Chapter 9 A Very Peculiar Door
A Very Peculiar Door
Between the nap she’d taken earlier and the events of the day, Aurora was restless. She tossed and turned in her massive bed, throwing the covers off only to pull them back up, until finally she decided her time would be better spent elsewhere.
She slipped out of bed and pulled on her robe, though the room was perfectly comfortable. The fire was somehow still going, and she realized it must be due to magic, like so many of the oddities in the castle.
Aurora lit the candles on her desk and sat in the chair, eager to write to her family. It hadn’t yet been a full day since she had left home, but she knew they would worry, and she wanted to put them at ease as soon as possible.
The writing desk was stocked with beautiful stationery, thick paper with a slight sheen to it, THE STARMAKER RISING embossed in gold cursive at the top. She hadn’t paid attention to the design when she’d written to Farren earlier, but now that she looked at it, it truly was lovely.
She pulled a pot of ink from the small drawer, along with a pen, and began to write.
Dear Mama, Elsie, and Aspen,
I made it to the castle, and it is every bit as magical and enchanted as you’d think. Perhaps even more so. It doesn’t compare to our cottage, of course, but I will adjust somehow.
I’m writing to you now on my first night, unable to sleep, though please don’t worry about me—I am being taken care of. I’m warm and well-fed, and the woman who manages the castle, Ina, is kind. I hope in time to call her my friend.
Once I am settled, I will ask the Starmaker about having you here for a visit. I would very much like to see you. Please pass my love to Evander and Samuel, and know that I am thinking of you all every minute of the day.
I love you. Please write when you can!
Aurora
Aurora looked over the words she had written.
The letter read more hopeful than she felt, but she couldn’t tell them about her conversation with the Starmaker over dinner or the way he lived such an isolated life that the years ahead frightened her.
Perhaps one day, in person, she would be able to talk about it, but for now, she just wanted her family to know she was okay.
Her letter would accomplish that, even if it was not entirely forthright.
She carefully folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and took a beautiful gold wax from the drawer, melting it onto the back and stamping to seal the flap.
She was sure Ina could send the letter for her in the morning, but Aurora was wide awake with several hours before breakfast, and so she decided she would try to find the mailbox herself.
She needed to learn the layout of the castle anyway.
She might as well do it in the middle of the night, when she wouldn’t disturb anyone.
Aurora tied her robe snugly around her waist and found a pair of slippers in the armoire. She tucked the letter in her pocket along with the one she’d written to Farren, lit a candle, and closed the door behind her as quietly as possible. When she turned, she almost yelped.
Constance was sitting just outside her room, propped up on her hind legs, looking directly at Aurora.
She didn’t blink, her big blue eyes following Aurora’s movements with a tired curiosity, as if Aurora wasn’t being nearly interesting enough for her.
She yawned. While Aurora was almost certain the animal was bored with her, she welcomed the company.
“Hi, Constance,” she said in a whisper, kneeling on the ground. “I’m Aurora. I apologize that the Starmaker didn’t properly introduce us earlier—he’s rather grouchy, is he not?”
At that, Constance quirked her head to the side, and Aurora held out her hand. The rabbit stretched forward, sniffing, then accepted one quick pet from Aurora before hopping back.
“I’d like to mail two letters,” Aurora said, feeling slightly ridiculous for engaging in casual conversation with a rabbit, but the Starmaker wasn’t one for chatting, and Aurora was lonely.
Lonely already, she thought, her chest tightening. She could feel a new wave of panic coming, the Starmaker’s words from earlier roaring to life in her mind, but she forced them back down and took several deep breaths. One minute at a time. One hour. One day. That was all she could do.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said to Constance, standing up and walking down the hall.
She stepped softly, expecting the floor to creak and groan like the ladder in her cottage, but it was quiet.
She supposed that marble didn’t settle the way wood did, but she’d never walked on a marble floor, so she hadn’t known.
The flowers left a sweet smell in the air, and Aurora found herself more at ease now than she had been since she’d arrived at the castle. It was dark save for the candlelight, reminding her of home, and she was alone. She didn’t have to react to anybody or mask her feelings; she could just be.
She took the stairs carefully, letting her hand slide along the smooth gold railing.
And just as the castle seemed built to welcome the Sun, it reacted to the small flame of her candle in the same way, bouncing the soft light off nearby surfaces, reflecting it in every direction.
Aurora looked around in awe, watching the deep orange light chase away even the darkest shadows.
It was still dim enough that Aurora had to watch her steps and move carefully, but she no longer worried she’d crash into something and wake the whole castle.
Constance followed close behind her, and Aurora walked down the hallway and past the dining room in search of the kitchen.
She would never feel at home here if she didn’t know where the food was kept, and she pushed open a large wooden door to her right, knowing she had found it.
She could smell bread and onions and the earthy aroma of freshly harvested vegetables before her candle even lit the room.
Sitting in the far corner was a mail chute made entirely of ice, just like the one in the village center, and Aurora suspected her letters would arrive at their respective destinations mere seconds after she sent them.
She pulled the envelopes from her robe and dropped them in the box, listening for the soft thud of a landing, but there was only silence.
Aurora took her time in the kitchen, finding an apple and eating it down to the core before she felt ready to wander.
She explored the entire first floor of the castle, filled with gorgeous drawing rooms and romantic artwork that hung from every wall and, of course, endless fresh flowers.
She counted seven fireplaces, and there was a library that made her heart soar, the most stories she had ever seen in one place. It took her breath away.
It reminded her of the opportunity she’d lost at Eternal Reverie, and anger rose up inside her.
She had never understood why her invitation to write had depended upon her marriage to Farren; if Mr. Glenn had let her contribute beforehand, perhaps he would have seen her talent and let her write for his paper regardless of her relationship to his son.
But as it was, she’d never gotten the chance to prove herself, and she felt the loss acutely, deep in her chest.
Aurora continued on, stopping when she passed a large portrait hanging in the hallway.
The small gold plaque beneath simply read THE FIRST STARMAKER, and the image showed him sitting outside on a throne of glass, surrounded by fresh snowfall.
The artwork was like something from a dream, with soft lines and washed-out edges, the blues and whites almost hazy.
The Starmaker’s expression was soft—sorrowful, in a way—and the gold of his eyes shone bright against his warm brown skin.
His hair was short but the same shimmering white as the current Starmaker’s, and a rabbit that looked remarkably similar to Constance sat in his lap with a stoic expression.
Then, suddenly, it began to snow inside the painting.
Aurora blinked, sure she was seeing things, but hundreds of tiny snowflakes continued to fall from the top of the portrait.
Snow accumulated on the Starmaker’s head and shoulders, on the throne and the rabbit, and then a man appeared in the background, moving closer and closer until he reached the Starmaker and gently brushed the snow away.
He shoveled the pathways around the Starmaker’s throne, and when he was done, he receded into the distance until he vanished completely. The snow was no longer falling.
Admittedly, Aurora had not seen many portraits in her life, but she was sure she had never seen one like this.
She turned and reached the end of the first floor, where large glass doors let out onto a stone patio with a vast garden beyond.
Aurora could have sworn she saw something moving in the distance, something white and glistening, but it was too dark to make out, and she decided to explore the grounds in daylight as soon as her schedule allowed.
If her schedule allowed. She didn’t know what her days would look like after pulling in the Sun.
When she finally felt ready for sleep, Aurora took a back staircase up to the second floor and wound through the maze of hallways, trying to find her room. She stopped when she passed by a very peculiar door.
It was just an ordinary door, a plain piece of worn wood with a tarnished brass knob, but that was precisely why it was odd.
It was so normal. Too normal, given the rest of the castle.
Aurora knew she shouldn’t snoop, and even Constance had casually hopped past the door, but Aurora’s curiosity got the best of her, and with a racing heart, she twisted the knob.
It was hard to open, not because it was locked—it wasn’t—but because it was almost as if the door had grown into its frame, swollen shut after years of disuse.
Aurora set down her candle and lodged her shoulder against the door, pushing her full weight into it.
After several attempts, it finally opened, and Aurora stumbled into the room, nearly falling to the ground face-first. She took a deep breath and righted herself, then picked up her candle from the floor, illuminating the space.
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what she saw before her.
It was a small unremarkable bedroom, more appropriately sized for Aurora’s cottage than the castle.
There was a narrow mattress on a plain wooden frame, a small desk, one bookcase, a cramped wardrobe, and one bedside table with a candlestick on top.
Every horizontal surface was filled with plants, somehow still alive even though the rest of the room was covered in a thick layer of dust. Vibrant blooms of oranges and reds and violets provided the only color in the space, everything else dulled by age and grime.
Aurora sneezed, and even Constance was aggressively twitching her nose from the doorway.
It didn’t fit with the wonder and enchantment of the rest of the castle, but Aurora knew it was meaningful in some way. She just didn’t know how.
She walked to the bookcase and ran her fingers over the spines, not caring that she was collecting dust on her skin and clothes.
Rows of books on horticulture and astronomy lined the shelves, interspersed with the occasional collection of poetry.
The faintest glint caught Aurora’s eye, and she followed it to the very bottom shelf, where a picture frame had been turned upside down.
With unsteady hands, she reached for the frame, turning it over.
She used her sleeve to clean the glass, careful not to cut herself on the large cracks that ran through it.
The picture was of a family: a man, a woman, and two children.
Aurora brought the frame closer to her face and realized with a start that the boy in the picture was the Starmaker.
He had his arms wrapped around a girl Aurora assumed was his sister, similar large grins on both their faces.
His hair wasn’t silver but a dark, rich brown, and though it was hard to discern the color of his eyes, they certainly weren’t gold.
It was the Starmaker when he had been mortal, and Aurora slowly scanned the room once more, realizing this must have been his bedroom as a boy, painstakingly moved to the castle from the house he’d been raised in.
Tears burned in Aurora’s eyes as she imagined the Starmaker sleeping in this small room tucked into this vast castle, unable to let go of the life he’d had.
She gently set the frame back where she’d found it and walked to the desk.
There was a leather-bound journal resting on top, and after a moment’s hesitation, Aurora opened the soft cover.
It simply read THE FOURTH STARMAKER in elegant script, no other name, and the first entry began on the following page.
A loose picture of a beautiful girl was tucked into the crease; she looked to be around Aurora’s age, with a small smile and long blond hair.
Aurora quickly shut the journal, knowing it was a complete violation to be looking at it, though her mind was flaming with curiosity.
She turned back to Constance, who was watching her disapprovingly, and Aurora slowly stepped away from the desk.
“I didn’t read anything,” she said to the rabbit, though she wasn’t sure if Constance believed her.
“He never lets us clean it.” Aurora jumped at the voice, and Ina appeared in the doorway. “No one is allowed in here.”
Aurora hurried out of the room, her cheeks burning. “I’m sorry. I was trying to find my way back to my room,” she said, unable to meet Ina’s eyes.
Ina tugged the door closed, and Aurora noticed the way she averted her gaze from the room. She fully respected the Starmaker’s request, and Aurora wished she had walked past the door without giving it a second glance.
“I’m not going to tell the Starmaker you were here because I don’t think he would handle it well, knowing someone had been in this room,” Ina said. “But I’d ask that you respect his privacy. He deserves it, as do you, and the rest of us.”
“Of course,” Aurora said, unable to imagine how she could feel any worse in that moment. “I truly am sorry.”
Ina reached out and gently touched her hand. “I’m sure this day has been extremely difficult for you. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Ina showed Aurora back to her room, and as soon as she was alone, tears began streaming down her face as she pictured an immortal sorcerer in a tiny bed, trying desperately to sleep.