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Lumen Obscura	By : PinkSiamese Category: -Misc TV Shows > Crossovers Views: 1077 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or Dexter in any of their incarnations (TV shows, movies, books). I am making no money off this story.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
Her dress feels like nothing. She feels her body when she moves inside the dress, a cushion of air against skin, something like a breath. It is made of silk; it stirs into movement, draped in layers. The fabric is black as a river of night. Tiny crystals hug it; she thinks that’s what they are, they’re too hard to be sequins, too small, not flat enough. Crystals sewn onto the outermost layer, scattered. They circle the low neckline, follow the thin straps. A plume, a jet. Tiny black crystals, some silver, a few of them white—they flow down her flank like the Milky Way, scatter across the fullness of her hips. They cling to the edge, sweep against the floor.
Lumen watches herself in the hotel mirror as she puts on an earring. There’s one bedside lamp switched on and the light of the room is yellow. The earring is simple, a tiny glittering teardrop shape.
I remember when I bought this dress. A long time ago, a summer afternoon. A friend I am no longer friends with brought me to a sample sale, a clearance; it was some kind of way to sell designer dresses at a fraction of their worth. How young I felt, even though at the time I was world-weary and ready for the kind of night that would require a dress like this one. Now, I’m looking back. In this memory I feel young, fresh, still eager. I believed that the glamour of a night like this one would come, that the need for such a dress was just over the horizon.
“Yeah, ten years ago,” she murmurs. “I’m surprised I can even still fit into this thing.”
Lumen hooks the other earring into place. She takes a step back, then another; she balances on a pair of high silver strappy heels. She lifts the sheer overskirt off the floor.
When Lumen blinks, the woman in the mirror becomes another. A twin. The shapes of her eyes become clearer against the white skin, the eyes themselves turn a deep and gleaming black; all of her has darkened, her body is a shadow across the face of the moon but her skin is like snow. The pale color is cold but it is also inviting, refreshing. Her cheeks are frosted with pink, her mouth like spilled blood.
She walks across the carpet. She looks at her reflection in the window, holds the skirt up so it won’t drag on the pavement when she does this for real, when she walks out the lobby door and into the night.
Her phone rings. She walks to the desk, picks it up. “Hello?”
“Are you ready?”
She swallows. Glances at her face in the glass. “Yes.”
“I will come to you.”
Heat rises into her head and she nods. “Okay. Do you remember the room number?”
“Is it still 201?”
“Yes, it is still 201.” The earrings swing.
“I will see you soon.”
Lumen hangs up, looks around for her purse. She finds it, a small art deco clutch sewn in the shape of a fan. It’s beaded, sequined, it sparkles like a stretch of dreaming sea beneath city lights. She sets the phone to silent, tucks it in the bag.
It’s quiet inside the hotel room, dim, only the light from the bedside lamp is available.
All the better to sparkle by, my dear.
Lumen puts her forehead in one hand.
Careful. This makeup. Take care not to ruin such painstaking work.
The knock comes, three times, precise as the percussion of an instrument.
“Just a moment,” she says.
Her heart, stirred to the fore, begins to pound. She switches her purse to the other hand, opens the door. Smiles.
“Good evening.” He extends a hand.
“Hello, Hannibal.” She takes it. “It is nice to see you again.”
“The change in climate has agreed with you.” He steps forward, leans in. He leaves a soft kiss on the crest of her cheekbone. “You are radiant.”
Heat rushes to her face. “Thank you.”
“Shall we?”
“Yes.” She nods. “Of course.”
“The restaurant I have chosen serves a Moroccan fusion with haute French cuisine that relies heavily on the inclusion of local ingredients. I hope this is acceptable to you?”
“Yeah.” She follows him into the elevator. “That sounds great, actually.”
They enter the elevator. A sensation of dropping gets caught in her ribs, floats up, and she thinks for a fleeting moment of Will Graham.
“I met the owner in Paris, where I spent some time as a young man. Of course, back then, we were both young men. He is now internationally trained, an accomplished chef. He opened his first restaurant in Marrakech, and afterward, following his continued success, he decided to relocate with his family in Miami and open a restaurant here. He called it after his young daughter who passed away in a tragic boating accident. Yasmina’s House. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“That’s a little different.”
“Yasmina loved it here,” says Hannibal. “The family spent many years vacationing on the water. Tough it may seem strange it is, I think, a fitting tribute.”
“I have never heard of it.” Lumen shakes her head. “I didn’t dine out much while I was here. Not like that. I pretty much lived on takeout, sandwiches. Stuff like that.”
“Of course.” The elevator doors open. “Such a shame. There are many fine restaurants in Miami.” He offers his arm. “It seems you’ll have to make up for lost time.”
“Clearly.” She smiles at him, takes his arm. “I look forward to it.”
“If our taxidermist continues to misbehave,” says Hannibal, “then I’m afraid we will have plenty of opportunities.” He withdraws his arm, strides ahead, and holds the door open for her. “And while I sincerely hope that he does not,” he goes on, a corner of his mouth tucking into a slight smirk, “I cannot deny that I have the desire to do this with you as much as possible.”
“I’m confident that the FBI and Miami Metro will catch him.” She smiles. “Thankfully, it isn’t required that murder and dinner depend on one another.”
“Except in the case of the lamb and fish you will be dining upon tonight.”
Lumen snorts. “Provided no one grafted the lamb to the fish beforehand, I think it’ll be all right.”
He chuckles. “Indeed.”
A sleek black sedan pulls up beneath the canopy. Hannibal inclines his head. “For tonight,” he says, opening the door, “a private taxi service.”
“Wow, go ahead and pull out all the stops,” she says, placing one foot on the floor. She twitches the skirt, bends her knee and slides onto the back seat. “I won’t complain, but I am beginning to wonder at the occasion.”
He chuckles. “The occasion is simply that I do not feel like driving tonight.”
“Hey.” She shrugs. “That makes total sense to me.”
Hannibal closes the door. He walks around, opens the opposite door. “It is also not a good idea to drive when one has consumed perhaps a glass or two of wine.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “A glass or two?”
He climbs in. “Perhaps more.”
“I was not aware that Morocco made wine,” she says. “Isn’t it a primarily Muslim country?”
“Yes, it is, but the region is well-suited to vine cultivation, similar to California in many ways. While it is certainly not on a par with the exceptional French wines, Moroccan wine nonetheless has its own unique character, and it pairs well with local flavors.”
He looks at her. The interior of the car smells of leather, sandalwood, night-blooming flowers; she smells his skin, warmed with blood, a tinge of smoke. The car pulls away from the hotel doors, rolls out from beneath the tiled canopy. Shadows cross her lap, her hands. The clutch purse sparkles.
“So, what you’re saying is that while it’s no Pouilly-Fuissé,” she says, crossing her legs, “it doesn’t exactly come from Wal-Mart in a box, either.”
“Yes.” He laughs. “That is exactly what I am saying, not to put too fine a point on it.”
He turns his head. The interplay of shadows and light turns his eyes into caves, accentuates the ripe curves of his mouth. He regards her for a moment. “You are happy to be back.”
Lumen glances at him. She turns to look out the window. “Haven’t we already talked about this?”
“You seem different.” He shifts on the seat. “I am only attempting to discover why.”
“I’m not staying with Dexter anymore.”
“Yes. Why is that? That is, of course, if you don’t mind the question.”
“I don’t.” She looks down at the purse, moves its supple glitter around. She watches the dim pinpricks of light flash in and out of being. “I wanted space. His apartment is small, and he’s sharing it with his infant son. We’re still friends.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you be?”
Lumen looks at him. “I don’t know. I suppose some guys would take umbrage at the idea of a downgrade on the relationship.”
“Some would, yes. But I don’t think you’re the sort of woman who would stand for that.”
A corner of her mouth twitches. “Stand for what?”
“A subscription to outdated beliefs and certain culturally lauded behaviors. The idea of woman as property does not sit well with what I know of you and I believe that any man who tried to impose such standards on you would rather quickly feel the sharpness of your teeth.”
“You are correct.” She nods. “I do expect the latitude to make my own decisions, and if you don’t give it to me,” she glances at him, “I’ll take it.”
“Did Dexter expect certain things from you?”
“I don’t know if he did or not.” She watches the traffic pass by. “It felt like he did, though, so I left.”
“And now you are in a space of your own choosing.” He smiles a little. “It’s good.”
“Yeah.” She leans back. “It’s not four-star accommodations, but it’s nice enough.”
“Our friends at the FBI deem it suitable, so I imagine that at the very least it’s safe and clean and conducive to work.”
Lumen glances at him. “The FBI?”
“Yes. To my knowledge, all of Jack’s team are quartered there.” He smiles. “Including Jack himself.”
She turns. Holds his gaze for the space of two breaths. “Why would you tell me that?”
He gives her face the once-over. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I have no idea.”
“Perhaps their presence would make you uncomfortable, were you to know. It could be that then you would want to pack up, move on, find another place to call your own.”
She smiles a little. “So you’re worried about whether or not I’ll be able to sleep at night.”
“I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be happy.”
The smile disappears. “Do you expect certain things of me, Hannibal?”
“I only expect that which you wish to give to me,” he says. “And nothing more.”
Lumen looks at him, at his face. It is still dark inside the back of the car, the light is always changing, coming, going, gliding up over the bones that lie beneath his skin before disappearing again, before beating its retreat into the shadows. There is enough light for his eyes to gleam. The set of his mouth remains hidden, the shape of it hard to read.
A tightness comes into her chest. It pushes back on her breath, slight, the inside of her is like the skin of a drum, her breath in her ears like the still hollow heart of a drum. She is but a quivering touch away from exploding, rasping noise and she wonders at him, the way he is groping at her emotions, her reactions, touching a word to see what happens. The way he lays a string of them down, just to see if she will look before she steps over them.
“That’s good.” She looks away. Her hands tighten around the purse. “Because I don’t know what it is I want to give. What I feel like giving. To anyone.”
A soft voice whispers out of the hollowness, from just beneath the tension of her skin: Oh, how you lie.
“I understand. I have no intention to push you.” He leans back, looks out the window. “I will follow your lead and nothing more.”
She looks through the smoked glass partition at the muted traffic lights. Wills the voice into a white noise that refuses the form, the stillness, of silence. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”
That voice, flattened into nothing, writes something instead on the back of her idling heart. It does so with a blade, in tiny letters. There’s too much Will. There’s no room for anything else. That is your problem.
Hannibal lowers his voice. “I have no doubt.”
The car pulls into a circular drive. The building is tall, white, it is made of mostly glass and rounded at the corners. Manicured palms close around it like an honor guard. Lumen opens the door.
Hannibal hurries out of the car, circles around the back in time to offer his hand. Lumen steps out, balances her foot on the pale bricks. She takes his hand and rises onto both feet. Here she smells more exhaust, there’s less wind, the faint chlorine bubble of an outdoor fountain.
“Come,” says Hannibal. “Yasmina’s House is on the top floor.”
The doorman, dressed in white, holds open the door. He touches the brim of his cap as Lumen walks by.
“You will enjoy it, I think. In addition to the excellent food, the atmosphere has a unique aesthetic. It is very pleasing to the senses.”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
He smiles. “I suppose it is.”
The lobby is large, open-air, floored with pale pink marble. Tall ferns diffuse the golden light. Sparse white signs in gold lettering spell the way to the restaurant, in Arabic and in English.
“The décor takes advantage of the skyline views, but it does not compromise a certain sense of intimacy,” says Hannibal.
The elevator is lined with mirrors. The light is bright, cold, it takes color from her skin and mutes the red of her lips into a harsh clotted purple. It does the same to the undertones of his garnet shirt, the silk tie worked in shades of ruby and orange and navy, the subtle red thread in the dark blue plaid of his suit. It brings up the fine lines on his face. It picks out a gleam of gray in his hair.
He watches her in the mirror. She studies his reflection.
“How do you mean?”
The smile flits from one corner of his mouth to the other, lingers in the space between one heartbeat and the next. “You’ll see.”
When the doors open, her eyes fill with a sudden hot rush of color: the entryway is lush, vibrant, mellow, everything is steeped in rich pink and red light, it is a color like fire strained through rubies. The air is warm too, it gushes forward and smells of simmering cinnamon, mint, cardamom, savory meats, tangerines, almonds, orange blossoms. The walls are blushing melon. A triple-tiered chandelier hangs from the ceiling, bulbs flickering inside pink and yellow and orange pots of glass. Potted palms flank the doorway.
“Wow.” Lumen glances down. An Oriental carpet separates her shoes from the marble floor. “This is beautiful.” She looks around. “Truly. And it smells amazing.”
A hostess in a crisp plum-colored pantsuit, her dark glossy hair arranged in a twist, steps through the door. Her hands are folded like a schoolgirl’s. “Good evening. Welcome to Yasmina’s House.”
“Reservation for Lecter, seven o’clock.”
She walks to a podium, consults a leather-bound ledger. “Yes. Excellent. Please, follow me.”
She leads them through a small anteroom lined with purple silk benches; there are brocade pillows propped up against the walls, low tiled tables fashioned of dark wood and chased with brass. Swags of scarlet drape the ceiling, reminiscent of a tent.
“This has to be the most gorgeous waiting room I have ever seen. It just looks so…so…” Lumen clasps her purse to her waist. “Comfortable, it’s the only word I can come up with. Like you could curl up and go to sleep in here, if you wanted to.”
The hostess holds aside a garnet and amethyst beaded curtain and they pass into a cool blue-tiled alcove containing a star-shaped fountain. A single lantern hangs overhead, its panels embellished with carnival glass. The stucco walls hold blue votives housed in tiny niches. The surface of the water is thick with multicolored rose petals. She glances up, sees the facets of a skylight.
Heavy wooden double doors lead from the alcove into a spacious, high-ceilinged dining room. Two of the walls are a pale gold; the color of them glimmers in the latticed light, like sand drenched in afternoon sunlight. Huge round cut tin lanterns hang from a recessed ceiling. Their wide nets of flowery, star-studded shadow fall across cream table cloths, yellow and blue votives, tiny crystalline bowls of floating orange blossoms.
The other two walls are floor-to-ceiling windows. Each is framed in orange silk draperies and topped with purple fairy lights. The city lights glitter, ferocious; they stain the sky into ashes of roses.
Hannibal leans over, murmurs into her hair: “There are two areas for dining. One, this, which is the main dining room.” The heat of his hand hovers over the small of her back. “And the other, which is on the other side of the wall, is a collection of private alcoves.”
“Of course it is.” She glances at him, smiles. “Sounds lovely, even if the view out here is unparalleled.”
“It is that,” he says. “One of the best views in the city.”
The hostess holds aside another curtain. This one is lapis, amethyst, and gold and it is backed with heavy silk the color of fog.
Behind it is a corridor, long and broad. Floored in soapstone tile, it is scattered with handfuls of red rose petals.
“This way.” The hostess’s shoes click on the stone. In the walls are set archways outlined in tile, curtained. She turns. “Right in here.”
Hannibal steps forward. He turns. “After you.”
The alcove is small, separated from the hall by a red beaded curtain, with a narrow table of stained dark wood flanked by a pair of plush couches. The table is topped with tiles; the ornate, geometric patterns reminiscent of red flowers abloom beneath a dark blue sky full of stars. The walls are a sugared pink, the ceiling hung with one of the ubiquitous cut-tin lanterns. This one is faced on four sides with a daisy shape, its center filled with goldenrod glass. Sconces deepen the pink hue into gold, soften the interlocking patterns of shade into a gilded lace wrought out of smoke.
“This is lovely.” Lumen lifts the hem of her gown off the floor, lowers herself onto the cushions. “Thank you so much for choosing this place. It’s like a dream.”
Hannibal takes the seat opposite her. “It was my hope that you would think so.”
She looks around, smiles. “Well, mission accomplished.”
“Wait until you try the food.” He smiles. “It is out of this world.”
“Do we get menus?”
“No. I have arranged for a table d’hôte, the prixe fixe menu. Tonight, I do believe the chef has prepared a chicken pastilla, breaded quail’s eggs with garlic foam and kofta made of vegetables…”
“What is kofta?”
“It is a variety of meatball, usually it is made of lamb that has been seasoned with mint, garlic, and coriander, minced, and then rolled into a large-sized ball. It is then glazed with egg yolk and saffron and steam-cooked in a tagine. Since the kofta in this dish are vegetable, they are fashioned with red lentils and jasmine rice.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“There is a chicken-based soup of cauliflower and hazelnut, and also leg of lamb stuffed with herbs and dressed with carrot and coriander puree.” He reaches across the table, lifts her fingers onto his. He strokes her knuckles with the tip of his thumb. “If you would like, I’ll choose your wines, as well.”
“Okay.” She tilts her head, grins. “Why not?”
He looks at her; his eyes seek and find the landscape of her face, take its measure, they linger in the regions they find most pleasant. Her skin heats up. He smiles, she sees it move into his eyes, a touch of warmth on his face like a sigh. She blinks, sees him reach across the table in her mind’s eye: the glint in his eyes would sharpen, follow the tip of his finger as it traces the curve and slope of her cheek, follows its gravity to the soft crimson valley of her mouth.
Lumen retracts her hand. She returns his smile, glances away as she rests both hands in her lap.
“They will bring the first course soon,” he says. “But first, we must choose the wines.”
A server comes into the room, she is petite and dressed in slim black pants with a blush-pink blouse and a purple apron trimmed with orange and silver brocade. She carries a leather-bound wine list, presents it to Hannibal. He peruses it, glances at Lumen over the top edge.
“I think, to start, two glasses of the Rosé d’une Nuit d’Été,” he says to the server and the words are silken, fragrant, like rose petals in his mouth. “To be followed with two glasses of Medaillon Red, served with the lamb.”
She nods, takes note, collects the wine list. She retreats.
“The Rosé d’une Nuit d’Été is a blend of grenache, syrah, and cinsault. It translates into English as ‘rosé for a summer night.’”
“Sounds lovely.” Lumen tilts her head, touches an earring. “And the other?”
“A blend of cabernet sauvignon, merlot, and syrah.”
“Mmmm. Dark.”
“Yes.” He looks into her eyes. “Very much so.”
“I like reds. I favor them, actually.”
“The strong quality of the sunshine, the tempering cool of coastal winds, the mineral content of the soil, all of these nurture the grapes into bearing their own unique signature of flavors. Here you will find a bold sweetness of black cherry, accented with plum and garnished with a subtle bouquet of cloves and cassis.”
“Is it a very tannic wine?”
“The tannins are present but they are soft, yielding upon the tongue. How have you been?”
“Okay.” She shrugs. “I guess. Everything moves so fast.”
“The last time we spoke, you said that you felt free upon your arrival.” He watches her face. “Do you feel free now?”
“I feel…” She looks toward the curtain, its subtle sparkle caught by the warm light. It’s cool in the alcove, the air soft; a faint scent of jasmine lingers. “Crepuscular.”
Hannibal is startled into a smile that claims his entire face. “What an unusual and interesting choice of words. Do, please elaborate.”
“It means twilight.” Lumen balances her folded hands at the edge of the table. “Though I imagine you know that.”
“Of course. Please, continue.”
“While a lot of people don’t really think about it this way, twilight is a liminal space. It’s the threshold between true day and true night. In my life, I am still coming out of one and passing into the other, but it’s a process. It takes time.” She studies the folds in her napkin. “I still feel liminal, even though this place is a familiar place. The life I’m going to have here hasn’t yet taken shape. It will, it’s going to, I’m busy taking all of those steps that are necessary to build something…” She glances at him, smiles. “But I’m not quite there yet.”
“It is interesting to me that you would choose such a metaphor to describe your liminality. Others would use the no-man’s land between countries, or the shore line at the edge of the sea, or doors and the threshold. Roads, too, are liminal.” He pauses, looks at her. “As are hotel rooms.”
Heat rushes to her face. “I am not the only one to ever reinvent herself, for a night, in a hotel room.”
“No.” His smile turns tender. “Of course you’re not.”
“It’s an easy thing to do.” She crosses her legs, smoothes down the skirt of her gown. “Sometimes it is a necessary thing to do.”
“I know someone, a man of my acquaintance, who is very preoccupied with twilight and though I think it unlikely that he perceives himself this way, he is liminal.” Hannibal tilts his head, “Yes, like you.” His smile comes and goes. “But, unlike you, there is a part of him that stays in the twilight. It is a burden he has carried around with him since childhood.”
Lumen settles her chin into her hand. “Cats, you know, when their biorhythms aren’t determined by indoor light, are crepuscular. It’s a part of what branded them, in the Middle Ages, with the stigma of witch’s familiar.”
“An unfettered access to liminality is not always a bad thing. While within liminal space, one can transform into anything one wishes to be. One can access points of view that otherwise would remain… out of reach. Though, of course, one must be careful when one makes the journey out of liminal space and back into the real world.”
“Yeah.” She grins, chuckles. “You wouldn’t want to bring anything back.”
“Indeed, I would not.”
“Your friend sounds interesting.”
“He is.” Hannibal pauses. He picks up his napkin, unfolds it; he watches the work of his own hands. “Nothing about him lends itself to a strictly defined box.”
A dreamy chill settles over her spine. It drifts to her hips, encircles them, spreads gooseflesh across her thighs. “You’re talking about Will Graham,” she murmurs. “Aren’t you?”
“It may be so, yet it may not.” He glances up. “It would be rude of me to commit to an answer.”
She leans back. Her eyebrows lift. “Will Graham is your patient?”
Hannibal chuckles. “A lady such as yourself, with her familiarity with the ins and outs of our system of medical record-keeping, knows that HIPAA would tie my tongue.” He looks in her eyes. “And would prevent me from committing unethical disclosures, if that were the case.”
“He’s not, then.”
“You are free to make of that what you will.” The beaded curtain rattles; Hannibal turns. “I have no control over the conclusions you draw.”
The server comes with a tray bearing empty wine glasses. They are lightweight, crystalline, rims spun out into delicate light.
Lumen reaches across the table. She touches the back of his hand. “Shall we pretend, then, that I never named names?”
The server sets down the tray, lifts each glass by the stem. The bottle itself is chilled, wrapped in heavy purple linen. The long glass neck is coated with a fine scrim of condensation.
He turns his hand over, catches her fingers. He looks at her. “If that is your wish.”
The server pours Lumen’s glass first.
She withdraws her hand. “It is.”
The server pours Hannibal’s wine. He picks it up, swirls it. He sniffs.
“Like I said.” Lumen watches his face as he takes his first sip. “Your friend sounds interesting.”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Liminality brings with it many special gifts.” He opens them, settles his gaze upon her face. He sets down the glass. “As I am sure you know.”
She lifts an eyebrow; her mouth quirks into a brief, tight smile. “Shape-shifting?”
“Yes.” He looks over her face, looks into her eyes. “After a fashion.”
Lumen blushes, picks up the glass, hesitates; she touches its rim with her lips. She takes a small sip, glances up. “It’s good.”
“There are three stages of twilight. Each is separated from the other by a count of degrees.”
“Uh huh.” Lumen puts her glass down. She props an elbow on the table, drops her chin into her hand. “Okay.”
“Civil twilight is the twilight that everyone knows, that period of time when the sun touches the horizon, flares into red. It may or may not stain the sky with blood, but it always changes the color of the light. By this light, the distinguishing features of the land, the sea, may still be read.”
Lumen grins. “A poetic way to describe something that happens every night.”
“There is much beauty to be had in the everyday workings of nature.”
“If only we’d take the time to stop and notice.” Her smile softens at the corners. “Go on.”
“Then comes nautical twilight, named for the ability to still navigate the waters by sunlight rather than starlight. Here is when the sky will deepen from silver into purple; it gives itself over to that unique shade of lilac glimpsed in the summers of the Northern hemisphere.”
Lumen thinks of lakes, flat frozen water stretching into pines, snow. Frozen lakes, tinted a flat dead blue under the weak sky. She shivers. “Not as much in winter. In the winter the purple you’re talking about it bitter and thin on the horizon, more of a yellow toward the end of the light. At least that’s the way it is where I come from.”
His smile changes his mouth, makes its shape more indulgent. “The third and final stage is known as astronomical twilight.” Hints of dimples rise to the surface. “Stars have appeared in all corners of the sky, full darkness has settled over the earth, but the sky may retain its tinge of deep royal purple, of cobalt at the horizon line. By now, navigation purely by sight is impossible on land or sea. The starlight has taken over.”
Lumen straightens up. “Interesting.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“No.” She reaches for her glass. “I mean…it’s interesting to me that you chose sunset to describe the stages of twilight. Why not sunrise? It’s the same, but in reverse, and describing it lends itself to the language of gaining something, of growth, burgeoning. Sunrise lends itself to a language of new beginnings. Of life. But you chose sunset.” She picks it up, studies him over the rim. “It seems to me that perhaps you think less of your friend’s liminal gifts than you would lead me to believe.”
His posture remains still. He holds her gaze. The stillness in his face breaks, his eyes regain their warmth; a small smile flashes across his mouth like a glimpse of light. “You are an exceptionally observant woman.” He lifts his glass. “Touché. Perhaps you are right.”
Lumen buries her grin in a long drink of wine. “I’m glad you think so.”
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Lumen Obscura