Outside, the city looked like a diorama, a recreation of a place she’d visited before, but imperfect, a sloppy rendition that omitted key areas. It was like a dream where you visit your childhood home only to discover it has extra wings and corridors, perfectly normal to the child who lives there yet novel to that itch in your brain who suspects it’s an illusion. This was no illusion. The signature, meticulous and imposing architecture was there, but where was the college, the beacon from the lake, sprawling along the coast as if holding it at bay; where was the cathedral ward, the open hand of spires piercing the sky, reaching for the cosmos and looming over the masses like an exposed glacier?
The itch in Tabitha’s mind pulled her gaze upward – she could almost feel a hand touch beneath her chin, tilting it toward the sky so she could wash her mind in radiance. Higher, past the streetlights carried high overhead by carved crones with occluded eyes, past the aedicules framing scenes of weeping women and children embracing each other in stone relief, past the arched windows to nowhere, the columns impressed into towers that supported nothing, beyond the ornate rooftops blurred in haze – the perfect body hovered just out of reach, like the safe light in a darkroom, piercing bright and dimly smattered with crimson lakes, churning, writhing…
“Are you good?” Chela asked in a hurried voice, nearly touching Tabitha’s shoulder. She did not touch her.