Chapter 19 Unfortunate Longings #2
“That’s an interesting thought,” the Starmaker said, and while his voice was neutral, he looked genuinely moved that Aurora had been thinking of the snow angel. “It’s certainly worth a try.” He paused. “If you don’t mind, I think I might like to help you pick out the mirror.”
Aurora fought the smile that pulled at her lips, the warmth that bloomed in her chest. “I don’t mind at all.”
They were quiet the rest of the way to the village. The Starmaker stopped the snow deer a good distance from the market, and Aurora gave him a questioning look.
“They don’t have magic in them. If they hear the streetlamp’s lullaby, they will be susceptible to it just as the villagers are.”
They stepped out of the sleigh and hurried to the market to deal with the magic gone awry, and Aurora stopped when they reached the streetlamp.
Dozens of people were fast asleep on the cobblestones, some of them piled on top of each other and many with scrapes on their hands or cheeks from how they had landed when they’d fallen.
It was snowing, and the villagers who had been asleep the longest were covered in layers of white.
The Starmaker gave the streetlamp a very irritated look, but it did not seem to notice and continued to sing.
“Have you ever seen this before?” Aurora asked, not quite believing her eyes.
“This is not the first time magic has found its way into a streetlamp, but it has never caused a problem like this before.”
“And we are able to stand the lullaby because of the magic in our blood?”
“Yes,” the Starmaker replied. He shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest idea how to solve this.”
He walked up to the streetlamp, which softly sang its lullaby, seemingly unfazed by his presence.
Tucked in a mountain, a blanket of peaks,
darkness and starlight for all those who seek
the deepest of slumbers,
tranquility, too,
I sing so that you may waken anew.
Now, what if I told you
my song never stops
and forever you’ll stay on the stones where you’ve dropped?
Days turn to years—it sounds rather bleak,
but you ought not worry, for you are asleep!
The Starmaker let out the longest, deepest sigh Aurora had ever heard, and she fought the urge to laugh.
“You are rather annoying, are you not?” the Starmaker asked, but the streetlamp seemed unbothered and continued its lullaby.
The Starmaker attempted several things to quiet the lamp, first trying to suck the magic out of it, then trying to overwhelm it with too much. Neither worked, though, and the Starmaker became more impatient.
“As if this task isn’t unpleasant enough, we must listen to this dreadful song while we work. Unbelievable,” the Starmaker muttered to himself.
While he was fully distracted by the lamp, Aurora went in search of a paper and pencil, which she found at the nearest stall, whose merchant was fast asleep.
Aurora promised to return them when she was done, even though he was not awake to hear her, then hurried back to where the Starmaker stood, his arms crossed, scowling up at the lamp.
“What are you doing?” he asked, watching as Aurora scrawled words on the paper. When she was done, she held it out for him to see.
“Why would you want the lyrics to such a god-awful song?”
Aurora didn’t think it was that bad, but she didn’t dare tell the Starmaker that. “I don’t. But what if we sang the lullaby back to it? We have far more magic than the lamppost—I bet we could sing it to sleep for good.”
“That is…” The Starmaker trailed off, an irritated expression on his face. “A very good idea. I should have thought of it.”
“I’m not sure how you could possibly think clearly when you find the song as irritating as you do.”
“It is atrocious,” the Starmaker said, closing his eyes as if doing so could block out the sound. “Let’s give it a try.”
Aurora held the lyrics for both of them to see, and they began singing.
The streetlamp started to sing louder, a bit of panic entering its voice, and so Aurora and the Starmaker sang louder as well.
After several seconds of this, they were all practically shouting, but then the streetlamp’s words began to slow and blend together until it sounded as if it were singing underwater.
Finally, it fell asleep.
Aurora and the Starmaker kept singing until they were sure the lamp was fully out, not wanting to risk it waking again. After several minutes, they stopped and sat down on the bench next to the lamp, waiting to see what would happen.
Slowly, the people scattered on the ground began to stir, disoriented and confused and very, very groggy. Aurora spoke to the villagers, explaining what had happened, and asked that they alert the castle at once if they heard so much as another note from the lamppost.
The Starmaker joined her, and the villagers bowed and thanked him for the light before stumbling on with their days. The lamp showed no signs of waking, and so Aurora and the Starmaker walked through the market in search of a looking glass for Tilly.
Aurora thought all the mirrors were lovely, but the Starmaker insisted on looking at each and every one so that he could ensure they were selecting the best. When they found one with a gold frame engraved with roses and lightning bugs that held crystals where they would otherwise glow, the Starmaker inspected it closely, looking over every inch before declaring that it was perfect and Tilly would love it.
Once they had made their purchase, they checked on the lamp on their way to the snow deer, but it remained asleep.
By the time they got back to sleigh, Aurora was exhausted.
It was a good exhaustion, though—the kind that comes from a day full of contentment.
It had felt so normal walking through the market with the Starmaker, picking out a gift for Tilly, tending to the lamp; it had been so nice.
And it was then that Aurora realized it wasn’t just arguing that she wanted to do with the Starmaker; it was everything else, too.
I wish he didn’t have to age at all.
The Starmaker groaned then, tearing Aurora from her thoughts. “What is it?” she asked, worried they had forgotten something or that there was some new problem requiring their attention.
“That ridiculous song is ingrained in my mind, and I fear it may never leave.” He sounded thoroughly stricken by the idea, and Aurora couldn’t help it—she laughed.
* * *
The Starmaker
After dinner, when the castle was quiet, the Starmaker walked the halls until he came to a plain wooden door. It had been many years since he had set foot in the room, but the Starmaker Rising’s arrival had made him reflective, and he stopped, hesitating before pushing the door open.
It was exactly as he remembered: a replica of the bedroom he’d had before the magic in his blood had been discovered.
When he had first arrived at the castle, he had been unable to sleep, a horrible insomnia taking hold of him.
It had been his sister’s idea to bring his room to the castle so that he might rest. She had always been creative in a way the Starmaker was not.
At first, he had balked at the idea, ashamed by the depth of his struggles. But as the sleepless nights had gotten worse, he’d become desperate, and he’d moved all of his belongings into the castle until he had perfectly replicated his room at home.
It was such an exact match that when he was in it, he could almost convince himself that his parents and sister were sleeping soundly on the other side of the wall. Slowly, he had learned how to sleep again.
He was delighted to see that the plants he’d left behind were still thriving, that the magic had continued to sustain them even in a forgotten room covered in dust. He gently touched the leaves and smelled the blooms, and for a moment, he was no longer the Starmaker.
He was a nineteen-year-old boy, unable to sleep, terrified of the role he was expected to fill.
The Starmaker had developed a deep appreciation for the life he led, but looking around the room, he remembered what it had been like to have endless possibility on the horizon, to look toward the future with anticipation and eagerness.
He walked to his old writing desk, and it was there that he saw his worn journal, but something about it was off.
He studied the pattern of dust on the desk, realizing that the journal had been moved just slightly, and he shook his head. Of course Aurora had found the room and gone through his things. He should have known.
The Starmaker frowned.
He picked up the journal and flipped through the pages to the very last entry he’d written more than a century ago.
He’d stopped writing midsentence, and looking at it, the Starmaker was taken back to that night so many years past, when he’d realized that every entry he’d written since becoming the Starmaker—and every sentence he could possibly write in the future—would all read the same.
So he had stopped writing altogether, closed the journal, and never picked it up again.
How tragic it was that he now felt as if he could fill entire pages, every word infused with newness, with unfamiliar pangs he had long since forgotten.
He stared at his final entry, wondering if his life could have gone another way.
He had decided many years ago that solitude was most compatible with being a Starmaker, yet it was clear that the Starmaker Rising would choose a different path.
And though he wasn’t sure why, he was confident she would do well.
The Starmaker closed the journal and set it back on the desk, leaving the room in two strides and slamming the door shut behind him.
Going to the market with Aurora had been fun, a word he had not used in ages.
Even with the streetlamp singing that wretched lullaby, he had enjoyed himself.
And while they had shopped for a looking glass for Tilly, he had forgotten he was the Starmaker.
The whole experience had been so painfully human.
As the Starmaker walked the halls of his castle, a quiet resentment began to stir in his gut. For the first time in his very long life, he wondered if loneliness was really the cost of magic or if it was a price he’d needlessly paid.