Free The Island of Excess Love by Francesca Lia Block

As we draw nearer I see that it seems to be made of rough-hewn quartz crystal. Flowering trees and bushes grow in profusion in a large terraced garden in front of the entrance. Bees and blue, yellow, and white butterflies, all as big as my hand, are busy pollinating. I even see some orange butterflies, which were my guide after the Earth Shaker, some kind of sign from my mother leading me to my destination. But I’m not sure I trust these orange butterflies, or any of this for that matter. It could be a mirage to lure us to some new danger.
    â€œWhat is this place?” I ask.
    â€œThe Flower Cradle,” the bird women say, in unison.
    We pass under a large quartz archway and into a courtyard. More citrus trees grow here—lemon, orange, and lime—as well as fig, apple, pear, and olive trees. Waterfalls splash over rocks into shallow pools surrounded by dark purple roses.
    I stop in front of one voluminous blossom that grows eye level with me as if asking me to pick it. I’ve never seen a rose this color before. Almost like black grapes, that shiny and juicy looking. The perfume it exudes makes me dizzy.
    I reach to pluck the flower, without thinking. The stem snaps unevenly and I have to pull hard and at an angle to break the bloom the rest of the way off.
    The brown-haired bird woman turns her head sideways, watching me. “Why did you do that?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I should have picked an orange instead. But the rose compelled me somehow. Like Beauty in the fairy tale.
    The red-haired bird woman makes a tsk ing sound. I stare down at the rose, wishing I could fasten it back on its stem.
    We follow the women through another archway at the far end of the courtyard.
    Then we’re in a large room of the same rough-hewn quartz with waterfalls cascading down the walls into pools. The floor is polished and inlaid with different-colored stone to create the image of a naked man standing in a circle with his limbs outstretched. He’s surrounded by symbols—a sun, a moon, a rose, a dove, a single eye. At the far end of the room is the flower-heaped, incense-smoked dais I saw in my vision. And on the dais is a throne, a huge piece of quartz that’s been cloven down the middle to reveal its dazzling innards. Seated on it is the king.
    *   *   *
    The very young alchemist stared at the people flying off the buildings on the TV screen. For one heart-banging beat he wondered if they had discovered the magic spell to make them fly.
    It was not that.
    The plane had crashed through the buildings. His mother came in, turned off the TV, and told him to go to his room and get ready for school.
    Instead he went to his sister’s room; she was seated on the floor, her three black hound dogs sitting upright behind her, her black-, red-, and yellow-striped snake asleep in its cage. Black candles burned and a sketchbook lay open. There was an image on the page of a naked man and woman holding each other in a fountain. The man wore antlers on his head and the woman was missing one eye. Next to it was another image—two skeletons in the same intertwined position with roses growing on and among their bones. A third image was of a young boy with a white dove, surrounded by cryptic symbols.
    His sister looked up at him pale-bluely, her eyes so like his that it sometimes confused him.
    â€œDid you see the TV?” he said.
    â€œI felt sick all night,” she answered.
    He didn’t know what this meant. That she’d seen it? That she hadn’t because she was sick? That she was sick because she knew what happened before it happened? The last option was not unlikely if you happened to be his sister.
    â€œCan I stay here?” he asked.
    She shrugged and he sat down on the floor with her. The curtains were drawn and the room was dim although it was morning. Her hair seemed to be the only source of light.
    â€œThis world sucks,” he said.
    His sister ignored