Page 7 of The City of Stardust

Begrudgingly, she asks him if he wants a cup of tea, too. He nods.

They sit at opposite ends of the table, watching each other over their mugs. Rain tap-taps on the skylights above. Violet picks at a whorl on the wooden table, guiltily avoiding his eyes.

“Want to see a trick?” the boy says suddenly.

She glances up. He fiddles with a small, iridescent black marble in his hands, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He places it flat on the table, then rolls it over to her, where it catches in the whorl. When she picks it up, it’s strangely warm and incredibly beautiful, layers upon layers of sparkling dust within.

“Solid, right?”

She rolls it back to him. “Yeah.”

He gives her a quick, shy smile. “Watch this.”

His concentration slides from her to the marble, and suddenly the air crackles. He takes the marble, puts it flat in his hand and squashes. Then, he pinches it andpulls.

The marble expands in his hands to a fist-sized sphere, with the translucency of a soap bubble. An entire solar system spins on the surface. The black fades to a deep purple, and glittery light shines outwards, projecting constellations on to the walls. Violet can count them all: Orion’s Belt, the Plough, Cassiopeia, the North Star.

It’s utterly impossible.

It’s magic.

The frown across his forehead deepens as the sphere expands, lighting up the dim room. Violet sucks in a breath when she sees that it no longer sits in Aleksander’s hands, but hovers above them. He flicks his wrist, and the constellations suddenly shift into unfamiliar stars, with unfamiliar planets, moons lazily rotating around them. Violet reaches out to touch the thin membrane.

“Aleksander.”

The sphere shatters into dust, glittering on the table.

Aleksander startles, guilt written all over his face. His hands are covered in black grit, fine as sand.

Penelope stands in the doorway, and for a second she looks furious, a thunderstorm of anger. But the second passes, and she’s back to the calm, impassive woman from the living room. Behind her, Ambrose strides in, then stops at the mess.

“What—”

“Aleksander and I must depart,” Penelope says, sounding sincerely regretful, even though Violet knows it’s a lie. “It’s been so lovely to visit, though—and far too long, Ambrose. We will have to come again.”

She smiles, close-lipped. But when Aleksander gets up, his hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“Say goodbye to Violet,” she says. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Aleksander looks up at her, and his brittle, disinterested expression returns. “Goodbye, Violet.”

“Thanks for coming,” she says. And when Penelope turns to go, she mimes holding the sphere, then gives him a thumbs up.

Aleksander smiles faintly at her as he’s pushed out the door.

That evening, Violet doesn’t go to the library. Instead she cuddles up against Ambrose in one of the smaller living rooms, the low ceiling making the room feel comfortably snug. She can’t stop thinking about the marble shattering, the boy suddenly so terrified.

“It’s like she was wearing a mask,” Violet says. “Like the person we saw wasn’t her at all. Who is she?”

Ambrose stares into the fire, one hand clasped around a glass of whiskey. His brow is furrowed, as though he’s forgotten something.

“Penelope… has known the family for a very long time.” He looks down at her sharply. “What did her assistant show you?”

Violet purses her lips. “Nothing.”

Ambrose laughs softly. “I remember when that was nothing, too.” His hands shake as he sets down his glass. “Vi, what you saw in the kitchen stays between you and that boy, understand? He should never have shown you in the first place, but it’s too late for that now.”

“I swear I won’t tell anyone,” she says, her eyes big and serious.

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