her crucible and chuckled. “You always did want to know everything...”

With a smile, Francine set to work.

~~~

The dreams came more frequently. The visions were stronger, brighter. With each dream, Claudia could more clearly feel all the fragments of herself, blooms of all shapes and shades.

Each dream found Francine brushing her fingers across the pages of one of Claudia’s journals, or else cradling one or other in her arms as she worked. Often, Claudia would spy a scrap of her scribbles, some joke or poem or sketch with singed edges, pasted into Francine’s own journals.

In stops and starts, the visions unfolded of Francine’s great work. Every now and then, Francine would stumble. Frustrated, or confused, or uncharacteristically doubtful, she would tear her notes to pieces, feeding her charts to the hearth flames.

Each time, Claudia would gather herself. Her faith, her inspiration, her humour. She would send the lights of her flowers to soothe, to comfort, to coax.

She watched years pass by in blinks and flickers as Francine’s work took shape. The first time Francine worked water into flame, Francine cried herself to sleep. Claudia sent dreams of joy.