Chapter 24 Reflections
Reflections
On the first day Aurora was well enough to move about the castle on her own, the Starmaker approached her with hurried strides.
“Now that you are back to standing, I thought we could give Tilly her gift.” He said the words with a seriousness that suggested he was talking about a disease or a famine, not a present, and Aurora tried her best to match her expression to his tone.
“I suppose you are right,” she said with exaggerated sadness, but the Starmaker did not seem to notice her jest.
“I’m glad you agree.” He had been holding one hand behind his back, and he brought it out to reveal the looking glass they had picked for the angel. “Let’s go.”
He turned on his heel, walking down the hallway with great urgency.
They passed the portrait that Aurora had noticed her first night at the castle, but there was no snow in it now; this time, a glorious light was shining brightly from the corner, so intense it hurt Aurora’s eyes.
She paused to inspect the painting, and the Starmaker didn’t realize she had stopped until he was holding the door to the patio open for her.
He let out a sigh and met her back at the portrait.
“The weather changes every day,” he said, following her gaze.
“Amazing.”
Much to Aurora’s delight, the groundskeeper once again appeared from behind the hedges, this time carrying a parasol so large that he stumbled and tripped as he walked toward the throne.
When he reached it, he set the parasol up to the side, ensuring that the Starmaker and Constance were shaded.
Once he was satisfied with the placement, he receded into the distance again, and Aurora watched until she could no longer see him.
“I once saw the groundskeeper swept up and tossed aside by a blizzard. I was terribly worried for him, but he was back the next day, cleaning up after the storm.”
“I might just have to stop by this portrait every day,” Aurora said, finally pulling her eyes from the painting.
“I used to,” the Starmaker said, then winced as if he regretted the words.
“Used to?”
“I apologize,” he answered, shoving a hand through his hair. “At some point, I realized that I had seen every weather scenario I could possibly see, and it started to feel repetitive.”
“Oh,” was all Aurora could say, her delight fading.
“But I hope you do visit it every day. Every single day.” The Starmaker shook his head.
“I am realizing now that my life has felt monotonous because I decided years ago that was how it would be. I didn’t allow myself the pleasure of new experiences or new people.
” He paused, his gaze drifting down the hall as if he was looking for something just out of reach. “You will do much better than I.”
Aurora was quiet for a moment. “You do not have to apologize for how you have coped with this life.”
“I do when it steals some of the joy from yours.”
“Then you are forgiven, and if it makes you feel better, I assure you I will visit this portrait every single day.”
The Starmaker nodded. “That would make me feel better.”
“Then consider it a promise.” Aurora’s disappointment faded away, and instead, a quiet determination moved through her.
She would live her life as the Starmaker on her own terms, in her own way.
She remembered Aspen’s words to her before she had left for the castle, how he had told her that she should take the entirety of who she was with her, and she wondered at how her brother always knew the right thing to say, always had wisdom that far surpassed his age.
The Starmaker looked visibly relieved, and they walked out to the garden side by side. It did not take long to find Tilly, as she was right out front, bent over some rosebushes.
“I have decided that I like the smell of roses very much,” said the angel, and it made Aurora’s heart burst. If she was determining what she did and did not like, then perhaps she was slowly beginning to accept her new self.
“It is one of my favorite things, too,” the Starmaker said, and that seemed to make Tilly happy.
“We have a gift for you,” Aurora said, and the snow angel made her way to where Aurora and the Starmaker stood. He handed over the package, and Tilly carefully unwrapped the paper with the tip of her wing.
“Aurora thought you might enjoy being able to see yourself,” the Starmaker said.
“But I am missing,” Tilly replied with confusion.
“No,” the Starmaker said gently. “You are right here.” He reached out and turned the mirror over so that the glass was facing her, then slowly brought it up to her face.
Tilly gasped, and she looked so distraught that Aurora wondered if her idea had been terribly flawed. She reached out to take the looking glass from Tilly, not wanting to cause the angel any more distress, but the Starmaker pushed down on her arm and mouthed wait.
The seconds that followed were excruciating. They watched as Tilly stared into the looking glass, her wings turning in and her head bowing as if she couldn’t bear the sight of herself. “How do you know this is me?” she asked.
“Look,” Aurora said, taking the mirror from Tilly and showing the angel her own reflection before moving the mirror in front of the Starmaker. “It reflects whatever is in front of it.”
Tilly tilted her head to the side, watching intently as Aurora moved the looking glass over the roses and finally back to Tilly. “This is you,” Aurora said gently, handing the mirror back to the angel.
Tilly looked from Aurora to the Starmaker, and he nodded in agreement. Then she slowly brought the mirror to her face.
“I like how much I sparkle,” she said, turning her head back and forth so that her snow caught the light. “Neither of you sparkles the way I do.”
“No, we don’t,” the Starmaker said, his voice catching. He cleared his throat, and Aurora’s eyes burned with the threat of tears.
“Whenever you feel lost, you can look in the mirror and see that you are exactly as you should be,” she said.
Tilly nodded at Aurora’s words but kept the looking glass firmly in front of her. “What if I feel lost all the time?”
“You can look in the mirror as often as you like. It is yours to keep, and perhaps as time goes on, you won’t feel quite so lost,” Aurora said.
“This is the best gift I’ve ever been given,” Tilly said quietly, finally looking up from the mirror to Aurora and the Starmaker. “At least, I think it is.”
Aurora did not want to take all the credit for the gift, but the Starmaker seemed unable to speak, so Aurora smiled at the angel. “We are so glad you like it.”
When Tilly had run off with the looking glass and Aurora and the Starmaker were back inside, he took in a long deep inhale. “That was,” he said, pausing to find the right words, “one of the very best moments of my life.”
“And you have lived a very long one,” Aurora pointed out.
“I have,” the Starmaker agreed. “Thank you for what you did for her. And for me.”
Aurora smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“Now, if you don’t mind, there is one more thing that requires your attention.”
“You know I am recovering from a grave illness,” she said, figuring she had earned at least another day or two of rest. Her mother had returned home early that morning, and it was now up to Aurora to voice what she did and did not have the energy for.
It was immensely comforting that even though she was grown and living away from home, her mother would always treat her like her daughter.
“I am aware, but I believe you will find this an acceptable alternative to lying in bed.”
Aurora was skeptical of that, but her curiosity got the best of her. “Then let’s see it.”
The Starmaker led the way to the second floor, then down a long hallway to a spiral staircase. It was similar to the one leading to the Starmaker’s room, but it was much taller, and even when Aurora craned her neck, she could not see the top.
“Are you truly insisting that I climb this?”
“I am,” the Starmaker said apologetically, “but we can go as slowly as you need.”
Aurora gave the Starmaker an irritated glance, but she started to climb, taking her time as she went higher and higher.
The Starmaker stayed close behind her, and every once in a while, when she paused or missed a step, his hand immediately found the small of her back.
During one such moment, she thought about how easy it would be to ease her back into his chest, how good it would feel to rest against him.
She had almost convinced herself that what had passed between them in her bedroom had been a dream, that the warmth of his lips on hers had been an apparition she had conjured in her feverish state.
But her body was all too aware that it had been real, and it reminded her constantly that it had happened and—more frustratingly—had not happened again.
Aurora sighed and continued her climb, and after what felt like hours, she finally reached the top.
The Starmaker opened the door for her, and she stepped into a small circular room that was cluttered with all sorts of things: plants and books, candlesticks and dinnerware.
A large rug was rolled up and propped against the wall, and a tall broom stood beside it.
The Starmaker quickly closed the door behind them.
“Be careful in here,” he said.
“What is all this?”
“Every item you see is a case of magic gone awry, and as much as I’ve tried to fix them, these things are too unruly to have out in the open.
That plant, for example, bites,” the Starmaker said, motioning to a gorgeous red flower surrounded by green leaves.
“Hard,” he added. “That sled in the corner cannot move horizontally across the ground; it can only climb vertically, putting anything inside it at risk of falling.”
“What about the mirror?” Aurora asked, and the Starmaker motioned for her to look into it.
When she did, though, it appeared ordinary.
She turned to the Starmaker, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.
Perhaps it was the climb up the stairs or the small space that was getting to her head, but she couldn’t understand how he looked so perfect doing something as unremarkable as standing still.
“It looks normal,” she said, turning back to the mirror.
“Just wait.”
Aurora watched herself in the mirror, and then suddenly, her reflection began to speak. “I can’t understand how he looks so perfect doing something as unremarkable as standing still.”
Aurora gaped at her reflection, then dove out of view of the mirror.
“Most people do not enjoy their thoughts being spoken aloud,” the Starmaker said, and though his tone remained even, she could see he was fighting very hard to suppress a grin.
“You could have been a gentleman and simply told me what the mirror does.”
“I believe I warned you that I am no gentleman.”
Aurora took a deep breath, trying not to let her humiliation consume her. “What is it you brought me here to see?” she asked, aching for a change of subject.
“It isn’t in here,” he said, turning to a glass door that led out onto a balcony. “It’s outside.”
He opened the door, and when Aurora stepped through it, she gasped.
Mirrors hung from every baluster, and even more sat atop the balcony railing, leaning against the castle.
They were all huge, far larger than the biggest one in Aurora’s collection, and every one of them was pointing the same direction, down toward Reverie.
They reflected so much light that Aurora could practically feel the heat radiating off of them, a brilliant display that made her breath catch in her throat.
She had never seen so much light concentrated in one place, save for when she pulled in the sunlight with the Starmaker each morning.
“None of them can read your mind,” the Starmaker said, and Aurora ignored the amusement in his voice.
“They’re beautiful.”
“They are all angled directly at your cottage,” he said. “It was not easy finding a path that would work, but I’m rather pleased with the result.”
Aurora looked at him, unable to process what he was saying. “You did this for my family?” she asked.
“I know you’ve been worried about them since they didn’t get the glare line they were expecting. I wanted to help ease that burden somehow.”
Aurora didn’t know how to respond. She was scared that if she opened her mouth, she would cry or say something so heavy she couldn’t take it back.
She was completely overcome, and she wondered if the Starmaker could feel it, feel the weight of every unspoken word rushing through the magic living inside her.
There was a glimmer far off in the distance, at the base of the peak, and Aurora squinted to see it more clearly. She had never noticed it before, and she wondered if it was some kind of optical illusion. The Starmaker followed her gaze, clearing his throat.
“I took one mirror to the cottage. I know how much you miss Elsie, your whole family. That mirror reflects the light that we are reflecting down. Think of it as a hello of sorts, something you can look at whenever the missing feels too great.”
Aurora was stunned, and she stared at the Starmaker, not quite believing what he had done for her.
“I might love you,” she whispered, realizing too late that she had spoken the words aloud.
The Starmaker did not react, not even a flinch, and Aurora wondered if she had said it so quietly that he had not heard. She couldn’t decide if she wanted that or not.
“Perhaps you can write to your family and tell them about the mirrors. I would be keen to know if they make a difference.” The Starmaker’s voice was normal, and Aurora realized he definitely hadn’t heard her, and for a reason she couldn’t name, she felt disappointment wake inside her.
“Of course,” she said, trying her best to keep her voice even. “Of course I will. They will be most thankful, as am I.”
The Starmaker looked at her then. “They are just mirrors, but I found I needed a distraction while you were ill.”
“They are not just mirrors,” Aurora said, her voice quiet.
The Starmaker’s eyes were full of an emotion she didn’t recognize, one that darkened the usually vibrant gold, and it was suddenly difficult for her to breathe. “No,” he finally said. “They are not.”
* * *
The Starmaker
The Starmaker had forced himself not to react, not to move, not to speak. After the last of his family had died, he had made peace with the fact that there was no one left who loved him and that there never would be again.
I might love you, Aurora had said, proving him wrong.
The Starmaker knew that Aurora had a deep fear of grief, and before he could even take a breath, a thought came to him so forcefully that it was all he had heard since.
I might ruin you.