Chapter 26 Tragic Symmetry
Tragic Symmetry
When it was time to pull the light into Reverie, it was as if nothing had happened in the greenhouse.
The Starmaker went back to his usual exhausted grouchiness, and Aurora knew he regretted what they’d done, that he worried he had made his inevitable departure harder on her.
And though they had shared a soft, gentle morning as he’d taught her how to care for his roses, that had passed, and now he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
His tone was harsh and clipped, and he sat as far from her as possible on the sleigh bench, as if he was trying to make her despise him again.
“You cannot make me hate you,” Aurora said when they arrived at the glacier, stepping out of the sleigh. She looked up at him. “It will not work.”
“Your stubbornness is getting in your way.” The Starmaker jumped to the ground and stalked toward the lamppost without another word, and it infuriated Aurora the way he always chose when conversations were over.
Without thinking, she picked up a pile of snow, packed it in her hands, and threw it at the Starmaker’s back as hard as she could. “Do not walk away from me!” she shouted, following after him.
The Starmaker stopped, and it felt as if he took a full turn of the Earth to face her. “That was a very poor decision.”
“At least it was one I made myself,” Aurora seethed. “You seem to make all the other ones for me.”
The Starmaker slowly walked toward her, stopping mere inches from her face. “Perhaps that is because you aren’t very good at making them.”
“I’m rather happy with the choices I’ve made; you are the one who seems to be struggling.”
The Starmaker shook his head, shoving a hand through his hair.
“What do you want me to say, Aurora? That the only thing I can think about is kissing you again? That it is taking every shred of strength I possess not to pull you to the ground and touch the places I failed to get to last night?” He sighed, looking off into the distance.
“You are the last thing in the world I should want.”
The Starmaker turned back toward the lamppost, walking quickly, and Aurora trailed behind him.
She hated how tortured he was, how clearly he was berating himself over what had happened.
She wished she could convince him that she would be okay, that what she needed was for him to be with her, not to walk away as if their time together were infinite.
She met him at the lamppost and said nothing.
And as they went through the ritual of pulling in the light, the Starmaker’s suspicions about what had happened when they’d last been on the glacier together were proven correct.
The Sun had decided that Aurora was ready, no longer tolerant of her lack of improvement.
Aurora had thought she would have to fight to catch up to the magic that was already inside her, and she was terrified she wouldn’t be ready by the time the Starmaker’s magic fully transferred to her. But she was wrong.
That morning, Aurora pulled more light than she ever had before, even though she tried to resist it.
Even though she deliberately dropped the thread and shunted it back to the Starmaker.
She was getting stronger even as she tried to prevent it, and it would not be long before she could hold the light of an entire day by herself, sealing the Starmaker’s fate along with her own.
She had tried so hard to progress with her magic, and now that she finally was, she wanted nothing more than to slow down.
After Reverie was covered in light, they went to check the forest for any signs of the Frost, and the Starmaker relaxed somewhat as the day went on. Aurora was glad, for she wanted to talk with him, to learn everything she could about him.
The Starmaker would be remembered, certainly.
The villagers would construct an elaborate grave for him where they would go to pray for generations.
There would be no shortage of flowers at his final resting place, nor would there ever come a time when he was no longer revered.
But remembering someone for their role was not the same as remembering them for who they were.
Reverie would remember him as the fourth Starmaker, but Aurora would remember him as the person he was beyond the light of the Sun.
That was why she wanted to know his given name, but he still refused to share it, even though she had asked several times since that morning in her room.
But she knew other things, had collected bits and pieces of who he was as if they were precious gems, and she would hold them in her heart, where they would live as long as she did.
“Tell me,” Aurora said as they walked deeper into the woods, “If you were not the Starmaker, how would your perfect day unfold?”
The Starmaker looked at her, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyebrows slightly raised. “I am the Starmaker.”
“I know that,” Aurora said. “But if you were not.”
“If I were not,” the Starmaker said, his voice drifting off into the trees as if he were recounting a dream, “I suppose I would sleep in, take my breakfast in the courtyard garden, and spend time with the animals.”
“Have you always loved animals?” Aurora asked. It was a quality that surprised her, given how opposed he was to intimacy. The bond a person shared with an animal was strong and deep, and it seemed he would want to avoid those attachments the same way he did with humans.
“No,” the Starmaker said. “I used to think they were wretched things.”
“That is more consistent with your personality,” Aurora pointed out, and the Starmaker grunted beside her.
“They do not know me as the Starmaker, nor do they care about my magic,” he said. “They see me as a man, and they have helped me keep my humanity during this very long life. I will be very sad to leave them.”
His words seemed to hang in the air, and Aurora could practically see them rearranging themselves before her, I will be very sad to leave them morphing into I am dying.
“Will they not die first?” Aurora asked, trying to keep her tone as casual as possible. “Animals have painfully short life-spans.”
The Starmaker did not look at her, but Aurora saw his jaw tense. “I will always have animals,” he finally said, “and I know how difficult it will be for me to leave them whenever my time comes.”
Aurora did not press the issue, and the rest of their day was pleasant. Once they were back at the castle and done with their dinner, the Starmaker disappeared to his room, and Aurora pulled Fredrick aside.
“Frederick,” she said to the young butler, “please make sure the deer have been properly fed. I will be going back out.”
“Right away,” he said, but before he could leave, Aurora touched his jacket.
“I would appreciate your discretion,” she said in a low voice. “The Starmaker will not be accompanying me.”
Frederick shifted on his feet, looking nervously around the room. It was just the two of them, but Aurora could sense his unease, as if she’d asked him to murder the Starmaker in front of the entire village. Red splotches spread over his cheeks, and she almost felt bad for asking him at all.
“It is nothing untoward,” she said, trying to reassure him. “I only wish to visit the bookshop in the village.”
“The Starmaker’s library is a fine one,” Frederick said, lighting up. “I’m sure whatever you’re looking for can be found there.”
“It cannot,” Aurora said, heading toward the grand staircase. “I am going to my room to change, and I expect the sleigh to be ready upon my return.”
“Certainly,” Frederick said, and while he did a poor job of hiding his discomfort, he strode down the hall to see to her wishes.
Aurora washed her face, smoothed her hair, and picked out a cloak that was not so splendid, hoping she could go about the village unnoticed. Once she was ready, she made her way back to the entrance of the palace, thankful when the only person she saw was Frederick, waiting for her out front.
“Miss, I should like to accompany you,” he said, his eyes pleading with her.
“Frederick, I assure you I am quite capable of going to town and back on my own.”
“I have no doubt that you are,” Frederick said, tugging on his overcoat. “But with the Frost encroaching, and your recent…”
“Kidnapping?” she supplied.
“Yes, with that, I would feel more comfortable going with you.”
“Come on, then,” Aurora said, stepping around him and into the sleigh. “I don’t wish to be gone too long.”
Frederick ran around the sleigh to the other side, and the snow deer took off at a run, rushing them down the mountainside.
Frederick held on to the sleigh with both hands and looked like he might be sick, and by the time they pulled up beneath the glittering lights of the village, his skin had taken on an ashen hue.
“You look unwell,” Aurora said, studying him.
“I am fine,” he replied, and then his eyes went wide and he jumped out of the sleigh.
“I will meet you at the bookshop!” he called over his shoulder, breaking into a jog.
Though she felt bad about his upset stomach, his illness fit perfectly into her plans, as she had no intention of allowing him into the shop with her.
Aurora drove the sleigh into a narrow alleyway near the bookshop, petted the snow deer, and assured them she would be swift.
She walked around the stone building to the entrance, keeping the hood of her cloak up so as to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
The bookshop was small, with a sky-blue door and a steeply pitched roof, lanterns dangling from the edge and emitting a soft orange glow.
A small bell chimed above her head when she opened the door, and she squinted against the yellow light.
The shop owner hurried over to her, taking her hand.
“It is not every day you see the Starmaker Rising,” the old man said. “It is an honor.”
“Please, Mr. Burgess. I am still the girl who insisted on reading every book on your shelves,” she said, though she was moved by his greeting.