Chapter 13 The Honor of Your Presence #2
Aurora shut her eyes against the words. She should have written to Farren, warned him this was coming.
Apologized. Anything. She had told him before she’d left for the castle that she would marry the Starmaker, but Farren had written four letters to her since she had told him not to come, and she had not replied to a single one.
He should have heard the news from her, but instead he’d received a lavish invitation as if he was just another villager.
“You sent Farren an invitation without giving me an opportunity to warn him.”
“You’ve had ample opportunity. Is there not a desk equipped with stationery and ink in your room?
Have you not had more than a fortnight to write to him?
” The Starmaker picked up his teacup and looked inside, then scowled.
“It seems to me as if you barged into my room to blame me for your own cowardice. My tea has run out, along with my patience.” He looked toward the door, all but dismissing her.
“I didn’t write to him because I thought it would be better.”
“Better for whom? Do you really believe that he would prefer silence from you?” The Starmaker sat down in a large velvet chair—the only one in the room—and picked up a book.
“You insist that you know of love, but your behavior suggests you know nothing of it.” He opened his book and began to read, and Aurora watched him, incredulous.
“And you know nothing of compassion,” she said, her voice shaking with anger.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” The Starmaker looked back up, piercing her with his stare. “It is simply that my compassion lies not with you, but with him.”
The words took her breath away, and she had to fight against the sting in her eyes.
The worst part about it was that deep down, she knew the Starmaker was right.
She had been a coward, and now Farren had received a wedding invitation that replaced the ones they had sent not a month earlier.
They had hunched over his kitchen table, writing them all by hand, passing them to his little sisters so they could finish them off with silver bows.
She remembered thinking how perfect their names looked together, side by side on the sky-blue paper.
Those invitations hardly felt real anymore, though the ache in her chest told her otherwise.
Aurora was upset and angry, and she was about to turn and leave when Constance poked her head out from behind the Starmaker’s chair.
The rabbit jumped through the table legs, but she had apparently misjudged the distance, for the entire side table wobbled before crashing to the floor.
Constance darted into a far corner of the room, and the Starmaker let out a long sigh as he looked down at the mess.
He lowered himself to the floor, eyeing the rabbit as he started to clean.
The last thing Aurora wanted to do was help the Starmaker, but there had always been work to be done at the cottage she grew up in, and it had created an irrepressible need in her to tackle whatever task was before her.
And so she rushed toward the shattered teapot and cup, dropping to her knees and picking up the shards until a sharp fragment sliced straight through her palm.
Aurora sucked in a breath as blood pooled in her hand.
She had never liked the sight of blood and had a rather unfortunate tendency to faint in its presence—a tragic habit given that she had two older brothers—and she took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself.
The room began to spin, the Starmaker and the fire and the teapot morphing in her vision, and Aurora braced herself on the floor, struggling to remain conscious.
“Your hand is bleeding,” the Starmaker said.
“What an astute observation,” Aurora replied, her words blending into each other.
The Starmaker ignored her comment and grabbed several large pillows from his bed. “Let me help you.”
He knelt and carefully arranged the pillows on the rug behind her, and after a very long moment during which Aurora wondered if he was rethinking his offer, he wrapped his arm around her back and helped her lie down.
The spinning was getting worse, and she clutched the Starmaker’s shoulder as her vision blurred.
He stiffened beneath her touch but did not move away.
“I,” she began before pausing to take a breath, “do not care for blood when it is outside a body.”
“You don’t say.” When Aurora was settled on the pillows, the Starmaker slowly released his hold on her. “Wait here while I retrieve some bandages.”
The Starmaker disappeared into his bathroom, and Aurora rolled onto her side, inhaling deeply.
She was concentrating on the silver-and-gold rug on the floor, following single threads with her eyes to distract herself, when Constance came into view.
She looked mildly contrite, and Aurora reached out to pet her with her uninjured hand.
After several seconds, the rabbit hopped away, and the Starmaker’s bare feet appeared on the rug. Aurora was surprised when he sat down directly beside her, placing a wooden bowl filled with water on the floor and dipping a white cloth into it before holding out his hand.
“Allow me,” he said, and Aurora hesitantly put her hand in his.
He blotted the cut, his movements patient and slow, as if he would stay there for hours if her injury required it.
He wrung out the cloth and washed the cut again before reaching for a small glass jar.
“This salve will sting, but it will have you healed by morning.”
“You’re being rather nice considering the fact that you called me a coward just moments ago,” Aurora said.
The Starmaker paused, keeping his eyes on her injury. “I said you were acting with cowardice, not that you were a coward. There is a difference.”
Aurora exhaled in frustration. “It is still an insult.”
“It is,” the Starmaker said. “I am simply making the point that one ought to be precise with one’s words, insulting or otherwise.”
Aurora’s mouth gaped open, and it took her several moments to find her words. “You utterly exhaust me.”
The Starmaker went back to work on her hand. He dipped his middle finger into the salve, then slowly slid it over her cut, the rest of his fingers brushing against her palm. She began to feel dizzy once more, and she told herself it was a reaction to the blood, not his touch, that had caused it.
“And what do you imagine you do to me?” he asked, looking up at her, holding her gaze.
Aurora didn’t answer right away, instead going over the past several weeks in her mind. She let out a small laugh. “It seems we have something in common, then.”
The Starmaker shook his head, grabbed a clean bandage, and wrapped it around Aurora’s palm. Aurora couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as if he was taking more time than was strictly necessary, and when he finished wrapping her hand and didn’t let go, Aurora was certain.
“We challenge each other,” the Starmaker said, finally releasing his hold on her.
“I suppose we do.”
They watched each other for several moments, and then the Starmaker helped her sit up. He stood, taking a large step back. “It’s getting late,” he said.
Aurora blinked, coming back to herself. “Yes,” she agreed, but her mind was still on his touch and his eyes and the way he’d said we challenge each other. “Thank you for the help.”
The Starmaker nodded, and Aurora stood, picking up Elsie’s letter and moving to the door. She paused as she pressed down on the handle. “You should know,” she said, turning back to him, “that I never back down from a challenge.”
It was too dim to see clearly, but Aurora could have sworn that a faint grin tugged at the corner of the Starmaker’s mouth. Then she left the room, and the image was gone.