Chapter 12 Snow Angel #2
Aurora waited until the crowd began to disperse, and then she walked in the same direction as the Starmaker and Tilly, running to catch up to them once they were out of the market. She met them back at the sleigh and watched as the Starmaker helped Tilly up onto the bench.
“Tilly, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine,” the Starmaker said. “This is Aurora. She’ll be spending the rest of the day with us.”
“Lovely to make your acquaintance,” Tilly said, and Aurora climbed into the sleigh, sitting beside her. “Perhaps you can help us with our search.”
“I would be delighted,” Aurora said.
The Starmaker took the reins, and the sounds of the market faded away as the sleigh moved swiftly across the snow, the glacier soon coming into view.
“Wait here for us,” the Starmaker said to the angel when the snow deer had come to a stop. “We need to release the light, and then we can see to the matter of locating you.”
“Very well,” said Tilly, settling into the sleigh. “I will wait.”
Aurora stepped down to the glacier and tried not to stare at the Starmaker as they walked toward the lamppost, but it was rather difficult. She had seen a different side of him, as if he were a prism that had turned just slightly, his normal white light bursting into a rainbow of colors.
“You are remarkable with her,” Aurora said, trying to keep the heaviness from her voice.
“I am responsible for her,” the Starmaker countered, but Aurora could hear the depth in his tone, the way he fought to sound apathetic.
“It is not a failing to care for her.” Aurora couldn’t understand why he refused to admit to his affection, as if it were some reprehensible thing he had to bury at all costs.
“It is my biggest failing,” the Starmaker said, turning on her.
Aurora stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat.
“Up until recently, I was the only one on this mountain with magic, the only one who had the slightest chance of helping her, and yet I have not made this better. She has suffered for hundreds of years, and I have been unable to ease it.”
“Do you truly think it would be better if she had no one who cared for her at all?”
The Starmaker shook his head, looking back toward the sleigh. “I give her hope over and over again when there is no hope. It’s monstrous.”
“Hope is essential for survival,” Aurora said, her tone fierce.
Hope was the only thing getting her through her new life—hope that things would get better, hope that she would come to appreciate the magic inside her, hope that she would learn to bear the grief of immortality. Without hope, she was nothing.
“Perhaps initially,” the Starmaker said. “But everything has a limit, even hope, and I fear Tilly passed that point years ago. Now hope is nothing more than a cruelty.”
The Starmaker continued walking, and it was clear to Aurora that he was done with the conversation.
She wanted to argue with him because it was so difficult to accept what he was saying, accept that hope had limits, but she had lived only a tiny fraction of the time he had.
Hope could very well become a cruelty and Aurora had yet to live long enough to discover that for herself.
A soft snow began to fall, and Aurora watched as the Starmaker stepped up to the lamppost and opened the lantern door, unhooking the light.
Golden rays shot past them, rushing up the glacier, over the village, and out through the peaks of Reverie.
Aurora still wasn’t used to the speed with which the light vanished, but it was certainly a spectacle to behold.
There was so much Aurora hadn’t seen given the location of her cottage, tucked quietly against a rock face covered in snow and ice, sitting comfortably in the darkness.
She’d thought she had explored every inch of their village, but she had been wrong, and a small thrill ran through her as she imagined all the things she had yet to discover.
Then something occurred to her: why hadn’t she ever seen the way the light left?
She had walked their mountain so many times that the map of it was written in her memory.
“Why are there never any spectators when you pull in the light and release it? That seems like something people would want to observe,” Aurora said as they walked back to the sleigh.
“It is too dangerous,” the Starmaker said.
“All the heat is concentrated into a single point until we diffuse it over the village. If someone were to get in the way of it, they would die. Part of the magic of the land is that no one is aware of the light until it spreads out over the mountain, and no one can perceive the lamppost where we work.”
“I was wondering why I had never seen it before,” Aurora said, carefully traversing the glacier.
“It would have become visible to you after our encounter in the woods.”
“The mountain holds much more magic than I realized,” Aurora said, more to herself than the Starmaker, but he replied anyway.
“Far more than any of us can comprehend.”
“Is that a comfort to you?”
“It is a fact,” the Starmaker said, as if the very idea of taking comfort in such things was reserved for fools.
“Has anyone ever told you that you aren’t very good company?” Aurora asked, facing him.
“I believe I’ve tried to tell you that on multiple occasions.” The sleigh came into view, and Aurora was glad to see Tilly still seated, patiently awaiting their return. “Your listening skills require some work, as this constantly seems to bewilder you.”
“I concede that I find it difficult to accept that someone could truly be as dour as you.”
The Starmaker sighed but said nothing more, and they reached the sleigh in silence. Tilly turned toward the Starmaker, bending the top corner of her wing as if waving.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the Starmaker said.
“It is quite all right.”
The Starmaker and Aurora boarded the sleigh, and the snow deer took off toward the trail, leaving the glacier behind.
“I believe I saw you not long ago in the gardens,” Aurora said, turning to face Tilly. “I’m glad we’ve had the chance to be properly introduced.”
“Oh yes, I love the gardens,” Tilly said. “At least, I think I do. My memory isn’t what is used to be.” Tilly paused as if considering something. “At least, I don’t think it is.”
“People change, you know. Even if you didn’t like the gardens before, you can love them now. I used to do everything in my power to avoid waking up early, and now I love rising in the small hours of the morning, before the rest of the world is awake.”
“How fortunate you are,” the Starmaker mumbled, and Aurora couldn’t help the smile pulling at her lips.
“My point, Tilly, is that not everything must be based on history. You can change your mind and change it back. You can decide what you like today, even if you hate it tomorrow. Don’t get so caught up in who you were that you fail to see who you are.”
“I don’t believe I’ve thought about that before,” Tilly said, as if she truly was trying to remember all the thoughts she’d ever had. “Once I find myself, I should like to ask.”
Aurora found the snow angel’s answer quite sad, but Tilly sounded rather content, and so Aurora tried her best to let it be.
The deer rounded the final crest of the hill that led to the palace, and the Starmaker, Aurora, and Tilly sat in a comfortable quiet that matched the peacefulness of the evening.
When they arrived at the castle, Ina was waiting outside, and a look of relief washed over her when she saw that Tilly was with them.
The sleigh came to a stop, and Tilly jumped out onto the snow, heading for the gardens without another glance at the Starmaker or Aurora.
It seemed she did like the gardens very much; so much, in fact, that she was willing to put her search for herself on hold.
Aurora felt the Starmaker’s eyes on her, and she turned to him before walking inside. “Tilly likes you,” he said, as if surprised.
“As hard as it may be for you to understand, there are in fact several people who like me.”
“That is not difficult for me to understand,” the Starmaker replied, and it was Aurora’s turn to be surprised. “But Tilly does not respond well to most people. She is slow to trust, and people tend to patronize her far more than simply speaking to her.”
Aurora paused, choosing her words carefully.
“I know that you have had many hopes dashed over the years,” she said.
“You and Tilly. But I have not lived nearly as long as either of you, and so I find myself with an abundance of hope. If you are amenable, I will hope for you both so that you no longer have to.”
The Starmaker studied her, his eyes narrowing, and Aurora’s skin flamed beneath his gaze. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Perhaps she had said the wrong thing, upset him in some way. But then he spoke. “I believe Tilly would like that very much.” He paused. “And so would I.”
Aurora nodded and turned to go inside, unable to forget the way the Starmaker had looked at her for the rest of the night.