Page 12 of The City of Stardust

As she approaches, she waits for him to leap up and sprint away. But he doesn’t run, and this time he meets her gaze with a frank inquisitiveness that leaves the back of her neck burning.

“May I?” she asks, and he inclines his head.

She sits down next to him on the wall, partly to see the object in his hands better and partly in the hope that his body will block out the brutally cold wind. A glint of silver flashes between his fingers.

“Itisyou, isn’t it? Aleksander?” When he startles at the sound of his name, she continues, “We met once, a long time ago. But you probably don’t remember.”

Why would he? He must have seen a thousand more interesting things than an angry twelve-year-old girl and her uncle. A fierce wind blows over them and she hugs herself.

“You’re shivering,” he says.

Gallantly, he offers her his jacket, and she accepts. It smells strongly of soap, but also unexpectedly, the faint sweetness of charcoal.

“And I do remember you, Violet Everly.” A smile pulls his mouth upwards. “How could I forget? And now here you are. Out of all the cafés in the world.”

Like fate, reaching for her hand. And how nearly it had slipped from her grasp. A quiet thrill goes through her.

“I didn’t mean to take off like that,” he adds. “You just surprised me, that’s all. It was going to be hard to explain the bird.”

Violet tilts her head to the side, confused, and carefully, he opens his cupped hands. The crude shape of a bird appears on his palm, its wings half moulded as though struggling to escape its metal confines. He passes it to her and she tilts it in the light. Its feathers glitter dimly, like it was forged by moonlight and not Aleksander’s slender fingers.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. “And you made that? With magic?”

He coughs, masking what Violet suspects is laughter. “It’s reveurite. Star-metal, or god-metal if you want to be theological about it. Not magic.”

“It looks so real,” she says, handing the bird back.

But he shakes his head. “Keep it. This is nothing,” he says, although he sounds pleased. “You should see the forge masters in Fidelis.”

“Fidelis?”

She’s certain she’s heard that name before. It rings against a deeper memory, one she can’t quite place. She opens her mouth to pursue the question, but another frigid breeze rolls over them and he rubs his hands together. Possibly he’s already regretting his act of gallantry, she thinks.

“Biscuit!” someone yells, and Violet flinches.

Aleksander’s eyebrows raise. “Biscuit?”

“My, um, co-workers have this—well, it’s not really ajoke, but—” She tries to gather herself. “Do you want to come back in?”

He beams at her, and she feels an unexpected glow of pleasure. “Lead the way.”

When she returns inside, Aleksander in tow, Matt gives her a pointed look of intrigue that she ignores. She settles Aleksander on to her favourite table by the window and reluctantly hands back his jacket.

“I finish in half an hour,” she says. “If you can wait?”

He smiles at her. “I can wait.”

The next thirty minutes move at a crawl, and with every one of them, Violet is torn between the desire to check Aleksander’s still there, and the fear that if she does look, he’ll be watching right back. She busies herself as best as she can, wiping down counters and pouring away the dregs of coffee. As soon as Matt flips over the sign toClosedand locks the door, Violet sets two cups and matching slices of cake on Aleksander’s table, pulling a chair towards him.

“So tell me,” she says, desperate to keep him here, to hold on to the moment for as long as possible. “What do you get up to when you’re not hanging out at cafés?”

Over the table, Aleksander tells her about his travels. He names cities, countries as though he simply steps between them, and every anecdote is filled with the kind of marvels that she’s only ever read about. If she feels a stab of envy, it’s only at how much he’s seen, and how little she has to offer him in return.

“And… I’m training to be a scholar,” he confesses, like it’s a secret she’s not meant to have.

She starts to ask what it means, a question shaping her lips. But he’s already racing ahead with his own, and it falls into the back of her mind. At his insistence, she tells him about herself, the eccentric and sometimes irritable customers at the café. She even tells him about the Everly curse, for want of a story that feels equally fantastical to his own—though they both share a wry smile at the fairy-tale-esque details. They have both, she’s noticed, avoided using the word magic again, but it’s impossible not to feel it shaped between them, in every question she’s asked, and all the ones she hasn’t.

“And your mother?” he asks. “Is she still on her adventure?”

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