Chapter 3 An Improbability #2
Aurora tried not to dwell on his words. A Starmaker was only born every several hundred years—there was no way she could be the next one. Still, hearing she was going to die was decidedly unsettling, and she quickened her pace, trying to ignore the dread that had woken in her gut.
The snow crunched beneath her boots as she hurried home, and though she was still a bit disquieted by the encounter, she had relaxed considerably by the time she crossed the tree line and stepped onto the path that led to her cottage.
Her face was cold, and the basket shook in her hands.
She hoped her long absence hadn’t made her family worry.
Aurora walked around to the front of the house but stopped abruptly when she saw a large snow deer. She couldn’t make sense of it, and she ran to the door and shoved her way inside, slamming right into the back of the Starmaker.
He slowly turned and looked down at her, scowling.
“We must work on your entrance,” he said, not a hint of amusement in his voice.
“And you must work on your manners. What are you doing in my home, unannounced, on the day of my wedding?” Aurora glared at him, then stepped around him and handed the basket of winterberry boughs to her mother.
“Aurora,” her mother scolded, her face flushed with embarrassment. “That is no way to speak to the Starmaker.”
“I have come to inform your family of the magic in your blood.” The Starmaker said it with a certainty that made Aurora’s heart skip, fear and adrenaline and nerves colliding in her chest.
“That is not your place,” Aurora said, unable to keep the anger from her tone. “And certainly not on the day I marry.”
A look passed between the Starmaker and her mother, and Aurora wished she knew what it meant.
“Is it true?” Aspen asked, his voice quiet with unease.
It was the same tone he had used at the first Starmaker’s grave, and Aurora realized it wasn’t unease at all; it was reverence.
Her gut revolted, and she inhaled slow and deep so she wouldn’t become ill.
“Did you see the sunlight in your blood, as he claims?”
Aurora looked around the room, to her brother and mother and Elsie, who sat frozen at the table, her tea all but forgotten.
It was as if they were holding a collective breath, waiting for her to say it wasn’t true.
And she wanted to, she wanted to so badly, but she did not make a habit of lying to her family, and she wasn’t about to start now.
“I did,” she said, hoping the Starmaker recognized the hostility in her voice.
Aurora heard Aspen’s exhale and her sister’s sharp intake of breath.
Her mother looked at her with an expression so soft it made her chest ache.
“Darling, you must know that this changes everything.” Her mother walked toward her, gently putting her hands on either side of Aurora’s face.
“The Starmaker says you will die if you do not use your magic. You are walking a different path now, and we cannot pretend otherwise. You must move to the castle and learn your new role.”
The words made Aurora tremble, the weight of them, the awe. They felt impossibly heavy, and she wished she could go back to before she’d left the house this morning, tell Mama that they had enough winterberries. Anything to keep her from going into the woods.
“It changes nothing. I don’t want any of this, and I refuse to move to a castle with a man I do not know to learn magic I did not ask for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to ready myself for Farren.”
“I am not speaking in riddles when I say you will die,” the Starmaker said, his words tense, as if he was trying to demonstrate a patience he did not have. “It is a fact, but I can help you. I will teach you to use your magic.”
Aurora stared at him. She didn’t want to die—she knew that much. But were her options truly limited to dying or upending her entire life? There had to be another way. She began to move about the room, acutely aware of all the eyes that followed her.
“Surely you can teach me something small that I can do in my own home, just enough to keep me safe?” She hated how desperate her words sounded, the way they felt like giving in.
“That is not a possibility. There is nothing small to teach you; you must learn to pull in the light. That is what your magic is for.”
“Darling, you must go with him,” Mama said, her voice shaking. “I will not lose you.”
The words clouded Aurora’s mind with memories of the days and months following Papa’s death, the way Mama could no longer care for Aurora or her siblings, could no longer sell produce at the market or tend to their land. It terrified her, the possibility of losing her mother again.
“You won’t,” Aurora whispered.
“I apologize for the blunt delivery, but she will if you do not come with me; it is the nature of the magic inside you. It demands to be used.” The Starmaker paused, running a hand through his hair.
He looked exasperated, as if he couldn’t believe it was this difficult for Aurora to turn her back on the life she had worked so hard to build.
“Why should I believe a word you say?” Aurora asked, seething.
“You shouldn’t; you do not know me. But you saw the light in your blood, saw the gold beneath your skin. Your body is not deceiving you.”
Aurora paused. He was right: she’d seen the gold flowing through her veins. She’d felt the heat of it.
It was then that Aurora’s eyes met Elsie’s, and suddenly, she knew what she needed to do. It crashed down on her all at once as she remembered the prayer she had spoken every morning for the past three days. Aurora closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
Please. I’ll give anything.
On her exhale, Aurora opened her eyes and leveled the Starmaker with a glare.
“I will move to the castle and learn your magic on two conditions. If you do not agree to them both, I must insist that you leave so that I may proceed with my day.” Aurora looked at Elsie one more time before turning back to the Starmaker.
“The first is that you heal my sister. She was touched by the Frost and has not yet recovered.”
“Aurora,” Elsie said, pushing back from the table, a staunch objection in her voice. But she was too late; Aurora’s mind was made up.
“And the second?” the Starmaker asked.
“My wedding to Farren Glenn would have produced a glare line that we are reliant upon.” Aurora took a deep breath, willing her voice not to shake.
“If I am to give that up, I insist that it be replaced.” A glare line to the castle could heal their land, could provide protection from the Frost. Aurora despised the situation she was in, but as it seemed she could not change it, she would at least use it to benefit her family.
“You are not suggesting we marry,” the Starmaker said with disgust, his eyes narrowing.
“It is not a suggestion,” Aurora replied, keeping her tone even. “Unless there is some other way to produce a glare line?”
“You know very well there is not,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Those are my conditions. You may take them or take your leave. The choice is yours.”
The Starmaker appeared to be having a rather heated debate with himself, but by the fifth beat of Aurora’s heart, his expression had neutralized.
“Done,” he said, offering her his hand. Aurora shook it, sealing their agreement, and she heard her mother gasp when her skin began to glow with the light of the Sun.
“I will be back tomorrow before dawn. Be ready.”
And with that, the Starmaker left the small cottage, nobody saying a word, the pounding of the stag’s hooves as it ran away echoing Aurora’s racing heart.
It was done.