Aurora imagined that she was on a floor made out of clear glass, sparkling and perfect, that her cheek was not pushed against dust and crumbled food and dried blood but smooth, perfect glass. With her eyes closed, she could imagine everything full, she could grow the walls of her childhood around her and put her mother in the garden, he father cooking, and her bed just a few steps away. She remembered the things she used to complain about, the kinds of food her parents ate, the tempature. Her father used to answer the door, a shield against the world.
The knock came again, and Aurora pulled herself upright and stumbled to the door, leaning her forhead against the cold metal.
“What do you want?” she whispered. “I don’t have anything else.” Aurora opened the door, and her head swirled. “Ambassador?” Solidad was dressed in a long dark coat, crystal snow flakes clinging to his silver hair like stars. He was completely out of place against the rot and rusted steel, like something stolen or lost.
“I would like to see Ivy.”
“I would have brought her to your estate.” Solidad shrugged.
“I wanted to see where she lived.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and suddenly Aurora saw him shrink and become one of the many young men that came to beg for Ivys' affections. She felt her heart switch off, and she motioned inside with her arm. Solidad ducked through the doorway and wrinkled his nose.
“I smell blood.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.