curtains were drawn over a floor-to-ceiling window in a nook. And through a slight parting in the curtains silvery moonlight was spilling in across the floor. My senses greedily devoured all this fresh data. My photographic memory swallowed all these new sensations. Stomaching so much all at once was dizzying. Like being drunk on knowledge. My cup runneth over.
I could perceive the structure and form and purpose of things. The golden carpet – my eyes could see all its tiny fibers. My mind could count each one. Somehow I could envision the machine that had woven them together, the carpet inspectors who’d made ticks on their clipboards, and the carpet layers who’d crawled all over my room. And the tufted chair in the corner – somehow I could see deep into its craftsmanship. I could perceive the intent of its craftsman. I saw that the chair had been commissioned over two hundred years ago. The craftsman had been an angry Italian. He’d been lonely, a widower, an obsessive compulsive by our standards. He’d made the whole chair in a day and a night. Then he’d tried to destroy it. Now it was mine. How did I know all this? The laptop computer on the table – I saw it now – another man had personally handcrafted it – all of it – inside, outside, keys, screen, ports, and cards. I could also see that the man was a gifted engineer. He had programmed it with his own operating system. He’d loved his work. There was no other computer like it in the world. And now it was mine, like the chair. Yet how could I know this too? The tufted chair and the laptop computer had been made centuries apart. Yet they were connected by patterns of human behavior. Both men had a passion for working with their hands. Both loved freethinking and independence. Separating them only was means. The two hundred-year-old craftsman had been poor. The contemporary engineer is exceedingly wealthy. How could I see all this in mere objects? My ability to know knew. My ability to understand was trying to play catch-up.
Slowly I inhaled. The scent on the laptop, the scent on the chair, the scent on everything in the room, I knew that scent. It was the scent of the man who made me a Blood Vivicanti. It was the scent of Wyn. His scent was everywhere. I was in his house. I inhaled again. I realized more. No, I wasn’t in his house. I was in his mansion! A great big mansion that seemed to go on forever, like a magic castle. Wafting into me were the scents of too much wealth and much more worry. The strong scent of fresh pine needles told me I was elevated a few stories from the ground. The scent of Cool Beans Coffee House far in the distance told me I was still in Idyllville. Filling this mansion was the strong scent of new – new cars, new computers, new things – I love that scent! Yet that scent also perfectly blended with the scent of old. Ancient history dwelt in this mansion too. All these old and new scents of the mansion also mixed with the clean scent of spring water and smooth river-rocks. The water and the rocks were not in the mansion. But they weren’t far away either. They seemed right beneath me. They hummed of mystery.
My clothes were gone. I was naked beneath the sheets. New clothes were laid out for me on the nearby table. No one else was in the room. I slipped from the bedclothes. The air was cold and fresh and it gave me goose bumps. The luxury carpet was thick and soft. It felt good beneath my feet. Folded neatly on the table were undergarments, a white t-shirt, a red V-neck sweater, and blue jeans. Snug shoes lay on the floor. All my new clothes fit as though they had been tailored to my petite size. The clothes had tiny rough filaments that only a Blood Vivicanti can feel. They scratched my skin, satisfying places I never knew had been itching for years. My clothes smelled of fresh laundry. I love that scent too. Yet their aroma was also the scent of