Free Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) by Jacqueline E. Garlick Page A

joins me seconds later, his back pressed up tight against my front. The platform shimmies under his weight and my hands fly up at my sides, finding Urlick’s sleeves.
    “You’re sure you’re all right?” He almost laughs.
    I let go, blushing. My breath races as though my lungs have suddenly grown too large for my chest.
    “Hang on,” he says. To what?
    He releases a lever and the platform jumps. Bits of sour spittle launch up into my throat. I work hard to swallow them back down as the enormous steel ropes at the sides of the pillars begin to coil, screeching and straining through sets of giant pulleys. I close my eyes, clasping the pendant at my chest like a crucifix, overcome by the smell of earthworms, moldy cedar, and grease rising through the trembling, brittle timber structure.
    Partway up the pulley slips, sending the platform skittering off balance. My hands again fill themselves with Urlick’s sleeves, this time not retreating. Steel ropes whir recklessly, spiraling down through the shaft, until finally catching on the pulley’s worn teeth, jerking the platform upright. Our hearts strum thankful concertos—well, at least mine does—as we again begin to evenly rise.
    We continue for what seems like hours, until at last the platform comes to a fluttery stop in front of a large wooden, windowless, door, resting on a track. The kind found on the side of a steamplough boxcar. The ones used to cart lunatics off to the asylum in.
    Where am I? Where has he taken me? Did he hear me in the throes of an episode in the back of his coach and decide to have me put away?
    Before I can form a question Urlick steps forward and hurls back the door. It rattles wildly over the track.
    I suck in a breath and close my eyes, bringing my hands to my mouth to stifle my scream.
    “What?” Urlick laughs, and I open my eyes. “Not what you were expecting?”
    Beyond the door stands an ordinary kitchen. Decorated in the most modern shades: red, mustard, terracotta. The walls are dressed in expensive flat-patterned paper. Exotic orchids and lilies make up the print. Hardwood kitchen cupboards stand lined with the newest linseed-oil countertops. Fashionable red-and-white-checkered linoleum tiles gleam from the floor.
    “No.” I let go of my breath, and smooth my skirts. “Not exactly.”
     
     

 
     
     
    S even
     
    Eyelet
     
    “Tea?” Urlick crosses the kitchen floor in just a few swift strides, his movements so lissome, so graceful for a man.
    I stumble forward, and the boxcar door rumbles to a mysterious close behind me, triggering a short siren and a lock when it meets the wall.
    I jump at the sound of clattering turbines, followed by an ominous CLUNK .
    “Is that the only way in or out of here?”
    “The only way you need know about,” Urlick mumbles, scouring the shelves for a tin of tea to honor his proposal. “Please,” he gestures with a hand toward the dining room table in the center of the room, “have a seat.”
    Gliding toward it, I run my fingers over the tabletop’s grain before dropping into a seat. Oak, I believe, which is strange. Oak hasn’t grown in these parts for over a century. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it’s just thick-ringed pine?
    I look up, further perplexed by the presence of a darkened porthole window over the sink. Why would anyone go to the expense of glass to cover a hole from which nothing can be seen? “Is that real?” I flick my chin toward the window.
    Urlick turns. His piercing pink eyes startle me at first. I gasp, feeling instantly guilty. Those are certainly going to take some getting used to, that’s for sure. Though I do find them strangely intriguing—in a rather morbid, yet alluring sort of way.
    “If you’re wondering if it’s operable, then the answer is, no. But if you’re talking aesthetics, then yes.”
    “Oh,” I swallow, still lost on his eyes. “Of course.” I twist my hair nervously. Though I’m more uncomfortable than nervous. “Why is it so