Long Rides in a Raincar

Reading Time: 15 mins

Simone wondered what shape it would be this time. Something with curves, no doubt. Mon Acure loved those sorts of pieces. With the glassy half-moons and repetitious loops. Pieces with no identifiable ending—the most expensive kind. And the hardest to get right. The glass needed to be thin. Impossibly thin, and bend just so. With curves that weren’t too broad or quick. Didn’t lean too high or too low. They needed to be perfect. Designed acutely for his volume and density, so that when he poured himself down the neck there was never room to spare. Never a chance he’d overflow. Making vessels for Watercules wasn’t just art, after all. It was architecture. A fine and delicate engineering. One that made it possible to be something other than one’s self for a change. Haven’t we all dreamed of it? The best artists could do it. In fact, they could make you feel like something better than yourself. The best artists—the only ones Mon Acure purchased from—knew to never make their patrons feel confined. They knew how to make one flow inside of their work. To craft with woven circuity so that one forgot their bodies altogether. They would become the glass instead.

So Simone was told of this, at least. She’d never quite had that experience herself. At least not on that level. Glass vessels weren’t too hard to come by but almost no one had them custom made. No one that she knew except Mon Acure. But Simone could surely imagine it—that particular feeling of flow. The feeling of one’s self disappearing into a work of art. Made with you in mind. Art that was you, essentially. Better than you, decidedly. Yes, Simone had imagined that many times. Whenever she delivered a new piece to Mon Acure’s estate. When she saw him experience it in her presence. And when she poured herself into glass vessels of her own making, she did as well. There, in the absence of it, is where she imagined that feeling most of all.

The headlights came in slow. Yawning up the canal as the raincar they beamed from pulled in. Simone and the station took on a slight glow, all the light catching in the water of her figure. The raincar was loud, engine bubbling like carbonation. It fizzled a bit when it stopped. Steam drawled from its chimney and made the night air thick. Then the doors opened. Passengers poured out, all in liquid rush.

Simone waited for them to clear, one hand on Mon Acure’s newly commissioned glass vessel under a veil beside her. When the path was clear she lifted it inside and took a seat. Simone never looked at the pieces before she delivered them. Not that she wasn’t curious. Rather, she liked to participate in the reveal. To take in the work at the same moment Mon Acure saw for the first time what she had brought for him. But she couldn’t help but guess at the intricate patterns woven just under that veil. She’d been tempted to take a peek or two before. Just to glimpse at the artistry on her own for once. Or to perhaps emulate the feeling of having high-level custom glass in her own possession. But those were only thoughts. Ones she hadn’t entertained in a while, no less. Yet she was having them now, because this was the third piece that Mon Acure had commissioned this week. The sudden frequency had her curious. More curious than she liked. She looked out the window to keep her mind clear of it.

The city of Couránt glittered in view. Moonlight swam up the viaduct highways. It bounced in the rock-ribbed channels beneath them. Returned to the sky by way of refraction. It was a calm evening. The water-formed buildings and boroughs took it slow, their motions paired up like promenade. How they loved to sway and dance. Simone’s raincar was unhurried by the sun going low. It left a violet streak in the sky like the slit of a cat’s eye. Deepest blues on either side. It winked out by the time she was uptown.

A song kicked on out of the raincar’s juke. Fuzzy jazz, like the signal was off. Music did funny things to a Watercule. All sounds did for that matter. Soundwaves ripple when they go across liquid, so Watercules felt the pattern of the track more deeply than they heard it. The fuzzy tide of the jazz roamed across Simone’s body, parting ways as it reached the floor. It had a nice feeling to it. Jazz always felt different, unexpected. So many surprises in the undulation. It had quiet parts and loud. Rushes and breaks and everything in between. It was rough at times and smooth at others. Yeah, it was just right for her.

The raincar rode up drowsy to its final stop. Simone picked up the veil-covered glass and headed off. It was a long walk to Mon Acure’s estate but she didn’t mind. The lead-up was a river that blushed at night. Where pink coral slept and dyed it rose. Blankets of lily pads spread about. Nearby dragonflies played a jazz of their own and the cool, clean air whistled in tune. A different scene than Simone was used to. Like another world from downtown’s smokestack apartments and the lathery raincars passing between them. No one heard an engine bubble out here. Not a hint of frizz or froth in the air. The water here may as well have been invisible with how clear it was. In town it was nearly cream. Thick and pale as pancake batter. And you really noticed when you left town. Simone felt in all ways lighter than herself. Less sound and suds and artificial light than in the city. Things that made the Watercule form feel heavy. More like syrup. Out here she felt like a natural stream. Gliding over pebbles and polyps. Not like something that might stick to the pan if kept still for too long. And that was all a part of it, she was sure. Of reaching that feeling of flow in faultless glass. As much as it was about the art, the conditions of experiencing it is what made it possible. It wouldn’t be the same if one’s body was viscous. If one didn’t ease into the ornate arcs of glass petals—flowing from the moment of intercession. Back downtown, Simone often felt more like sludge in a pipe when she entered a vessel. Nevermind how skillful the curvations, the most perfect glass of all couldn’t make one flow on its own.

Simone arrived soon enough. A pair of swing gates banded the entrance. She peered through the central pattern of loops and braids. The iron lines crossed and weaved and doubled back across the gate but never broke from one another. Beyond them was Mon Acure’s estate. A looming round globule of a building. Moonlit and shimmering, like a droplet on a mirror. A ring of garden dahlias wrapped the front entrance, tinting it in coy magenta. The swing gates parted for her on their own. She drifted through them feeling light and pure.

Mon Acure’s steward, Chalise Fron, met her at the doorway. She always greeted Simone with a smile. A subtle shift in hue and brightness that another Watercule would recognize as a smile. But Chalise didn’t smile at her today. Her hue was dim. Demure.

“Good evening, Miss Nuin,” she said.

“Good evening, Chalise. Is everything all right?”

Chalise’s water-form wavered. “Yes, all is well. But Mr. Acure seems to be a bit off this evening. I’m not sure what it is.”

“Oh, I see,” said Simone. “I thought something similar the last few times as well. I just figured it was a passing funk. Hopefully it’s nothing serious.” Simone placed a hand on the still-veiled glass beside her. “I’m sure this will cheer him up.”

At Simone’s reply, Chalise’s gloom dithered and her hue lightened up the room a bit. She had a smile for Simone after all.

Simone ushered the veiled glass into Mon Acure’s home. He was not in the foyer to greet her though, as he often was. She felt music coming from a room down the hall, however. Strings, bells, and a soprano. All rippled across her in a low-spirit tune. Simone turned the corner to find Mon Acure in his gallery room, where all of his glass vessels were on display. Although she had seen it many times by now, the collection always captured her for a moment. Rows of deco glass wound the circular room. Every shelf full and glistening. Some pieces perched so high you couldn’t see them. Mon Acure’s collection was a panoptic of the entire vessel-glass movement. Works from Linoi and Dampe and Résinaul. A glance in any direction had a price tag of many’s yearly wages. And to Simone, such a glance brought invaluable inspiration. Ideas and techniques to apply to her own pieces of vessel-glass. Each time she delivered a new piece to Mon Acure, she studied the works in his gallery. Tried to capture as much of them as she could. How the glass of Linoi’s pieces spiraled and whorled. The precision that went in to every helical turn was incredible. Elusive. She’d tried many techniques to achieve the same effect with her own glass, but never managed to keep it structural. And then there was Tuiné’s work. Oh, Simone could hardly keep the shape of one of hers in mind by the time she’d gotten home. The weaves were so complex. Unreadable in the time Simone had to look at them. But still she filed away as much visual knowledge as she could. A little more each time to iterate on later. And like the feeling of flow she imagined she’d one day feel—one day replicate in her own work—Simone imagined a spot on Mon Acure’s shelves for herself. But she didn’t feel she belonged there yet.

Like all of the individual pieces, the collection itself was perfect. And now came the moment to add a new piece to it. Mon Acure turned as Simone stood at the entrance to the gallery.

“Simone,” he said. “Please, come in.” She entered. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Simone replied. Mon Acure’s tone and texture were, as Chalise alluded to, not quite as they usually were. He was pensive. Occupied with a feeling Simone couldn’t quite read from him. “And you, Mon? How have you been? Chalise seemed to think that something might be the matter.”

A brief wave ran down the affluent Watercule’s form. “It’s nothing to worry about, honestly,” he said. “Thank you for coming by though, Simone. I know it’s late and on short notice.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Simone. Avoidant—that’s what she read. It might be inappropriate to press further. “It’s always nice to get out of town for a bit anyways.”

Mon Acure nodded and his hue shifted like Chalise’s had. Almost into a smile, but Simone could tell the expression was forced. It didn’t brighten up the room as it ought to have.

“Would you like to do the honors this time?” Mon Acure asked.

Simone smiled herself. True and transparent. “Certainly.”

She turned to the glass she’d brought in and gripped the veil. Anticipated the coming moments. Their initial wonder at the composition. The slow, savorous processing of the craftsmanship. And most of all, to see Mon Acure swing heatedly back to his regular, cheerful self. Simone pulled off the cover. In an instant she knew whose work it was. Nérelante Hon. Oh yes, it was undoubtedly his. Subtlety in glass was something that even the most gifted of weavers hadn’t mastered. But Nérelante’s work was just that. Mastery. He wove pieces that didn’t even seem possible. Yet with such command of the medium that it made his work seem effortless. The piece in front of Simone was no exception to this. It begged the eyes to follow its interlaced patterns. To find the origins of its design. But one never could. Simone drank in the skillful demilune turns. The folding arcs. How it wound down towards its center like an aperture. She’d heard Mon Acure describe that the sensation of flow was, most of all, impossible not to feel inside of Nérelante’s glass. Surely, adding this piece to his collection would be enough to lift his spirits.

Simone turned her attention to him. She looked for any shifts in his expression. Indeed, she held the same studious gaze on Mon Acure as she had on the glass beforehand. Perhaps even more so. The piece was beautiful, of course. And the curves of Nérelante’s glass were nothing less than sorcerous. But it was a rare thing to see her friend so blue. She wanted to catch the moment he brightened up.

Mon Acure was silent. Meditative. He circled the composition, stopping at the neck of the piece where one was meant to enter it. He paused there for a moment, then narrowed himself to the nape. He poured his water-form into the glass. In a moment Mon Acure’s body became the exact shape of Nérelante Hon’s design. A perfect fit, as expected. Not an inch of the glass was left unfilled. He took the motion of it, coursing within its coils and ducts. Routing its hollows and wreaths. He became continuous. Flowing. But then the motion stopped. At once Mon Acure drained himself from the vessel and took his own shape back beside Simone.

“Oh, it’s no use,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” Simone asked. “Is there a kink in the glass? I hope it didn’t get damaged on the way or something.”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that.” His water-form dulled.

“What is it, then? It seemed that the piece allowed you to flow quite easily.”

“Yes, it did,” said Mon Acure. “That’s not the issue. I’m sorry, Simone. I know you came all this way but… I think I would like to retire for the evening.”

“A-All right, Mon,” said Simone, stunted. She couldn’t quite grasp the expression in Mon Acure’s hue. He was unsettled, of course. But towards what? She looked once more at vessel in front of her. It didn’t seem possible to be disappointed by it. It must be something else after all. Yet there was little Simone could do for her friend other than to oblige him.

Simone bid Mon Acure and Chalise a good evening and made her way back to the raincar station. All the while Mon Acure’s reaction stayed on her mind. Simone had never seen him so dejected upon receiving a new piece of vessel glass. And more than that, she’d never known him to be so inexpressive. Normally he’d comment more on the particular quirks of the artists he commissioned. How the flow of a Résinaul felt smooth, gentle. Ideal for calming one’s self down or relaxing long into the evening. While the chaotic weaves of Tuiné created a more active sense of flow. More rushed and energetic. Something to match the nerves when one was feeling restless. Mon Acure had mentioned before that Nérelante’s glass had a way of making him feel nostalgic. That it left him gushing with memories warm and old. That somehow the leans and rounds captured the temperament of his youth. Of growing up in the malt and frizz of lower Couránt with big dreams and a messy heart. That was something that Simone was able to understand—even without a taste of perfect flow. Sometimes a piece of glass turned the Watercule form into a ribbon of memories. All wound up with knots and loose ends. It didn’t matter if the piece was made specifically for you or not. Setting and serendipity had so much more to do with how it felt to experience it.

Simone caught the next raincar heading back into town. It was midnight. Dark as jet until the bubbling wagon pulled into Couránt. The city teemed with a solemn glint at this hour. Little lanterns hung on the tracks and roads. Dimly lit for the night crowds and late-workers. They bled up the avenues and across the parades of water-form buildings. How nice the lights and liquid played together. How easily they became one.

Jazz didn’t play on this raincar’s juke. Nothing did, in fact. But the mood was something else and Simone didn’t mind it. The soft kinks of the raincar turning on its tracks and the early night-life tempest rolled plenty of sound her way. That was like a kind of jazz too, she realized. A mix of natural instruments: the cold tracks of the raincar and a choir of the people. It brought some of that same feeling that she liked from the actual music. But it also made her think. Why did she like jazz so much? In a way it was the furthest thing from what appealed to her about the art of woven glass. The careful arcs and delicate frames. The quiet discipline required for the weaving process. And the ambitious pursuit of making something perfect, where any slight defects in the glass would be noticeable upon entering. Those were the things she toiled away in her own time to achieve. Yet she loved the flexibility of jazz. How it didn’t seem interested in conforming to razor-thin standards. Perhaps it was because it lacked a visual element. It was intangible. Abstract. She couldn’t appraise it in the same way she studied a work of vessel art. The sounds just affected her, full stop. She felt the ripples and vibrations and all of her understanding of it was sensory. It wasn’t intellectual. Questions, questions. She didn’t have any answers for herself on the subject. But it was one she felt worth checking on again sometime. For now, Simone was all right soaking in the hypnotic rhythm of downtown Couránt.

The nightlife was just kicking up as Simone arrived home. She could hear the hollow, festive boom of groups gathering outside. The catchy pop running out of a club on the street below her apartment. The noise didn’t bother her much. She barely noticed it anyways once she got started on her glass. Besides, she found it hard to weave in the mornings or afternoons. For her it was a nighttime exclusive activity. A pairing of mood and ambiance that her muse just had it bad for.

Simone entered the spare room of her apartment which she used as a craft studio. There in the center was a work of vessel glass, one she’d been working on for the last few weeks. The piece glittered in the shallow dark. She flicked on a dim light and got close to it, stared at the incomplete sections. Plenty of work still left to do. Structural changes to make, flourishes to add. But she had just come from Mon Acure’s gallery. A place that she typically came home from with one of two shades of energy. Sometimes it was a bleak shade. A pale, sedating sense that her work would never match those in the lofty shelves that housed the movement’s best. It was perhaps the more common of the two. How easy it was to start forming comparisons. To think that she was still nowhere near the level yet of even the most bland works Mon Acure owned. And that she might never be. Yes, that was the danger of her profession. It exposed her to an ideal and kept her on the fringe of it. Always aware that her taste for the craft and her ability to perform it were, for now, unaligned. She’d made progress, sure. The glass she was able to weave now was certainly better than it was years ago when she began. And there were times, forgive her, that Simone even liked what she made. That’s what kept her going, after all. She’d have stopped long ago if there hadn’t been a single time she’d impressed herself. If there hadn’t been at least some moments where she felt she was meant to do this. And a moment like that was with her now. That night Simone had come home with the other shade of energy. The one that got her straight to work with no second-guessing. She resumed the weaving process where she left-off: shaping the neck of the piece. It was close to its first test. Just a bit of polish on the lip left to go.

Simone finished that task within the hour. It was ready. Finally, she could assess all of the work done on this piece so far. It didn’t look much like the ones in Mon Acure’s gallery. Indeed, it wasn’t even in the same style as those. Mon Acure’s love for the feeling of flow was a technique Simone wasn’t ready to attempt seriously just yet. She’d tried before, but the attempts weren’t quite successful. Still, it gave her an idea of where her skills were for the moment. And what she needed to improve to reach that goal. The piece in front of Simone did not have curling helices or blossoming scales of glass. Its shape was far simpler. A few folds bent out from the neck. They wrapped the piece and conformed at the center, where a long reed of glass plunged into an ample basin. It was a complex design for her. The thinness of the reed and the way it unwrapped into the bowl-shape of the basin were aspects that she hadn’t pulled off easily. Simone wasn’t quite sure what the effect of the design would be. How it would feel to take its shape. Her water-form tingled as she prepared herself for entry. She posed herself to the neck, then slid herself down.

Simone weaved herself through the folding bends. Into the delicate reed. Her body became slender, fine. Then expansive. Boundless. She filled the vessel all the way from neck to basin. A little room left to spare. The piece wasn’t perfect, not quite. There were angles in the weave that made Simone uncomfortable. Just a bit too tight here. A little too open there. But the cast itself had something to it. Not flow, no. But there was definitely movement.

Simone trickled herself back out of the neck. Her water-form was heated. Feverish. Warmed by fatigue and the waft of urban humidity. Parts of her were becoming steam. Watercules didn’t sweat, of course. They evaporated. Just slightly—not enough to be dangerous. Only as much as sweating is for mammals. But it was comparably unpleasant. The pancake-batter feeling of being in the city was part industrial fumes, part pedestrian exhaust. Simone felt like slurry at this point in the evening. She was lucky to not get stuck in the glass with how hot it was getting. So she decided to call it a night. But before Simone blacked out the studio and retired, she looked again at the glass piece in front of her. The room glowed a little bit brighter just before it went dark.

***

A few weeks went by where Simone didn’t hear from Mon Acure. It wasn’t that unusual. Sometimes a month or two would pass before he commissioned something new. But considering the way he was the last time she saw him, Simone did find it odd. She decided it might be worth checking up on him outside of work hours. On her day off she caught a raincar heading to his estate. It was a foggy afternoon. The day of a festival. Couránt’s streets were full of ruby-dyed Watercules to celebrate the first day of the last month of summer. The city became a river of wine. Rouge-lit vapor filled up the alleys and wetblocks—moisture from all the red banners and streamers made of candy-thread. And the smell of apple-cinnamon was in the air. A false aroma. Sprayed out of canisters hanging on street corners and lamp shapes. Something to counter the sweat-steam of all the clustering party-goers. Simone had it in mind to see if Mon Acure and Chalise would like to head into town with her for a while. It’d be hard to pass up sharing a bottle or two of Amaranth Jam in the cheerful holiday haze.

Chalise greeted her at the door as she arrived.

“Oh. Hello, Miss Nuin. Please, come in,” she said, welcoming Simone into the foyer. “I didn’t realize Mr. Acure had something coming today.”

“Ah no, he doesn’t,” said Simone. “I’m actually just stopping by to say hello. How have you been, Chalise?”

“I’m doing all right myself, thank you. But Mr. Acure hasn’t been feeling too well, lately. I’m afraid his spirits haven’t lifted much since the last time you were here. He’ll be able to tell you about it better than I could, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you. He’s in the den just down the hall.”

“Thank you,” said Simone. Like last time, a downbeat melody resounded onto her from inside the estate. Simone followed it to the den. Mon Acure stood by the window, his water-form rather desaturated.

“Simone?” he said as he noticed her come in. “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to come by and wish you well for the holiday.”

“Nonsense, Simone. We both know this isn’t a quick stop from your place. You should really be out in the town right now enjoying yourself. It’s nice of you to come all the way out here, but you really shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I’ve also been a bit worried about you since the last time we spoke. Chalise seemed to think you’d be more up to talking about it than before?”

Mon Acure’s hue shifted with a sigh. “Yes, I suppose I should. You came all this way and I think I owe you at least that much. In truth, I haven’t been so well. I’m sorry for being so unsettled when you were here the other week. I just didn’t want to speak up about it. And frankly, I thought it would just go away.”

“You’ve been thinking about it a lot though, haven’t you,” said Simone.

“Yes, I have. Please, come into the gallery with me. It’s best if we discuss it in there.”

Simone waited for Mon Acure by the entrance to the den. Then she followed him to the gallery. Once more Simone’s eyes lit up as she took in the splendid oeuvre of vessel glass on display.

“You know, being a glass dealer, you’re surrounded by vessels all the time,” said Mon Acure. “But you always have that look for them. Like they’re something very special still.”

“Yes,” said Simone. “I suppose I never tire of looking at them.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why?” Simone considered the question. “I think part of the reason is because I know how difficult they are to make. That’s given me much more appreciation for the art form.”

“You’re a weaver as well? Dear Simone, you’ve never mentioned that to me before.”

“I know. It’s something I guess I have a hard time sharing. Especially in my profession.”

“How so?”

“Well, it’s just that usually I’m surrounded by pieces that come from the best artists in the movement.” Simone’s hue brightened with a dull smile. “It’s lovely. There’s always something nearby to inspire me. But it’s also daunting in a way.”

“You can’t help but compare yourself to them. Is that it?”

Simone nodded.

“I can understand that,” said Mon Acure. “But I hope you never lose that look for them, Simone.” He paused. “The last time you were here—you remember what you brought me?”

“It was a Nérelante,” said Simone.

“Yes. The one just here.” The piece was on a shelf two rows above them. Mon Acure moved over to it. “He was the first artist I’d ever commissioned a custom piece from—once I could afford it. I thought of it as a fine piece of decoration. A well-to-do accessory for myself, recently well-to-do’d. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten a vessel before. I had a few thrift-weaves when I was coming up in my day. But it was the first time I’d communed with a piece that was so—complicated, I guess. I had no idea what I’d just gotten myself into. And I’d bought right into the pitch, too: that you could transform yourself with glass. Forget yourself. Be something besides the mess that was all of you. Oh, they do know how to sell it. Don’t they?”

Simone laughed. “I suppose it is a bit more complicated than that.”

“And in a way it isn’t, too,” said Mon Acure. “I did become something else when I entered that glass. Closer to myself, in fact. More than I had felt in a while. That Nérelante tangled me all up and unwound me like twine. It was like he reached right down for all the parts of myself I’d dropped the strings of yanked them right back up. Then showed me the strings I was holding instead. I didn’t realize it until then, but I had lost a lot of important things to get where I was. To where I was even able to buy custom glass like that. I wanted so desperately to escape the environment I was in that I let everything around me slip until I was successful enough to do so. I grew distant from friends. Lost time I should have been looking for love. And had stopped loving myself, worst of all. I guess I was far more miserable than I’d realized. But Nérelante’s glass made me finally see that.”

“I had no idea,” said Simone. “I mean, I have things that I keep to myself, too. But I suppose I’ve only ever thought of you as joyful. We’ve known each other now for some years and I’ve only ever seen you happy to get a new piece of glass. It’s only recently that I’ve noticed that might have changed.”

“You’re right,” said Mon Acure. “And for the most part, what you’ve seen of me has been what I truly felt. But the last time you were here—what you glimpsed is that I’ve needed help to keep myself in such high spirits. Ever since that first time, I’ve thought of vessels as a sort of hotline to my emotions. And that is what you see here.” Mon Acure glanced around the room. “A shiny hall of my prolonged dependence on them. One that I have amassed over many years and outlandish expense. And one which I’ve come to realize no longer affects me in that way. I was unsettled the last time you were here because when I entered the Nérelante you delivered, I felt nothing. And the more I’ve thought about it since, I’ve only felt shame.”

“I remember,” said Simone. “You were quite upset. At the time I thought it was because the piece didn’t allow you to flow or something. That all of these others have, and that was the reason you only collected them in this style.”

“That’s what it became about over time,” said Mon Acure. “As I started to connect less and less with myself through the medium, I mistook what the essential part of it all was. But lately I’ve come to recognize that flow is just a physical sensation, in the end. Something soothing about the feeling of being in the glass. It’s taken me a while to understand that it’s not the whole draw.”

Simone went quiet for a moment. Reflective. “I think I might have started to feel the same way recently,” she said. “In my own weaving it’s been the thing I’ve felt has been missing. I’ve had this idea of how it should feel to be within the glass. That you should disappear into it. Make it flow so that anyone else could disappear into it as well. I’ve always considered that to be one of the high marks of quality. And I couldn’t do it myself. Tried, but never managed. I thought that meant I just wasn’t doing it well. Like I didn’t have it in me to make something that good. But I keep running up against these moments where I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

Simone recalled one of those moments: the last night she’d seen Mon Acure. On her way home as she listened to the unmeditated hymn of the city and the raincar. And later that night, too. In the twilight of her apartment, when she’d communed for the first time with a work of hers in progress. How it reduced her to a slim strand in the reed. Broke the water of her being down to its essentials. Then erupted it to its maximum. It was painful. It was soothing. Ungentle and tender and fast and slow. It was noxious. It was cleansing. It was jazz.

“I think I’ve been struggling to see it myself because I had it all backwards,” said Simone. “I got into weaving because of how expressive you can be with it. That the shapes you create with the glass can let someone connect with you. Perhaps even connect with themselves, as you had. But then there’s the other side of it. How pouring yourself in can be a shortcut to transformation. That if the piece is beautiful you’re beautiful. The artist’s grace is your grace. I think somewhere along the way I got caught up in that aspect of it. Probably when I got into the business myself as a seller, where that sort of thing is usually the focus.”

“No doubt that is largely my fault,” said Mon Acure. “It saddens me to think I may have contributed to that through my own vices. Always being fixated on flow. The luxury of the glass. I’m truly sorry for that, Simone.”

Simone shook her head. “It’s not your fault that I haven’t been able to tell the difference. I had myself confused. Whenever I tried out one of my own pieces, I often felt something. But I always overlooked it. If the flow wasn’t there, the piece wasn’t good. So I stopped aiming for that altogether. I kept it in mind as a distant goal, but set it aside. But lately I’ve started working on a different style. One that feels less like I’m trying to mimic what I see here and is a little more…Well, me. And it’s actually had me questioning what I thought the whole point of the process was again. It’s had me wondering if you fit the glass or if the glass fits you. Whether it’s possession or repossession.”

Mon Acure paused for a moment. “Simone,” he started.

“Yes?”

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

***

The city of Couránt dallied outside the raincar’s window, drifting by at the pace of a daydream. Simone leaned against the glass. Her eyes lazed beyond the water-form buildings. Over the twinkling seaways, to the ocean that nestled the city’s cream-stone shores. The water there shimmered softly. Brightened up by moon and starlight.

The raincar jostled at the next turn. Simone braced the glass vessel beside her, readjusted the veil drawn over it. It had been quite a while now since her last visit to Mon Acure’s estate. About a month and change. She smiled to herself, glowing up her corner of the raincar. It was just for her, but a few other Watercules glanced her way. Smiles draw the eyes like little else, don’t they? Not always to meddle or pry. They just like to know what’s there. What’s happening. If there’s a good spirit nearby—perhaps they’ll catch it themselves.

Simone stood up before the raincar arrived at the station. She was at the door before it parted, on her way as soon as she could be. She could really glide out here. Her water-form felt fluent with the nightly breeze. It carried her. She carried it. The two whisked by the coral beds and lily quilts. All the way to the estate, with not a drop of her lost to steam. Simone waited for the swing gates to clear for her and made it to the front door.

“Good evening, Miss Nuin.” Chalise smiled at her as she arrived.

“Evening, Chalise,” said Simone, returning one.

“Good evening, Simone.” Mon Acure stood behind Chalise in the foyer. “How was your ride out?”

“Perfect,” said Simone. “Thank you.” She stepped in and brought the veiled glass inside. Simone started off for the gallery, but Mon Acure didn’t follow.

“Oh, right,” he said. “We’ll be going somewhere else today.”

Simone paused.

“Please, follow me.”

Mon Acure led her down a different hall. Simone glanced towards the gallery room as it left her sight.

The two arrived at a doorway that opened to an outdoor garden. Simone stepped outside, where her water-form took in the hue of her surroundings. Shades of pink-white and baby blue shined onto her from peonies and the naked moon. A cross-path of stone met in the middle of the garden.

“I’d like you to place it there,” said Mon Acure.

Simone followed the path to the center and laid the covered glass down. She stepped back and looked at Mon Acure, waiting.

“I’ve been thinking that it’s time I start a new collection,” he said. “That’s why I brought you out here instead of the gallery. And I must say, I couldn’t be happier to have this be the first addition to it. Please, do the honors.”

Simone’s nerves went abuzz. She wavered over to the glass, put her hand on the veil. And then she pulled off the cover, hoping she wouldn’t collapse into a puddle the moment she did so. The vessel caught pale light in its curves. Bound them to its shape. The glass echoed the colors of the garden, sending back hues of soft-blush and sugar-rose. A short neck began the piece’s movement, then split in the shape of a glass laurel. At the branches’ ends it doubled back and plunged. Conjoined at the piece’s center, then expanded into a basin. Simone eyed every joint in the design. She didn’t spot any imperfections.

“It’s beautiful,” said Mon Acure. “Not that I’m surprised. I do believe that the artist of this piece is a natural.”

Simone’s hue melded with the color of the peonies.

Mon Acure placed himself at the neck. He paused there for a moment, and Simone caught hints of nervous waves running through him as well. He bent forward, and yielded his shape to the glass. The vessel drew him in. Steered him through its initial arc towards the laurel, then severed him. A daring design. Deliberate in its aim to stress the water-form’s shape. To disband its natural unity. And then came the reversal. A twist, a turn, followed by harmony. The vessel conformed Mon Acure as he reached the basin, where he completed its gesture in full.

Simone held still as the process went on. Then Mon Acure exited and regained his own shape beside her, though with a different posture than before. His head leaned low, shoulders sunk.

“Is everything all right, Mon?” Simone asked.

“No,” he said. “Not everything is. But goodness, Simone, it’s a wonderful thing to feel. Thank you.”

Simone just smiled and nodded.

***

The raincar’s engine bubbled as it pulled in to the station. A hundred delicate globes fumed from its neck, popping this way and that. Simone went aboard. She was the last traveler of the night. Just her and the juke. She turned it on as the raincar took off, and rolled back into Couránt with a fuzzy tune in tow. It was still early in the night. The streetlamps started to flicker on and the crowds were just coming out. Simone felt herself dozing off, reaching towards the point where thoughts and dreams coalesce. She still had a long night ahead—her muse just wasn’t going to let her pass up a mood like this. But for a moment, at least, she let herself unwind. As the raincar foamed its way downtown, Simone’s mind beat steady and her heart flowed easy.

THE END