Chapter 26 Tragic Symmetry #2
He studied her face, a small smile on his lips. “I suppose you are.”
“Thank you for accommodating my request, and on such short notice.”
“Not at all. The evening is seldom busy.”
Mr. Burgess locked the door and led Aurora to a cozy table in the back. “Might I offer you some tea?”
“Please,” she said, sitting in an old chair that creaked beneath her weight.
When they both had their tea, Aurora took a breath and tried to compose herself before she asked her questions.
“This shop has been in your family for generations, is that correct?” she began.
“That’s right. My great-great-great-grandfather opened it. It was one of the very first shops in town.”
“Quite fitting for a village built on stories,” Aurora said, smiling and taking a sip of her tea.
Mr. Burgess’s eyes glinted behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and his face lit up. “Quite right,” he said excitedly.
“Am I correct in assuming that this shop was first opened under the reign of the third Starmaker?”
“You are,” he said, his voice holding a note of curiosity.
“I am wondering what you can tell me about his death.” Aurora tried to ask the question as delicately as possible. The villagers cared little for the morbid or bleak, and Aurora could not recall a single instance of someone talking about the realities of a Starmaker’s life.
Mr. Burgess frowned and furrowed his brow, looking over the stacks of books in his small shop. “Little has been written on the subject, I’m afraid. We know the date of the last Day of Darkness, so I can tell you the date of his passing, but I know nothing of the specifics.”
The shopkeeper stood and ran his fingers over leather spines until he found the volume he wanted. When he sat back down across from Aurora, he opened the book, but it violently slammed itself shut.
“Oh, don’t start with this,” Mr. Burgess muttered, forcing the book open once more, but as soon as he began turning pages, the cover closed again, snapping shut around his hand.
“My apologies,” he said to Aurora, now taking hold of the front cover and forcing it open with both hands.
He quickly pinned it to the table with his elbow, and though the book tried valiantly to close, it was not strong enough.
Mr. Burgess gave a triumphant huff, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for, but Aurora didn’t need a date, and she kept pressing.
“Do you know how much time passed between the end of the third Starmaker’s reign and the Day of Darkness?”
The shopkeeper seemed to understand what she was asking him and looked up from the book, which seized the opportunity to slam shut victoriously.
“That would be tricky indeed to discern. A Starmaker’s reign officially ends on the Day of Darkness, and the following day is the official beginning of the next. ”
“But the current Starmaker must have come fully into his magic before his predecessor’s death,” Aurora said.
“That is true,” the shopkeeper agreed. “But since it is considered disrespectful to celebrate the Starmaker Rising before the Day of Darkness, the texts do not cover the Starmaker’s earliest days.”
Aurora looked at Mr. Burgess and slowly lowered her hood to reveal her hair, almost entirely turned to glittering white.
The shopkeeper raised a trembling hand to his mouth.
“Sir, I’m less interested in what your books say and more interested to hear your family’s stories.
Your ancestors built their lives around the lore of Reverie; surely there are stories that were passed down in your home but never printed? ”
Mr. Burgess stared at her for several seconds, seemingly unable to speak. “It has happened so quickly,” he whispered.
“Far quicker than I would have liked.” So little was known of Starmakers’ personal lives that even when Eternal Reverie had announced her as the Starmaker Rising, no one could have guessed when her reign would begin or when the Starmaker would die.
It was one of the mysteries of the mountain, and while Aurora generally appreciated the lack of knowledge surrounding her role, she did not want to be kept in the dark herself. “You do have stories, don’t you?”
Mr. Burgess slowly nodded, clearing his throat. “Of course.”
“If you don’t mind, I would like to hear them.”
He took a sip of tea, the cup shaking slightly in his hand.
“There is a saying in my family: In order to begin, there must be an end. It is what we say in times of mourning and grief. The Starmaker is the greatest symbol of hope we have, and yet each one must end for another to rise.” The shopkeeper paused, gently tapping his fingers on the table.
“Since a Starmaker’s rise overlaps with their predecessor’s last days, it is only ever whispered about so as not to be seen as dishonorable. ”
Aurora nodded. She wouldn’t want her rise to overshadow the Starmaker’s end, and she was glad to hear that it wouldn’t. “And when do you suspect those last days will be?”
“There is more to the saying,” the old man said.
“Just as the dawn shares a day with the dusk, so too does a beginning share a day with an end. I do not know the exact origins of these phrases, but I believe they come from a tale of the death of the first Starmaker.” He paused, taking his glasses off and looking at Aurora with sadness in his eyes.
“It is my belief that the Starmaker’s end will occur on the very day you fully come into your magic. ”
Aurora stared at him, sure he had misunderstood. He must not have heard her question correctly. “I am not asking when he will become mortal; I am asking when he will die.”
“I understand,” Mr. Burgess said, nodding. “I believe he will die when the last of his magic transfers to you, when you are able to pull in the light and hold it entirely on your own.”
“But I can almost do that now!” Aurora said, her voice rising.
“I’m sorry.” The old man finished his cup of tea. “I’m sure this must be very difficult to hear.” He paused, watching her, and suddenly he inhaled sharply, as if fully grasping why she had come to his shop in the first place. “You care for him, don’t you?”
Aurora couldn’t bring herself to speak, but her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the shopkeeper.
“A Starmaker and a Starmaker Rising falling in love!” he exclaimed, almost as if he was telling a story. “It holds a tragic symmetry with the tale of the Sun and the original Starmaker.”
“Yes, I am aware,” Aurora said, unable to hide her panic.
Mr. Burgess seemed to come back to himself, his voice taking on a much softer tone. “There is nothing in my books that confirms this belief; it is just what I have gleaned from my family’s stories. That is all.”
As soon as he had said it, though, Aurora had known in her gut that he was right.
The Starmaker had never corrected her when she’d spoken of him becoming mortal, nor had he ever given her a clear answer about when he would die.
Understanding came crashing down on her like the weight of the whole sky, every star and planet and sun pressing into her at once.
He had been trying to protect her; this whole time, even on the days he was irritated, even through his exhaustion and as he reckoned with his imminent death, he had been trying to protect her.
And in so doing, he had lied to her over and over again.
“Thank you,” Aurora said, standing. “I appreciate your help, as well as your discretion.”
“Of course,” Mr. Burgess said, leading her to the door. “I wish I had better news to share with you.”
She gave him a weak smile. “As do I.”
Aurora left the shop and climbed into her sleigh, where Frederick was waiting. He began to speak, but she did not hear it, and something on her face must have told him that she was too distracted to converse, for he fell silent.
The Starmaker did not have years. He did not have months.
He might not even have weeks, and Aurora’s entire body went cold from the truth of it.
He was dying, and that was simply not something Aurora could accept.
Silent tears ran down her face the entire way back to the castle, and she wrapped her arms around her chest to keep herself from breaking open, to keep her heart from spilling out onto the frozen earth.
But it was no use.
A ticking clock had begun in the back of her mind—tick tick tick—and one day soon, it would stop.