The plant that shoots out from the broken river of marrow is an echo of the skeleton beneath the soil. The brittle arrangement of tendrils tipped in fuchsia buds craves the blazing ball of false sun suspended overhead. The skull is partially visible. The archivist half-imagines that the root-spirit has somehow twisted the skeleton back into life, flushed the dry, old bones with intention.
But no, that’s impossible, the archivist reminds herself. The alchemized root-spirit isn’t life: it is merely intellectual potential stamped upon tightly coiled paper that shoots off the tendrils like leaves, pulled from the very heart of the bone.
The librarian plucks a curled scroll of yellow-tinged paper from the vine. A flower hisses at her. She hisses back. “If you don’t behave, I’ll have to get the shears out.”
It’s an empty threat but the plant doesn’t need to know that.