Page 49 of The City of Stardust

She takes his face gently in her hands, her touch like ice. His throat aches with unshed tears. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time, to undo everything.

“You are capable of so much more than this.” She turns away from him. “But you must prove yourself worthy again. Find out what Violet knows. Everything. Do this for me, and make yourself the scholar I know you to be.”

CHAPTER

Twenty-Five

ACHILD GOES MISSINGfrom a gated apartment complex in Trinidad. A baby is swept from a cot right next to her sleeping parents on a cruise ship roaming the Mediterranean. A little boy, solemn and sticky-fingered, vanishes from a state fair in Illinois.

Not all of them disappear with the wreath of vanilla scent in their midst, or a wisp of blonde hair, or such dainty, sure hands. Others are lured away with songs and tricks and promises, or under lesser competencies, drugged, their bottles and drinks laced with an achingly sweet sedative.

When they wake, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar city, they are greeted by a gentle scholar, who tells them that they are one of the few who possess talent. They arespecial.A reveurite bead, crafted for this specific purpose, is placed into their tiny palms. When it lights up, the scholars nod at each other, pleased. Had they been born into the families of Fidelis, they might have grown up to be forge bearers, agriculturalists, engineers, doctors—perhaps even a scholar if they’re strong and gifted.

Instead, the children are brought up to a small high room in one of the adjoining towers, their chubby fists wrapped around someone’s finger.It will be so quick,like falling asleep, a voice says in soothing tones. The scholars look at one another, acknowledging the needful but terrible act they have already committed to.

There is the flash of sharp fangs, the hot red of blood glimpsed between bites. A goddess, lowering her mouth once more to this sacrifice.

And then, the goddess gives back to her scholars. A drop of blood the colour of golden sunlight, and the taste of power, placed on lips like a kiss: an extra moment of life; a prolonging of youth. The reward for those who have borne the child—who have risen above their fellow academics. Every senior scholar, every master has touched this room, knowing it’s a price that must be paid.

Later, there may be time for regret, to anguish over the road that has led to this point of no return. But there is only now, the coppery tang of time itself, jewelled ruby-red; a slurp that beliessuchhunger, restrained for so long. Each drop a second, a minute—another moment of a lifeline stretching forward endlessly into the future.

Astriade, bringer of devastation, licks her lips and smiles.

CHAPTER

Twenty-Six

THE FRENCH VILLAGEcomes into view just as the sun sets, casting shadows everywhere. Above, snow-capped mountains scrape the sky with their jagged peaks, like fairy-tale giants fallen deep in slumber. In between, a forest of dark pine trees skims the cliffs, miles of sultry green dotted by tiny Alpine homesteads. The trees sway with a casual rise and fall, like the world itself is breathing.

The taxi driver slows to a halt at the edge of the village. “We’re here.”

Violet adjusts her backpack and clambers out of the car. Her clothes still smell like smoke, the colours dull with ash.

It takes her a few tries in broken French to ask for directions before she finds someone willing to tell her the way. The address is hidden at the end of a dirt path partially obscured by undergrowth, far beyond the village. Hidden behind sprawling, shaggy trees sits a large, tumbledown house, with obvious signs of neglect. Paint crumbles off the walls, and the windows are cloudy with grime. The front door yawns open, swollen from damp. Turgid mushrooms creep across the bottom in dangerous shades of pustule yellow and orange.

Violet stands at the gate for what feels like an age, trying to psych herself up to go in. It looks like the kind of house where something unspeakably terrible has happened, so dreadful it left a tangible stain.

The darkness behind the door looms. The wind picks up, and she shivers, pulling her cardigan around herself.

Everly.We know you.

Unconsciously, she finds her hand pushing the gate open, her feet walking her towards the door. As if in a dream, she nudges it open, dust scattering. The ground beneath her feet feels soft and spongey, and the air is stale and wet in her lungs.

Violet’s halfway down the hallway before the strange compulsion snaps. Suddenly, her heart rate soars and she scrabbles blindly for her phone. White light illuminates the darkness, leaping off dusty photo frames and revealing the weed-strewn floorboards.

How has she come in so far? She hadn’t meant to even enter… or had she?

Behind her, something creaks and she whips around. But it’s only the wind, pushing the door back and forth.

The rest of the house feels just as abandoned. When she puts her first foot on the staircase, it bends alarmingly underneath her and she pulls back. If there are answers upstairs, she won’t be able to reach them without breaking her neck. Likewise, the ground-floor rooms are half-empty, broken furniture pushed out to the edges. It’s been a long time since anyone’s lived in this house.

She rests her hands on her hips and sighs. The map is obviously a false lead. And it took forever to get here—

Everly.

Violet freezes. She heard that: a voice that isn’t hers, whispering against her thoughts. Slowly, she withdraws her penknife from her pocket, gripping it tightly in her fist.

“Hello?” she calls out.

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