Chapter 2 The Hand of a Stranger
The Hand of a Stranger
It was a fine day for a wedding.
The Starmaker had yet to pull sunlight across the village, but Aurora’s cottage was already bustling with activity.
Mama was in the kitchen baking, and Aspen was outside, preparing the sled for the journey into Reverie.
Aurora tried to busy herself, but the space was small, and she felt more in the way than anything else.
“Aurora, come here, darling,” Mama said, pulling her into the kitchen. She picked up an iron pot from the corner and removed the cloth that covered the top. The sharp scent of fresh bread filled the room, and Aurora breathed in deeply.
“It’s perfect, Mama,” she said.
Her mother took a knife and sliced off the end, then put it on a plate for Aurora with dollops of butter and strawberry jam.
Her mother’s jam was the best in the village, and she always saved the year’s first jar for Aurora.
“Go enjoy this with your sister,” she said with a glint in her eye.
“But don’t tell your brother, or there won’t be any left for the wedding. ”
Aurora climbed the wooden ladder to the loft, careful not to drop the plate.
Elsie was still in bed, and even with the heat from the stove rising up to where she slept, her quilt was pulled all the way up to her chin.
Aurora had visited the first Starmaker’s grave three times now, but it had not helped, just as she knew it wouldn’t.
She tried not to be resentful, but she was, her body tense and fraught with bitterness.
Perhaps she had been hoping more than she’d allowed herself to believe.
“I brought you something,” Aurora said, causing her sister to stir. Elsie rubbed her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows, her face breaking into a smile when she saw the bread.
“It smells divine. If only all these treats you bring me were effective antidotes to the Frost.” She said it casually, as if it were a silly joke, but it was the first time Aurora had ever heard her acknowledge that she wasn’t healing.
Aurora watched her carefully, but Elsie just smiled and sat all the way up, changing the subject before Aurora could speak.
“I can’t believe you’re getting married today. ”
Aurora crawled onto the bed and tore off a piece of bread, dragging it through the butter and jam before handing it to Elsie. “It certainly snuck up on me.”
“You are excited, though, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Aurora said, leaning into her sister.
“I had hoped that Farren’s father might let me write something before the ceremony, but he wanted to wait.
I’m very eager to start.” Farren’s family owned and distributed Eternal Reverie, the village’s only newspaper, and Aurora loved the idea of contributing to the stories of the mountain, but she’d been forced to summon a patience she did not possess.
“I meant, are you excited to marry Farren?” Elsie said, eyeing her sister.
Aurora looked down, unsure why her thoughts had immediately gone to the paper. “Well, yes, of course. But I doubt I’ll much care for living apart from you.”
“An hour walk is far too long, but I wager I could get it down to half that if I use the sled.”
“That would be much more tolerable,” Aurora agreed. “How are you feeling today, sister?”
“I had a good night. Perhaps I’m getting better.”
Aurora suspected Elsie was saying that for her benefit so she wouldn’t worry on the day of her wedding.
Aurora cared far more about her sister than she did about the wedding, though, and she would happily trade the big celebration for an intimate ceremony.
She had never enjoyed being the center of attention, but the families had insisted on something grand.
When not a single crumb of bread remained, Aurora tucked her sister back into bed. “Get some rest; you will need your energy later.”
Elsie nodded, her eyelids getting heavy before Aurora had even stood.
“She’s not getting better,” Aurora said to her mother when she was back downstairs, keeping her voice low even though she suspected Elsie was already asleep.
“We’re doing everything we can,” her mother replied, taking Aurora’s hand in hers and squeezing tight.
“It isn’t enough.”
Her mother paused and looked at her, a slow dread building in Aurora’s stomach. “Today is for celebration and merriment, not for worry. Save your troubles for another day, my darling.”
Aurora wanted to argue, but then her mother’s eyes brightened. “I made you something,” she said, walking over to the basket by the hearth and pulling out a bundle of hand-stitched ribbons. Aurora had seen Mama working on them late at night, and she couldn’t help but smile.
“That’s enough ribbon to wrap around the entire mountain.”
“And then some,” Mama said, running her fingers through the fabric. “When it’s time to get ready, you can pick your favorites for your hair and bouquet, and I’ll use the rest for decorations.”
“They’re beautiful.” Aurora pulled her mother into a hug, holding her tight.
“Thank you.” It meant so much to her that her mother was here for this, truly here.
There had been times after Papa died that were so bad, Aurora hadn’t been able to imagine that her mother would make it to the other side.
Grief had left its mark on her, of course—it was still present in the lines of her face and the curve of her spine, in the far-off look she often had at night—but she had fought her way out of the depths of it, and Aurora never took that for granted.
“I’m sure you could use some time to yourself before the festivities begin, and I need more winterberry for the tables. Would you grab me a basketful, and then you can get washed up and ready for your big day?”
“Of course, Mama,” she said. Aurora was always happy to walk through the woods, and her mother was right: she would appreciate some quiet before the wedding. She grabbed her bow and arrow in case any game was out and pushed her way into the cold.
First she stopped at her mirrors, brushing the snowfall from them and making sure they were reflecting as much light as possible.
Aurora loved looking at them and was proud of the solution she’d found for their land; she would miss tending to them every day, but Elsie had assured her several times that she would take good care of them.
Aurora had always hoped her collection would one day allow them to grow their own tomatoes—they had been Papa’s favorite—and she was sad to move before that happened.
Perhaps one day, though, they would grow under Elsie’s care.
When Aurora was done cleaning her mirrors, she made her way to the forest. It was quiet and still.
The snow had a way of absorbing the sound, and one could mistake Reverie for an unwelcoming place, though that was far from the truth.
Many people preferred to be indoors, where sounds carried and echoed, bouncing off walls and filling spaces.
Aurora would miss all the sounds that filled her family’s cottage, though she was sure there would be much to appreciate in her new home with Farren.
Aurora held her basket close and stepped carefully through the snow so as not to disturb any wildlife.
It was rare for her family to have fresh meat—animals seldom wandered as far from the light as her cottage, and hunting took more time than she could usually spare, but since she was out anyway, she wanted to be ready.
Aurora picked winterberry sprigs as she went, filling her woven basket.
The berries were coated in a sparkling layer of ice, the bright red color standing out against the white landscape.
She looked at her basket, and a wave of contentment coursed through her as she pictured the boughs surrounding her mother’s baked goods.
She knew how happy Mama was about the wedding, and that was enough for her.
At first, Aurora had thought of Farren only as a good, solid match that made sense for her family.
Being able to write for Eternal Reverie was a dream she could hardly believe was coming true, and Farren’s home was so close to the village square that it was bathed in light, which meant the glare line would be strong, brimming with magic.
As Aurora got to know Farren, though, she realized it was more than just a solid match.
The happiness she felt when she was with him was proof that she could have both a match that was good for her family, and a match that held genuine affection.
The first time Farren had kissed her by the light of the moon, a stolen, sweet brush of the lips that had lasted for just one beat of her heart, Aurora was convinced it was love.
Not an epic love bound to end in tragedy like that of the Sun or her parents, but a quiet, lasting love that felt safe.
Aurora kept walking, swinging her basket that was near to overflowing with winterberry boughs.
She was about to return home and get ready for the celebration, take a bath and let Mama tie ribbons in her hair, when she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.
She quietly removed her gloves and pulled an arrow from her leather satchel, placing it on her bowstring.
Her heart began to race as she pictured returning home with a rabbit or quail, something special to celebrate the day, and she steadied her hands as she carefully took a step forward, surveying the land.
Aurora squinted against the light reflecting off the forest floor, the glittering earth that seemed to dance in the rays of the sun.
A pile of snow dropped from a nearby tree, crashing to the ground, startling both Aurora and the animal she hunted.
She still hadn’t found the source of the movement, but as soon as the snow fell, an enormous white stag dashed out of the woods behind her and started running.
Aurora was so surprised that she didn’t have time to shoot.
The stag turned its head to look at her as it ran past, its eyes locking with hers, and suddenly it came to a halt.
It was breathing heavily, clouds of vapor rising into the air from its nostrils, and Aurora took a step back.
The animal was beautiful, the most beautiful she’d ever seen, and she hesitated as it watched her.
It didn’t seem right to kill such a gorgeous creature, not when her family could survive without it.
But then she thought of the way the meat would feed her family for months on end, even if they used some for the wedding.
What a gift it would be before starting the next chapter of her life.
It would ease the burden on her mother and be a rare delight for her siblings.
Aurora slowly raised her bow, taking a deep breath.
A shiver crawled down her spine. The stag still wasn’t running, and Aurora counted one, two, three seconds, part of her begging the animal to move. But it waited too long, and as it kept its eyes on hers, Aurora tugged back on her bowstring.
She released her arrow along with her breath. It was a perfect shot, and Aurora closed her eyes, not wanting to watch the animal fall. But when she didn’t hear anything, not a wail or a cry from the stag, she slowly opened her eyes.
The stag stood unharmed, Aurora’s arrow stuck in the snow beside it.
She blinked, her heart slamming against her chest, surveying the woods for anything that could have thrown her arrow off course.
But there was nothing, no wind or trees it could have brushed against; it was a clear path.
She pulled another arrow from her satchel with shaking fingers.
Perhaps her nerves were causing her to lose focus, and she centered herself once more.
Keeping her eyes on the stag, Aurora pulled the bowstring back and exhaled, but when she tried to release the arrow, nothing happened. Everything stayed exactly where it was, her bow and her arrow and the stag.
She looked at her weapon, checking her form.
And there, holding the back of her arrow, was a hand that did not belong to her.