Flowercrash Read Online Free Page A

across several low hills, nothing to mark any border except a currency exchange booth, in which an old woman slept.
    Manserphine walked into the cobbled streets of Novais. It being mid- morning the urb was devoid of people. Hedonists of the vicinity too proud to live in Blissis—where all the action was—were recovering from their all-night feasts and drunken orgies. Manserphine understood that here, in the urb that somehow fused the extravagances of exotic Blissis with the feminine morality of Veneris, she might find new friends to help her through the season ahead. Most of them would work or reside at the Shrine of Flower Sculpture.
    She stopped and looked behind her. Nobody following. She had half expected to see an agent from her Shrine, checking up on her, but in reality she knew they would have forgotten about her. That was part of the banishment. A curious, and never before experienced feeling of freedom enveloped her.
    In minutes she stood before the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. Apart from the foundations it was built entirely of hardpetal. In form it was an upturned bell, its sides shrouded in baroque scrolls and curls that often surrounded windows, or marked the doors to balconies. Manserphine looked up; it was a hundred feet high. Its colour changed from season to season. Presently it was pale green, here and there showing inner spirals of blue and brown. Where it joined the street there was a single door. Symbolically, this was transparent, indicating that the Shrine had no secrets; a grievous lie, as Manserphine knew. But it was a good way to entice converts.
    Manserphine entered a cool hall, where she asked to see Pollonzyn. In minutes her contact arrived, petite and suave in a crimson roquelaure, to lead her into a pine scented ante-room.
    “You acquired our gametes?” Pollonzyn asked. She spoke with the throaty burr characteristic of Novais, yet her speech was ornate. This was one of the dialects Manserphine had to translate in her capacity of Interpreter.
    Manserphine handed over the paintbrush. “This comes with the shadow of a price.”
    “But we’ve reimbursed you-”
    “Not that. I was uncovered.”
    Pollonzyn blanched. “You mean your-”
    “I cozened my way out of the fray, but granny gave me a three month dip. I’m having to lie up at a hostelry of eastern delights.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    Manserphine sighed. “Of course, it’s the end of our dealings. After my dip I’m supposed to step again on virtual grass. I have to keep my fingers pink, else lose my privileges.”
    But Pollonzyn was shaking her head. “Absolutely never! I’ll immediately bring an interview with Cirishnyan. I’m sure she won’t want to lose you to the wind.”
    Manserphine shrugged. “I might come, but don’t dab the brush on my account. The way I feel at the moment, only granny crone can save me.”

CHAPTER 2
    The next day, Manserphine was invited to join Cirishnyan for a brief meeting at the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. As befitted one of the two senior clerics of the Shrine, Cirishnyan’s chamber was magnificent, hexagonal in shape with each wall and the ceiling a different colour of the rainbow. The chamber had been cunningly constructed, so that when artists scraped away the outer surface of the hardpetal a darker colour of the same hue was revealed, creating, over the decades, a breathtaking mural of great intricacy. Lighting was provided by lamps shaped as tulips.
    They sat opposite one another in deep chairs, their feet resting on stools. Cirishnyan was a small woman of middle years, with a deeply lined face and a shock of pale hair. She wore spectacles.
    From a ewer, Cirishnyan offered Manserphine wine. “Pollonzyn knowledged us of the unfortunate reservations you had,” she began.
    Manserphine sighed. What she had to say would be difficult. She hated disappointing people, and she felt unhappy about leaving the path suggested by her flower sculpting vision, but the banishment had shocked her into