Chapter 8 A Classic Instance of Fleeing
A Classic Instance of Fleeing
When she was sure she was out of view, Aurora ran. She rushed up the stairs and down the hall that led to her room, slamming the door shut behind her. She hoped every single person in the dining room heard it.
Someone had been there during the time she’d been gone; a fire crackled away, and all the candles were lit, casting warm shadows around the room.
Aurora paced, walking in circles as her tears continued to fall, until finally even the effort of walking felt like too much, and she dropped to the floor in front of the hearth and watched the flames dance.
The Starmaker had given her exactly what she’d asked for—a straightforward picture of what her life would be like—and while she wanted so badly to feel comfortable with the images he’d offered, they terrified her.
His words had awoken a violent need to avoid that unbearable fate at all costs; the very things she loved most about living, she would lose.
How could she live in a world without Mama’s strength or Evander’s wit? How could she survive without Aspen’s gentleness or Elsie’s courage? What was the worth of a story if she couldn’t share it with the people she loved?
Aurora’s chest ached from the pain of it all, from the absolute shock.
She had never thought about the Starmaker’s life before, ashamed as she was to admit it.
She’d known that he was immortal until someone else displayed the Sun’s magic, and she’d known he lived in an ice-covered castle and kept watch over all of Reverie, but she’d never considered the loneliness of his existence or how devastating it must be to outlive every person he’d ever cared for.
One day, she would be the one who outlived her family and friends, and she hoped there would be someone somewhere who would give more thought to her life than she had given to the current Starmaker’s.
There was a soft knock on her door, and Aurora forced herself to stand.
She briefly considered checking her appearance in the bathroom, but she cared little about what anyone in this castle thought of her.
By the time she opened the door, though, whoever had come was gone, but they had left behind a tray full of food with a fresh rose resting to the side.
Aurora looked down the hall, but it was empty. She took the tray and sat back down in front of the fire, thankful to whoever had brought it. There was a small note resting beside the rose, written in delicate cursive:
It will get better.
It was only four words, but Aurora took the note and held it to her chest, closing her eyes and wishing on every star in the sky that it would come true.
She didn’t know how she would learn to accept the things the Starmaker had told her, or if she even could.
His words had merely raised more questions to add to her already substantial list. But if today was the lowest point, if there was hope on the horizon, then Aurora would cling to that with both hands and refuse to let go.
She ate every last bite of food on the tray: decadent sauces covering the best game she’d ever had, bread that was still warm, and cheeses so rich they practically melted on her tongue. If her life was truly to be as bleak as the Starmaker had warned, at least she would eat well.
As she was finishing up the last piece of bread, something else caught her eye beneath the gilded ceramic plate: an envelope with her name on it.
Aurora slowly pulled it free, and her heart caught in her throat when she turned it over, recognizing the navy blue wax seal on the back—it had to be from Farren.
She couldn’t understand how a letter had come for her already, but then she remembered the box in the village square, the entire thing made of ice with a crystal plaque that read TO THE STARMAKER.
She had written to the Starmaker once when she was young, with wobbly script and hand-drawn snowflakes.
But while she had passed the box many times in recent years, she had never thought to write again.
It must have been filled with magic for the letter to have arrived so quickly.
Aurora broke the seal and saw Farren’s familiar handwriting scrawled across the page.
She ran her fingers over the paper, and her heart throbbed knowing he had done the same thing just hours earlier.
At first she didn’t read it, content just to hold it, to see the ink on the heavy paper and know that he was thinking of her.
Perhaps she was scared to read it because the ache of wanting to go back home was already severe, and she knew his words had the power to worsen it.
But in the end, she didn’t have the strength to avoid it, and so she took a deep breath and began to read.
My dear Aurora,
I went to your cottage early this morning, hoping there was something I could do or say to change things, but you were already gone. Please forgive me for not fighting harder for you, though I will surely never forgive myself.
I know it is unfair of me after such a failure, but I am begging you not to marry him. I can get you out of this; just give me some time. It is my sole focus now, and I swear to you that I will not rest until you’re back home. I implore you not to enter into something you cannot get out of.
I am coming, Aurora. Please wait.
Yours,
Farren
Aurora read the letter many times, her sorrow building with each pass.
There was nothing Farren could do, nothing he could say, that would change things.
She hated that he was holding on to such regret.
But there was also a smaller, surprising emotion that nagged at her: irritation.
She had made her choice, and as hard as it was, as impossible as it seemed, the choice was hers to make. Not Farren’s.
She shook her head, scolding herself. He loved her, and that was why he was fighting. She couldn’t fault him for that.
There was stationery sitting on the desk in the room, waiting to be used, and yet Aurora stayed where she was in front of the fire. There was nothing she could write to make any of this better, and she refused to send a reply strewn with insincerities.
There was a single knock on the door, this one stronger and more jarring than that of whoever had come before, and Aurora jumped.
She got to her feet and wiped any remaining tears from her face, then answered.
She was surprised to see the Starmaker, his broad shoulders and tall frame practically filling the whole doorway.
She took a step back to give herself some space, but he seemed to take it as an invitation to enter, walking into the room in two long strides.
“If you’ve come to apologize, don’t bother,” Aurora said.
“I haven’t,” the Starmaker replied in a cool tone, and an embarrassed flush ran up Aurora’s neck and settled in her cheeks.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I had planned on going over the logistics of our days with you during dinner, which I was obviously unable to do given your premature departure, so I am here to go over them now.” The Starmaker turned to her with an unreadable expression.
“Do you think you can manage to get through it without fleeing?”
“I didn’t flee,” Aurora said, hoping the flush of her skin wasn’t getting worse.
“No? I’ve lived for quite a while, Miss Finch, and from where I stood, it looked like a classic instance of fleeing.” Aurora couldn’t be certain, but it looked as if the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly; he was enjoying this.
“I assure you I am more than capable of going over a schedule.”
“Good. Every day henceforth, you will accompany me to pull the sunlight into Reverie. We will begin our mornings at six o’clock, but you should plan to wake earlier so that you can eat before we depart. You will need your energy.”
“Fine,” Aurora said. “But before I begin following you around like a sick pup, I want you to prove to me that I have magic.”
“Was the sunlight in your veins not proof enough?”
It should have been. Aurora knew that, especially when the Starmaker’s touch had induced no such reaction in Elsie. But her homesickness and Farren’s letter and her own stubbornness told her that she needed more, and so with an adamant tone she replied, “It was not.”
“Very well,” the Starmaker said, walking past her to the double doors that led onto the balcony.
He opened them in one swift motion, and cold air invaded the room in an instant.
He stepped outside and turned to Aurora, who was still standing by the fire.
“I don’t have all night, Miss Finch,” he said, annoyance lacing his tone.
Aurora took her time, exaggerating the slowness of her steps as she made her way to the balcony. When she finally arrived, the Starmaker looked down at her with his mouth set in a hard line. “My amusement knows no bounds,” he said, his voice dry.
“It was not for your amusement.”
The Starmaker sighed and handed her a cloak before walking toward the stone balcony railing, looking out into the endless black night.
The stars shone brightly overhead, and the moon was making its way across the sky.
It was quiet and lovely, and Aurora wished she could enjoy the view without any thoughts of magic or marriage or immortality.
If her life was long enough, perhaps she would someday.
She fastened the cloak around her neck and waited.
“When the Great Quake happened many years ago, it created the northernmost mountains on Earth, with peaks so high the Sun could not rise above them. Miraculously, this small village survived the quake, but as the days and weeks progressed without any light, people and animals began to die. It was during this time that the Frost formed, feeding off the living things the Sun could not protect.”
“I believe I have already told you that I’m well-versed in our history,” Aurora said.