Chapter 12 Snow Angel
Snow Angel
A week passed, and the Starmaker was right: that first morning of pulling the sunlight was the worst. It remained painful, but with each day that passed, Aurora’s body got more used to the jolt of heat that filled her veins.
It wasn’t comfortable, nor was it easy, but it was bearable, and that was a start.
It was the time after pulling the light and hanging it from the lamppost that Aurora looked forward to most. She spent hours wandering the mountain with the Starmaker, learning more about the land and the way the past Starmakers had made the mountain more and more magical over time.
She knew that their bodies helped sustain the earth—that much she had learned from the stories and from visiting their graves with her parents when she was young—but she had no idea the extent of it.
Their magic, slowly releasing into the ground over hundreds of years, was why Reverie could support practically any crop, why animals thrived and flowers bloomed year-round.
The only land more magical than the grave sites was the grounds of the castle, for the Sun herself had wept over the earth where the castle was built, feeding the dirt with her tears.
That was why the palace was so healing; every injury Aurora sustained during practice was alleviated upon her return to it.
She was amazed by how much magic was required simply to keep the Starmaker healthy enough to continue pulling the light.
The burial sites were in the most densely populated areas, which accounted for the lack of magic at Aurora’s home; it was far from the Starmakers’ graves.
The land beneath her cottage would eventually absorb more magic once a Starmaker was buried closer to it, but until then, they were completely dependent upon the mirrors and glare lines.
There will be no rest for you. Not even in death.
The Starmaker told her that the mountain itself also needed new bodies to sustain its magic.
It was part of the reason the Sun could not make the first Starmaker truly immortal.
It wasn’t enough that the land received light each day; it also needed magic to combat the harsh environment, including the Frost, and the Sun had waited as long as she possibly could before giving the first Starmaker to it.
The Starmaker recounted this to Aurora with a seriousness that moved her—he told her to imagine how difficult it must have been for the Sun to cut her lover’s existence short so that he could sustain the land he loved, knowing she would live an eternity with only his memory to hold on to.
Aurora wanted to feel indifferent to the suffering of the Sun, but she found she couldn’t. It was a remarkable thing to endure, and if anything, it made Aurora love the stories even more.
“We must visit the village today,” the Starmaker said after they had checked the health of the woods, making sure there were no signs of the Frost. “Tilly has wandered off the grounds of the castle, and we need to find her and bring her back.”
“Tilly?” Aurora asked, not recognizing the name.
“The snow angel.”
When Aurora still did not understand, the Starmaker sighed.
“I assumed you would know her story, but now that I think of it, it has been many years since she last wandered off.” The Starmaker stepped over a large tree trunk and exited the forest, walking toward the market.
“Tilly was a young woman when I was the Starmaker Rising. One day, she ate a handful of yew seeds, not knowing they were lethal, then went out into the field in front of her home and made a snow angel. She died while in the snow, and after her body was taken away, the snow angel came to life. It was one of the first instances that demonstrated how powerful magic could be when it turned up in an unexpected place. We are now accustomed to magic going awry, but it was not always that way.”
Aurora’s eyes widened. “Is there truly a living snow angel on this mountain?”
“Yes,” the Starmaker said. “She caused many problems at first, constantly going from home to home, trying to find herself. She didn’t understand that her mind was no longer in her human body but in that of the snow, and she became agitated and confused.
My mentor wanted to banish her to the woods, but I took responsibility for her, and she has lived on the castle grounds ever since. ”
Aurora could tell by the way he spoke that the Starmaker held an affection for the angel, something she would not have predicted.
When he had told Aurora about other instances where magic had gone awry, he had always presented them as deeply annoying situations they had to deal with as Starmakers.
The magic in the land was an incredible gift, and it was what enabled them to live in Reverie, but every once in a while, it went off course and wound up somewhere it ought not to be.
But the Starmaker did not speak of Tilly with aggravation or exhaustion; he sounded genuinely worried for her.
“Tilly is still trying to find herself, and on rare occasions, she manages to get down into the village to look.” The Starmaker’s voice held a hint of sorrow, though it seemed to Aurora that he was trying to remain unbothered by the angel’s predicament.
“That is perhaps the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Aurora said, unable to keep the emotion from her voice.
“Yes. I have been trying to help her find peace for many years, but to no avail.” The Starmaker paused. “It has haunted me my entire reign.” The words were quiet, as if he had not meant to speak them aloud.
Aurora stopped walking then, and when the Starmaker did the same, she found his eyes. “She is fortunate to have you looking after her.”
“I’m not sure that is a fair assessment. I have not proven to be a very effective caretaker, after all.” The Starmaker turned and continued walking, and Aurora followed close behind. They were quiet the rest of the journey.
Before they had even entered the market, Aurora knew the snow angel was there. A huge crowd had formed in the village center, people shouting to one another and craning their necks. Children were up on their parents’ shoulders, pointing, but they didn’t seem scared. They seemed mesmerized.
“Oh, Tilly,” the Starmaker said under his breath, quickening his steps.
Aurora thought he might be apprehensive about entering a crowd of so many people, as he rarely interacted with the villagers, but he did not hesitate at all. He rushed toward Tilly as if she were a toddler crawling toward the glacier edge, his face scrunched with tension and his arm outstretched.
“Excuse me,” the Starmaker said when he reached the crowd. “Please excuse me, I must get through.”
If there was one thing that could pull the villagers’ attention away from a living snow angel, it was the Starmaker himself, close enough to touch.
The crowd parted, and whispers of “Look!” and “The Starmaker!” began rolling through the sea of people, followed by a reverent hush.
Aurora stayed a few steps behind him and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, not wanting to be recognized, but it didn’t matter; no one was paying attention to her.
The Starmaker made his way through the crowd with a patience Aurora knew he did not have, and she stepped into the space behind him, following his path to the snow angel. Finally, he reached her.
Tilly looked exactly like the snow angels Aurora and Elsie had made as children, except that she was as tall as Aurora.
It was as if a cookie cutter had been pressed into freshly fallen snow, carving out an angel with smooth edges and perfectly defined features.
Her wings were large, and the bottom of her gown rested gently on the earth.
Tilly sparkled magnificently in the light, more even than the Starmaker’s hair or Constance’s fur, as if millions of tiny crystals had been packed into the snow that made her.
For a moment, Aurora just stared, entirely taken by the magic of it all, but then she quickly averted her eyes. She didn’t want to make Tilly self-conscious.
“Hello, Tilly,” the Starmaker said, his voice soft and gentle.
“Hello,” she replied in a melodic tone that was as enchanting as the rest of her. “Can you help me? It seems I have misplaced myself.”
“That’s why I’m here,” the Starmaker said. “To help you.”
The crowd was silent now, the entire market hushed as the Starmaker spoke with Tilly. Merchants had stopped selling, the bells above shops had stopped ringing, and even the children had stopped playing.
“That’s wonderful!” Tilly exclaimed. “I’m certain I’m around here somewhere. Have you seen me?”
The Starmaker’s face softened as she spoke, and though he was being watched by dozens of people, he never took his eyes off her.
“I see you, Tilly, right here, standing before me. You are reflecting the sunlight, the most brilliant thing in this market. Your wings are spread wide, and your gown is swooping down to the ground in a full skirt. And though you are sparkling, you look sad.” The Starmaker paused, and Aurora realized she’d been holding her breath as he spoke.
“I see you, Tilly. If you come with me, I would like to help you see yourself.”
The snow angel was quiet for a moment, and she looked around the market as if she was disoriented, her head darting in different directions before she focused once more on the Starmaker. “You see me?” she asked quietly.
“Clearer than a winter’s morning.”
The words seemed to calm Tilly just slightly, and she took a hesitant step toward the Starmaker, then another and another, until they were walking side by side through the crowd. Murmurs of “Thank you for the light” followed the Starmaker, but he kept his focus entirely on the angel.