Of Phantasm and Fury

Sweet Siena Cypress

2 Sweet Siena Cypress

"...The scene where the curtain is drawn..." -E.H. Hanson

Day 1, continued

"Escape," she whispered, tears flowing in rivulets down her sun-kissed cheeks, intermingling with the cool reflective yet increasingly smoke-addled sphere.

"Help me—"

"Escape."

The room spun about in a darkened haze, wafts of willowy aqua, cerulean, sapphire hues emanating forth from the orb, melding with shades of umber, blue butterflies dancing outward—from where did they come? Macy briefly wondered—monarch butterflies too, which flitted upward to join its cobalt predecessors, before disappearing entirely, as miasmic hemisphere blended into illusory stratosphere.

She felt herself lifted by an unseen powerful force, then hurtled headlong into a blended dreamscape, her arms covering her head protectively, per instinct as her ears popped on descent, a humanoid device of errant navigation, wind whistling past the nape of her neck. Eyes sealed shut, she braced for impact—

And felt none.

Sunny Undisclosed Location, Simulation Crystal

Surprised, she opened an eye, then another, realizing she was facing what she recognized to be the Palazzo Pubblico, a 13th century medieval Gothic architectural wonder, its lower story made of stone, its upper crenellated stories of burnt umber brick. If she squinted close enough, she could see at the very topmost of the building's façade, a round flat bronze plate, a Christogram, a symbol emblematic of Saint Bernardino himself, planted there by the government of ages before, in gratitude for his work at stemming social unrest and turmoil.

Chaos, in other words. Recalling her late father's words—"if lost, find a landmark"—it seemed she already had. The Palazzo Pubblico was Italian.

She, Macy Vaughn, was in Italy.

Siena, Italy, by the looks of it.

How funny it was, that her fervent desire to retreat from the horrors of ill-fated love had led her here—here—of all places! Or was it? Siena, after all, was the first place she had journeyed solo as an exchange student, many years ago. It was, as she recalled of that intercontinental adventure, the first time she could shed preconceived notions of herself, meet new people, create a new persona—and just—

Be—

Herself.

Stumbling to her feet, she massaged her back on instinct, though painless her landing had been. Glancing at her immediate left and right, she spotted aged amber-crimson brick enclaves with what appeared to be faded robins egg blue-hued shutters, most of which were closed at this particular hour—

What time was it?

Generally, from what she remembered of Italy those summers ago, people left their shutters open to soak in the early morning sunshine, but closed them the warmer the day became, in the sultry sunshine of the afternoon, just prior to the early evening hours.

Peering at the overhead sky, she gasped in amazement at the glorious display of silver-streaked chiaroscuro clouds, their shape roughly resembling clusters of bountiful Grecian vineyard grapes, a buttery sunlight bursting forth just beneath the outermost expanse of the leftmost brick building, before turning her attention to the palazzo's front, its aged cobblestones devoid of human transience.

A shimmer of light distracted her as she made for the palazzo. Her eyes searched, and found, the source of its brightness—what appeared to be a birdbath—its water the crispest and most reflective she had ever known, its liquid luscious and lovely, tantalizing and true. This, she guessed, was a portal back—