There were rows of Lombardy trees, combs of combs and trailing interstices, crossing each other pinwheel fashion, making in their midst the room, which Ginger had found at last.
A swaying bulb, still light washed over everything, turning the silvery clock golden some moments, so it crossed its eyes. Clapboard on the inner walls. The closet closed itself: it was done. Everything they did was about the centre now, the flower of the worlds, the song of bees errant.
Ginger stood, pouring water from her hand through the pale, cupping petals; smells of incense and skin arose continuously, crossing the clock’s eyes over and again. Trouble scurried in the corner at the end of the hall. Outside, the Creature, become one with ado and vaults, rained down from the sky, its endless claws running down the windows of the room.
Where Ginger stands, fingering the water over the found petals, and the scent.