Page 2 of The City of Stardust

“What are you doing here?” Ambrose says.

Gabriel pushes his hair from his forehead, and glances behind him at the open driveway, as though expecting something—or someone—to appear. “We should talk inside.”

Sudden alarm flashes through Ambrose. “You think you’ve been followed?”

“No, I was careful. But still.”

“Then should you even be here?” It isn’t supposed to come out as an accusation, but Ambrose hears the bite in his tone and winces.

“It’s important,” Gabriel says.

There aren’t many reasons why he would risk coming home, and all of them are alarming. The terrible anxiety in Ambrose’s gut surfaces again.

“Okay,” he relents.

As Gabriel steps over the threshold, the house sighs in greeting—a stray Everly, returned at last. Ambrose leads him down the hallway, past the numerous leaks, the faded wallpaper, the inches of dust covering unused furniture. To Ambrose, the house looks exactly as it did in their childhood, if a little shabbier, a little in need of love. But now that Gabriel’s critical gaze sweeps across the rooms, he’s suddenly ashamed of his failure as a caretaker, with all those repairs he’s never quite found time to finish. Then annoyance flashes through him; who cares what the house looks like? It’s not as if his brother has been around to lend a hand.

In the dark, Gabriel trips over something and swears. Ambrose picks it up—one of their niece’s dolls, outfitted with tinfoil armour and a sword made from cocktail sticks. He smiles fondly. There’s anentire set scattered around the house, and although Violet declares she’s too old for them, he still finds them propped up in unusual set pieces. Fairies in armour, knights bearing roses, a princess lifting her sword in triumph.

“That belong to the kid?” Gabriel says.

Ambrose straightens out the crinkled armour. “It belongs to Violet, yes.”

Gabriel gives it a long, hard look. But he doesn’t say anything.

The only place with the lights still working is the library, with its original oil lamps installed in brackets along the wall. Gabriel toys with the notepad on the desk as Ambrose lights them with the last of his matches. A warm glow illuminates the room, glinting off the foiled bands ridging the book spines.

Ambrose leans against the old wardrobe at the back of the library, trying to contain all his questions. They’ve never been the hugging kind of siblings, so he hangs back, his hands digging into his pockets. It’s been two long years since Gabriel walked out of the house, and although they agreed that this was for the best—although it had never really been a question which brother would stay and which would leave—he can’t help but feel a pang of resentment, too. Two years of making tinfoil armour, but also learning how to be a parent at the very worst possible moment, arguing furiously over bedtimes and meals, wrestling a semblance of education into their niece while his own studies languished—and Gabriel has borne none of it. But Gabriel had the lucrative job that would keep the house afloat, not a half-finished degree and vague aspirations to academia. And only one of them needed to stay.

Gabriel catches him watching. “The kid, Violet. Where is she?”

“Asleep,” Ambrose says, though truthfully he has no idea where their niece is. She probably thinks he hasn’t noticed her sneaking out of bed at night, but the house sings a symphony of creaks whenever she does. “What do you want, Gabriel?”

Silence. Gabriel stares out through the dark windows before closing the curtains, the rotten fabric fraying at the edges. Again, the feeling that something is tilting horribly sideways returns. Ambrosestarts to pace, trying to shake the coil of uneasy energy from his limbs.

“Look, I’ve done everything I can,” he says. “She’s happy, she’s fed, she’s safe—”

“Actually, little brother, you’re wrong there.”

Ambrose stops pacing. “What do you mean?”

“Violet is no longer a secret. Whatever Marianne has done—whoever she’s talked to—she’s not been careful enough.”

Their sister’s name sits like a stone between them. Ambrose’s heartbeat rushes in his ears. Dread curls in his stomach.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, and Gabriel nods. “Fuck.”

Fuck.

What else is there to say? For years, he’s worried about the worst possible outcome, and now it’s here.Violet is no longer a secret.In his mind’s eye, a shadow descends over his fierce little niece, and he suddenly feels sick with fear.

“Are you sure this isn’t your doing?” Ambrose says, suspicious. “You must have slipped something in your travels, doing God knows what—”

Gabriel cuts him off. “If you think for one second I’d risk the kid’s safety—”

“If you cared, you would have stopped this charade with the scholars years ago!”

Thunder rumbles overhead as they size each other up. Ambrose runs an agitated hand through his hair, his chest heaving with unspent anger. He tries to take several deep breaths, but all he can feel is the panic fizzing through his thoughts. What the hell are they going to do now?

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