Page 109 of The City of Stardust

Violet sinks to the floor to sit cross-legged next to him. Gently, she unfurls his fists, his palms flat against her own. The faint tracery of his veins looks like lines across an atlas, disappearing into uncharted territory underneath his shirt. She runs her thumb over his wrist bone and hears him take in an unsteady breath. When she dares to look up, he’s watching her, his eyes grey as a storm.

“How can it be,” she whispers, “when I’ve already forgiven you?”

She has worked so hard to hate him. She has tried—God, she has tried.

But she can’t.

Aleksander reaches out to caress Violet’s face, his hands lacing through her hair. She presses her mouth to his, kissing so deeply she feels almost drunk. And he kisses back, crushing with urgency. Wanting without shame, without anger.

They break apart for air, and Aleksander smiles at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His hands sit so perfectly against the contours of her body. He has never looked more lovely than now.

“Violet…” he says, low.

His fingers slide along her collarbone, just under the edge of her shirt, then pause. He looks at her, a question in his eyes. In response, she tugs off one button, then another. Their hands make quick work of their clothes, heedless of the night’s chill. His scars range across his upper back like hilly countryside, but she has her own, too: the star-shaped twist of flesh between her ribs that Aleksander presses his mouth to in exquisite agony.

He murmurs against her skin, “You have no idea how badly I wanted you in Prague,” and she is undone all over again.

She pulls him towards her, closing the distance between them. She kisses the deep hollow of his throat, the notch of a scar on his shoulder, the hard black lines of his tattoos. The way she’s wanted to for so long. Her fingers press into the firmness of his hip bones, and fierce, yearning warmth stirs within her. He eases into her with an aching slowness that sends fissures of desire up her spine. Every touch a question, then an answer:yes.

Then, just for a moment, there are no questions at all.

CHAPTER

Fifty-Three

IN THE MIDDLEof the night, Violet wakes in their room. Aleksander lies next to her, deep in the throes of sleep, one hand flung across his chest. His chest rises and falls, his mouth soft and flushed as he dreams. For a while, Violet watches him, trying to commit every last detail to memory. The drowsy scent of rain, the gentle plink of water against the windowsill, the way the moonlight pours through like a blanket to cloak them both.

She closes her eyes and pictures it all again, so very vividly.

Then she gets up, dresses, and quietly makes her way outside.

The rain makes a pleasing sound on the stone flagstones, so that the courtyard is filled with a melodic orchestra of water. Ever’s workshop light is on, flickering in the heavy night, but there’s no sign of activity.

It’s odd, in so many ways beyond the ones she thought she’d feel. Ever still bears a resemblance to the remaining Everlys, despite the vast gulf of time: the hazel eyes, the pointed jaw, the habit of scrunching his nose when something perplexes him. In the half-light, he could easily be mistaken for one of her uncles. Yet he has all the warmth of a stone, and none of their kindness. He is as alien to her as the astrals, and just as self-interested.

Not for the first time, Violet wonders which of the stories are really true. The frightened lover, the greedy craftsman, the man who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Penelope’s victim or her imprisoner.

Whatever the truth, he’s no hero now.

Violet slips out of the courtyard and into the narrow maze of streets, walking until she reaches a pane of reveurite. She settles herself on the ground cross-legged, waiting. Her heart thumps in her chest.

It isn’t long before Penelope appears, first as an indistinct shadow against the glass. She smiles in greeting, though there’s nothing friendly about it. They could be back at Adelia Verne’s party, masking suspicion with politeness over canapés.

Even then, Violet had known it was a mask. She just hadn’t understood what lay beneath its depth.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Violet takes a moment before she speaks, picking over her words carefully. There’s so much she wants to say—demands, accusations, even to ask for an apology—but time is already short. So she gets straight to the point.

“Why is it our blood?” She rubs her thumb over her wrist. “Everly blood. Why not someone else? Is it just revenge?” When Penelope says nothing, she continues, “I read all the stories. About the star and the mortal man.”

“Then you have been wasting your precious time.” It’s said lightly, but underneath, Violet can hear the steel of anger. “Liars and scavengers of memory, all of them.”

“So what’s the truth?”

They’ve never been face to face like this before, on equal footing. For once, Penelope cannot simply reach through and end her, so there’s a peculiar freedom in being able to ask questions. Even if she might not like the answers.

For a moment, Penelope looks as though she might say nothing. But finally she says, “There is a door, bound by blood. Everly blood. I cannot return home without it.” She levels her gaze at Violet. “Only Everly blood can unlock it.”

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