Lapis Roses, Sin Roses/1

I can no longer comb Quarz’s hair, for the lapis roses are gone. Unless I lay their petals upon the comb and work them through her hair, the silver strands—spun from the blood wrung out of the earth—will recover the redness of that blood and turn crimson once more.

That silver, white and dazzling as if freshly polished; those threads of argent I planted with my own hands into porcelain—I could not bear to see rust creep into their brilliance. So each day I picked the lapis roses and lavished them on Quarz, even as the lapis-rose hedge in the Rosarium grew greener and greener, until at last not a single bloom remained.

Quarz is another me. I cannot endure so much as a shadow falling across her countenance.

Each morning, before attending to myself, I lift Quarz’s body—about the length of my upper arm—from her bed. I remove her nightclothes, cleanse her porcelain skin with warm water, apply her makeup with a fine brush, dress her in garments of softened silk small enough to rest in my palm, and seat her upon a chair one third the size of my own. I arrange one of her fingers, no larger than a rose thorn, against her cheek. Nor do I ever neglect to check the condition of her ball joints.

Then I comb her hair with the faintly fragrant petals of the lapis rose.

I do this more carefully than anything else: letting the slender locks slip, one after another, through my fingertips, until the white-silver shimmer drifts and wavers through the air and illuminates this dark world.

Yes. My world is dark.

Everyone’s world is dark.

Only Quarz’s beauty is radiant: her supple limbs, burdened by nothing superfluous, not even cartilage; her features wrought to the utmost degree of precision; her silver hair, seeming to shed a light of its own. Only these things shine.

Until I have watched that radiance cast its faint light upon the world, I can do nothing. I cannot face the darkness of the world.

The world is vulgar, filled with unclean things, and their shadows make it dark. Quarz shines because there is nothing superfluous in her. Quarz is small, yes, but that is because her existence is far more concentrated than that of a human being.

If I could rid my body of every unclean thing that nests within me, perhaps I too would become as small as Quarz.

Then I might stand against the darkness of the world. I might illuminate it, a faint smile never leaving my lips.

But first I needed the lapis roses, and there were none.

With no other choice, I called the rose merchant.

He was a man of poor reputation. Rumor had it that he stole rare roses. Though I already cultivated more varieties than I had need of, he had called on me many times before, forever offering some new rose for my consideration.

I took the thick card he had given me and turned the dial according to the number printed upon it. On the other end of the telephone, the rose merchant greeted my call with extravagant delight.

He arrived in formal clothes of silk, a leopard-fur coat draped over one arm. With a flourish he swept the top hat from his head. Several rings of gold and silver crowded the fingers of that hand.

With those same fingers he presented me, one after another, with rosebuds of red, yellow, and white.

Before I could tell him I had no use for them, he announced that they were gifts.

“A small token of greeting, madam, in hopes that we may enjoy your esteemed patronage for many years to come.”

The rose merchant grinned, splitting open a mouth already far too large.

I could hardly refuse the three buds when I still needed him to sell me the lapis roses, so I accepted them.

The rose merchant went so far as to take my hand himself and place the buds upon my palm.

Before my eyes, they opened.

Then withered.

Then scattered.

The rose merchant was slender of build. His great mouth had thin lips; his nose was pointed, his cheekbones modest above smooth cheeks. His eyes were large and black, though he kept them perpetually narrowed. His short black hair sprang out here and there in unruly tufts.

Yet when he drew near enough for me to feel his breath, I saw that the roots of that black hair appeared to be red.

Without the slightest reserve, the rose merchant stared at Quarz, who sat upon her chair inside the display cabinet. Then, in his faintly lisping voice, he whispered:

“Wild lapis roses are exceedingly rare. For you, however, I shall make a special exception. I can supply you with a great many, and at a very modest price.”

Even after I had paid him, the rose merchant continued looking back and forth between Quarz and me.

I could not bear the touch of that unclean gaze upon Quarz. I stepped in front of the cabinet, blocking him from view.

The rose merchant followed me. Once again he deliberately took my hand in his own, this time closing my fingers around the handle of a basket filled with lapis roses.

Then, with a smirk still lingering about his mouth, he bowed and departed.