Page 6 of The City of Stardust

She holds out her hand and he takes it quickly. He’s made enough devil’s bargains in his lifetime, and he has no desire to linger over this one. But her fingers tighten on his. Pain lances through his wrist,racing up his arm. The lights gutter, then vanish, as shadows gather at his feet.

He sinks to one knee, then the other, the breath punched from his lungs. But Penelope’s hand remains a vice. Someone—perhaps him—gasps a shameful,“Please.”His mind short-circuits, every thought tuned to red, roiling agony.

Then Penelope lets go, and he collapses to the ground. The chill of the wooden floor is merciful against his throbbing skin. He drags in lungfuls of breath, unable to do anything else. His face is damp with tears. When he finally musters the strength to lift his head, Penelope is watching him coolly, no longer smiling.

“You should have told me about the girl, Ambrose.”

After a beat, he climbs unsteadily to his feet. The lights are still on; outside is the same gloomy grey day. But the ghost of a burning ache flickers through his veins.

“Ten years,” she says. “I trust you won’t forget.”

Ten years to find Marianne Everly. It sounds like all the time in the world, and none at all.

CHAPTER

Three

VIOLET AND ALEKSANDERwalk in painful silence down the long corridor, through the great hall with its cavernous fireplace, and towards the kitchen. It takes them past the wall of stuffy portraits and chipped busts depicting generations of Everlys, and Violet catches Aleksander eyeing the unique décor with a measure of derision, which she does her best to ignore. She used to make a game of matching the portraits’ features to hers: a defiant, pointed chin fromthisancestor; hazel eyes fromthatone; an upturned nose from a particularly snobbish grandfather. And then there is the curse, imprinted on her in invisible yet permanent ink, like every Everly before her.

She believes in curses like she believes in stories. For a curse is just another kind of story, dark and toothy and razor-edged. It’s the unspoken tale singing its way through her family history: once a generation, an Everly walks into the dark, compelled by the shadow beside them.

Her ancestors stare down at Violet in grim disapproval. And she doesn’t blame them. If she was braver, stronger, she would have already ditched the boy to eavesdrop on the conversation between Ambrose and the blonde woman. Instead, she leads him into the kitchen where he drops sullenly into an empty chair.

“Um, I hope you had a good journey. It’s, uh, raining today,” she says, in a valiant attempt at conversation.

When the response is stony silence, she tries a different tack. “Is that your mother? Penelope?”

The boy snorts, as if the question is too stupid to be asked. “No.”

“Where are your parents, then?”

“I don’t have them,” he says stiffly.

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone has parents.”

“Fine,” he shoots back, “where are yours?”

“My mother’s on an adventure,” she says proudly. “And one day I’ll join her.”

To the effervescent sea under the sun. To the northern witches in their deep forest homelands. Her skin tingles at the thought.

Aleksander looks dubious. “Adventures are for fairy tales.”

“Well,shewent on one. When I was ten—but she’ll be back.”

She knows it. Sometimes her belief is so strong, she’s surprised the force itself doesn’t whisk her mother back to their doorstep. The thought makes her pause, as she listens out for the click in the lock, the sound of her mother’s voice ringing through the house again. She says she’s too old for fairy tales, but if she just believes hard enough, wishesenough—

Aleksander snickers. “Yeah, right.”

Violet snaps back to the present. “I’m not lying!”

They glare at each other, fury working its way under her skin. What does he know, anyway? If she wasn’t on her best behaviour, she’d settle this the way they do in her favourite novels: hand-to-hand combat. No mercy—nothing but the firm hand of justice. But as it is, she ignores the boy and makes herself a cup of tea, slamming the cupboard doors with as much anger as she can muster.

“You’re awfully loud for someone so small,” he remarks coolly.

“Well, you’re just as rude as I’d expect from someone with no parents,” she snaps.

As soon as she says it, she knows she’s gone too far. She expects him to retort with something equally cruel, but he’s silent. When she glances away from her tea-making, he’s staring at the wall, his jaw set, his eyes bright with a telltale liquid glimmer.

---