Chapter 6 Poor Assumptions #2
Aurora looked over at her family as they stood outside the door, and then the Starmaker took the reins and the sleigh lurched forward, moving away from her home and the only life she had ever known.
Her house receded into the distance, and a tear ran down Aurora’s cheek.
She wiped it away and realized the Starmaker was watching her; she did not pull her gaze from his and instead let him see her in her pain.
“It is not easy,” he said, and Aurora waited for him to continue, but he was quiet.
The sleigh moved over the snow smoothly, and when Aurora looked back, she could no longer see her cottage, just the infinite darkness of the mountain where the Sun could not reach.
She faced forward and did not look back again, burying her hands beneath the fur blanket and watching the world as it moved past them in a blur.
Everything was covered in snow, and the tree branches were heavy with the weight of it, drooping down toward the earth.
The stars shone brightly overhead, and a crescent moon drifted toward the horizon, signaling the start of another day.
She wondered if Farren was sleeping, warm in his bed, or if his night had also been restless and long.
She hoped that one day he would understand, that he would hear of Elsie’s recovery and forgive her.
She hoped that he would marry and have the life he had always dreamt of.
And as the sleigh carried her farther away from her home, she almost smiled, because even after everything, she was still hoping, and hope was a powerful thing.
Maybe, she thought, hope was everything.
The snow deer raced through the forest, and as they came out the other side, they began to climb the mountain, a steep trail that led to the castle at the top of the world.
That was what Elsie had called it when she was younger—the castle at the top of the world—because it was the highest point on the northernmost mountain, suspended above everything.
The entire structure appeared to be made of ice, and even in the darkness, Aurora could see the way it reflected the stars.
She gripped the side of the sleigh as her body slid back in her seat, stopping against the velvet cushion behind her.
The snow deer were steady as they climbed, and Aurora tried to trust them as the trail narrowed and the terrain became more rugged.
The castle loomed above them, and Aurora could now see that it was not built just of ice but also of ivory stone that shone like a beacon in the otherwise dark landscape.
Rows of icicles hung from every balcony, and multiple spires stretched toward the heavens as if they could touch the stars.
It was the closest Aurora had ever been to it, and though they still had quite a distance to go, she was stunned by its brilliance.
The snow deer took a sharp turn, and suddenly the sleigh was under the cover of trees once more.
The snow wasn’t as deep here, topped with a layer of ice that cracked and snapped all around them.
Aurora shivered as a chill crept over her, and she pulled the blanket farther up her torso, but it didn’t help.
Her cloak had always been effective at keeping out the cold, but now it felt like lace, as if the air was going right through it.
Aurora could feel the Starmaker’s eyes on her, and she tried to calm her shivering, but it wouldn’t stop.
Aurora was used to the cold, but this was unlike anything she had ever felt before.
It crept along her skin and soaked into her body, as if her organs and bones were made entirely of ice, as if her heart were pumping glacier water instead of blood.
A scream clawed up her throat, and her vision blurred, her grip on the blanket slipping and her mind going as dark as the night sky. She was so cold.
“Hold on to my hands.”
His voice was urgent, and Aurora’s eyes fluttered open as the world came back into focus. The Starmaker was sitting so close to her that their legs were touching, and she looked down to see her weak hands tucked into his. “Hold on to me,” he said again, and Aurora tightened her grip.
Instantly her body was flooded with heat, the ice inside her colliding with a river of liquid sun, and she gasped as she came back to herself.
Her head was pounding and her heart was racing, and she shivered uncontrollably as she tried to rid herself of the chill.
It was as if the warmth and the cold were waging a war inside her, and she frantically looked around the woods, trying to find whatever had turned her body to ice.
It must have been the Frost—the pain had been almost unbearable.
But the snow deer pressed on, and there was nothing she could see except for the shadows of the trees as the sleigh glided past.
“Look at me,” the Starmaker said, but Aurora couldn’t focus; panic was building inside her. She was disoriented and afraid, her body still shaking. “Aurora,” he said, and her eyes finally found his—it was the first time he had used her name.
Slowly, the Starmaker ran his hands up her arms, over her neck, and settled on either side of her face, his gold eyes almost glowing.
He held her with firm yet gentle hands, and all at once the remaining cold left her body.
The shivering stopped and her heart slowed.
His expression gave nothing away, and when the tension in her body had eased, he dropped his hands and moved over on the seat, giving her back the space she’d wanted when they had started their journey.
“You will be susceptible to the Frost until your magic fully develops.” He did not look at her when he spoke, and Aurora caught sight of his hand, restless on the edge of the sleigh.
“I thought your castle would be far from the Frost,” she said, her voice small. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her face, and she pulled the blanket closer to her.
“As it cannot harm me, I am closest to it.”
He said nothing more, and they traveled in silence until the trail leveled out and the wildness of the woods gave way to a manicured path that was lined with white cherry blossoms. Aurora had never seen so many blooms in her life, and she wondered at how magical the Starmaker’s land must be to support so many flowers.
It was an incredible sight, and as they passed tree after tree in full bloom, the ache in Aurora’s heart dulled slightly.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, but if the Starmaker heard her, he did not answer.
The snow deer came to a stop in front of a grand entrance with a large marble door that Aurora’s cottage could have fit through.
Several people stood on the steps, and it was a relief to discover that she wouldn’t be alone with the Starmaker; perhaps there would be someone she could talk to, maybe even befriend.
Reverie was still dark, but the castle was lit up, and though the lanterns were covered in ice, they cast a comforting glow over the massive estate.
Aurora stared at it, unmoving, until the Starmaker cleared his throat and she realized he was already on the ground, offering a hand to her.
After a moment, she took it and stepped out of the sleigh and onto the soft snow.
“I am well-mannered, Miss Finch,” the Starmaker said, looking at her coolly. “But I have never considered myself a gentleman.” And with that, he dropped her hand and left Aurora standing in the cold.
* * *
The Starmaker
In all his years, the Starmaker could not even begin to guess what he had done to deserve such a stubborn, strong-willed creature as his successor.
And not just his successor.
His fiancée.
The Starmaker scowled. He had been aghast when Aurora Finch had stated her conditions; he had assumed a simple “you will die if you do not do this” would be sufficient.
It had been for him when his magic was discovered.
But the girl had insisted on bartering as if they stood across from each other at a stall in the market. It was utterly preposterous.
If the Starmaker had not been so eager to find his successor, he would have at least attempted to negotiate before accepting her terms. But as it was, he could not risk her refusing him, and so the cost of his impatience was a bride.
Fool.
The Starmaker had no objection to healing the sister.
In fact, he was happy to do so. But he could not think of anything he desired less than to take a wife.
And not solely because he did not want one—though that was certainly a factor—but also because it would not be fair.
But as this was not a marriage built on affection, the Starmaker supposed it didn’t matter.
He looked over at the Starmaker Rising, clutching the fur blanket close to her chest, a tear running down her cheek. He remembered how hard it had been for him the day he’d left his own family.
“It is not easy,” he said.
She did not respond, which was for the best. He had been awaiting his successor for many years and had long since decided that it would be kindest to pass their days together in as much silence as possible.
That was, of course, before he knew he would have to marry. The Starmaker, a husband. He shook his head at the thought, it was so absurd. But he was determined not to let the small, albeit unpleasant, inconvenience of marriage ruin what was otherwise a very welcome occurrence.
He had found his successor, and for that he was grateful.