Dr. Francis Tumblety's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Francis walked faster now, the glass sphere heavy in his pocket. The lines on his wrist had spread to his palm, dark marks that looked like ink bleeding under the skin. He kept his hand in his coat pocket and watched the street ahead. A woman stood at the corner near a vendor selling bread. He passed a small display mounted on the side of a building — one of those bright health panels that showed position and medical data for whoever stood close enough to register. It flickered purple and silver as he walked by, then went dark. When he looked back, the woman from the corner was standing directly in front of it. The panel flared to life again, and Francis stopped. Lines identical to his own spread across her exposed forearm, dark and branching like roots under the skin. She lifted her arm slowly, staring at the marks as if seeing them for the first time. Then she turned and looked directly at him. Francis pulled his hand from his pocket and held it up. The lines were unmistakable now — the same pattern, the same depth. She took a step toward him, her eyes locked on his wrist, and he saw fear and recognition together. She knew something had passed between them. He thought about walking away, pretending he hadn't noticed. But she had already seen. The flower's reach was spreading beyond him, marking others who came close. He opened his mouth to speak, to warn her, but she shook her head and backed away quickly, disappearing into the narrow street behind the vendor's stall. Francis stood alone near the display panel. Across the square, a small decorative model sat on a stone pedestal — a lighthouse and two houses perched on carved rocks, all painted white and red. The metalwork around its base showed stars and circles, symbols of the lodge. Francis looked at it and understood. The flower hadn't just marked him. It was spreading outward through proximity, and the lodge already knew. They had placed that model here deliberately, marking this exact spot where he would see the transfer happen. He pulled the journal from his coat and opened it, his pen already moving across a fresh page. He sketched the woman's arm, the lines, the way they matched his own. This was no longer just documentation of his patients' deformities. He was recording the flower's work as it spread through the city, and the lodge was watching him do it.