Page 35 of The City of Stardust

She’s gleaned enough about the scholars by now to understand that this is their natural habitat: illicit goods, champagne in crystal glasses, secretive smiles and furtive whispers. Opulence spurred by absurd wealth, thanks to bartering between their connections here and in Fidelis; Violet can imagine all too easily what someone would be willing to give in exchange for a glimpse of true “magic.” She catches wisps of conversation around her:

… starting at two million dollars for this bust of Nemetor with craftsman mark intact, said to come from the old scholar-city itself…

… Goro Matsuda said the booze was spiked, but I’m pretty sure that’s just edible glitter…

… they brought an asteria over for us, did you see? Up the staircase, the top floor…

The last one makes her pause. It’s not the first time she’s heard of asteros cards, or the asteria who read them.

Intrigued, Violet follows the directions, taking the winding staircase at the far end of the hall. Inside her head, she hears theka-chingof time being paid out. But she can’t find Yulan anywhere, and anyway, there’s no harm in a little detour. It’s been so long since she’s given into her curiosity, and the guilty pleasure of five stolen minutes to herself sends goosebumps pinpricking up her arms.

The top floor turns out to be a large glass dome, like a greenhouse without much greenery. Naked bulbs are carefully suspended from wire strung overhead, so that the view of the night sky is eclipsed by hundreds of tiny lights swaying on an invisible breeze, burning like meteors. It’s much quieter here, and the hum of conversation below is almost completely cut off.

At the back of the room, surrounded by large ferns, a tent has been erected. It’s the only point of darkness. At first, Violet thinks no one’s there, but then a voice calls out from its depths.

“Please, stay for a reading.” A man’s voice.

Despite her curiosity, she hesitates, but then she ducks underneath the tent. After the bright lights of the glass dome, it’s almost impossible to see anything. She catches the outline of a man, the sharp edges of a table—and a pack of cards. The asteria and his asteros.

“Sit,” he commands, and she does.

The man spreads out the asteros cards in front of her. There’s a lustre to them that seems oddly familiar, twinkling with golden sparkles. The artwork reminds her of an art nouveau mural she’d seen at the Met, all fluid lines and silky curves.

“You can pick three of the asteros,” he says. “Whoever you choose will clarify your present and assist you in your future.”

Violet flips the first card over. A woman in a long cloak that pools at her feet holds up a lantern, the only bright point in a sea of dark-hued paint. At her feet, dim silver lines fan outwards.

“Erriel, astral of the lost,” the asteria says.

Astrals instead of arcana. Violet knows very little about them, but from what she’s gathered, they seem like the scholars’ version of gods or saints.

“You are seeking something important to you, I think, but perhaps have taken a misstep. Erriel will illuminate your destination, but she cannot guarantee that you will be pleased with it.”

The next card is of two naked men entwined with one another, as thorns climb up their bodies. Each one carries a knife in one of their fists, hidden from the other’s eyeline. Their mouths are parted, only a millimetre between them. Even though they’re just paintings, there’s something about their sensual longing that makes Violet blush.

“Interesting,” the asteria says, a smile playing over his lips. “Tullis and Berias, astrals of lovers and betrayers. You are stifled by conflict that can be resolved in several ways. But a sacrifice must be made. You have a lot to lose. Perhaps too much.”

If Marianne isn’t found, then it will be you walking through the dark with me.Violet swallows.

The last card is of a tall, regal woman, her blonde hair curled around her like a halo, and wings outstretched behind her in stylised brushstrokes. Her hands are clutched around the hilt of a sword buried in her heart. For a moment, neither Violet nor the asteria say anything. The longer Violet stares, the more the woman’s face looks like a skull, her eyes hollow pits.

“Ah,” the asteria says.

Violet picks up the card and flips it over; she can’t bear to look at the woman anymore. “What does it mean?”

“Not what,” he says, “but who. Astriade, astral of devastation.” He takes out a velvet drawstring bag and shakes it, but it’s empty. “I don’t usually put her in the deck; she must have joined the cards herself.”

“Astral of devastation,” Violet echoes. “That sounds… unhelpful.”

Against her better judgement, she picks up the Astriade card again and tilts it in the light. There’s something in her sorrowful expression, her hands grasping the sword’s hilt, that makes her look like devastation made manifest.

The asteria looks at her solemnly. “She is a curse.”

CHAPTER

Nineteen

VIOLET STUMBLES DOWNSTAIRSinto the light of the party. Her head reels from the reading, even though the asteria told her nothing she doesn’t already know. Devastation, curses, betrayal… and sacrifice. Seeing it all laid out on the table was dizzying. A bad idea, in retrospect.

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