A Sliver of Stardust (3 page)

Ride a cock-horse up to the sky

And see a fine lady who won't tell a lie.

Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

She shall have music wherever she goes.

B
efore Wren knew what was happening, Mary had whisked them through the door into what must have once been the living room of the house. She couldn't be sure, though, because there were plants everywhere. Green vines snaked up the walls and twisted around an ancient-looking chandelier overhead. Wren ducked under the hanging baskets, whose bright red and gold flowers were drowned out by all the gloomy green. An overstuffed leather armchair and matching couch squatted in the center of the room like unsuspecting prey in the middle of a vast jungle.

The bangles on Mary's wrist clinked together as she made her way to the one wall that was lined with books instead of plants. Mary's fingers were covered with rings, but Wren noticed one in particular, a black oval with tiny dots of silver speckling its surface. A ring that looked like the night sky.

“The universe is full of music, isn't it, Wren?” Mary said, noticing how Wren was staring at her jewelry. “If only we have ears to hear.” She gave Wren an evaluating look. “I suspect you are a keen listener. Have a seat.”

Wren made her way across the room, taking care not to disturb any of the musty knickknacks that crowded every available surface. All of it was coated with a thick layer of dust, as though no one had cleaned the room in years. A silver goblet entwined with ivy rested on a side table, a tarnished hand mirror propped up against it. In one corner, an ancient birdcage hung behind a veil of ferns, and judging by the thick cobwebs on its bars, the falcon that now perched on Mary's shoulder hadn't lived there for a long time. Wren sat on the edge of the chair, which was positioned right next to an old hourglass that was twice its size. A few crystals teetered on the interior funnel.

“What's going on?” Wren said when she realized that no explanation from Mary was forthcoming. “I saw you and your bird at the Olympiad. Why did—”

“Falcon,” Simon interrupted, sitting down on a rickety old rocking chair and crossing his ankle over one knee. “She brought her falcon to the Olympiad.”

Wren shot Simon a death glare, which, of course, he was oblivious to. “Your falcon, then,” she said in a stiff voice. “That delivered the invitation to become part of the fiddling guild. What does that even mean?”

“Excellent creatures, falcons.” Mary reached into her pocket and fed the falcon something that sounded crunchy. The bird shifted on its perch, giving Wren a glimpse of the leather shoulder guard Mary wore. “And further confirmation you belong with the Fiddlers. You saw my falcon, and you saw me play the stardust, which means that you, too, can work the stardust's magic.” Mary moved over to a cobwebby corner and ran her hand down one shelf. A spiral of blue-green danced in the air, and a low hollow note filled the room. “The magic calls to you, doesn't it?”

Wren sat frozen in place.
Magic?

The dust formed a tiny column of smoke between Mary's fingers. It soon blossomed into a cloud of
shimmering fog that swirled around her, setting her clothes billowing. Mary spoke under her breath, and Wren could only catch a few words—something about secrets and seeing—because the rest was lost in the crooning of an unearthly wind. Mary raised one hand up in the air and swiped it down in front of her in a fluid motion, and the smoke flared with the bright light of a rainbow of colors. The next moment, the room was transformed. The wall behind the bookshelves melted away and revealed a large workroom with a low table centered in front of a crackling fire. Next to it stood racks covered with glass jars and bottles, bunches of herbs and dried flowers hanging between them. In the corners of the room, candlelight flickered from wax-covered sconces, bathing everything in an orange glow.

“What—?” Wren found her voice.

“How did you do that?” Simon asked, his pencil, for once, frozen in his hand.

“Stardust is an element found in all living things, yet it is invisible to most of the world,” Mary said. She looked taller somehow, now that the maelstrom around her had stilled. As she continued, she pulled a basket from the collection on the top shelf. “Those who can see the stardust can manipulate it to their own ends.
Here, among ordinary people, I use it to hide my house from those who would ask bothersome questions.” She set the basket down on the table with a thump. When she opened the lid, more of the dust drifted out. “But Fiddlers see things as they really are.”

Wren couldn't help herself. She drew near the table, one wavering hand reaching for the stardust. Aqua sparkles winked among the ashes. More than anything, Wren wanted to gather it, to run it through her fingers, to toss it up in the air like a smattering of miniature constellations.

“You feel its pull, don't you?” Mary was watching Wren.

Wren nodded wordlessly.

“Two new apprentices from the wild.” Mary looked at Wren and Simon fondly, as if they were long-lost relatives. “I can hardly believe my good fortune.” Mary reached into the basket and pulled out a bundle of cloth. “You will have many questions, and, when it is right, you will find your answers. All lambs need time. This”—she shook ordinary dust out of a black and gray garment—“is your apprentice uniform. Put it on while I tell you what you need to know.”

Wren glanced at Simon, who had tucked his
notebook into his vest pocket and was already wrapping the fabric around his shoulders. The dark folds fell almost to the floor, making it look like Simon belonged on the set of a sci-fi movie. Or in a monastery. He began fastening the long row of buttons that ran up the center of the cloak.

Mary loaded the basket with a collection of bottles and flasks. When she spoke, her voice was so low that the words themselves sounded like secrets. “Since the beginning of time, the world has been full of the unseen. The sun lights the Earth by day, and the moon watches over all like a diamond in the night sky, but it's in the twilight—the moment when the first new stars are born—that all living things are bathed in stardust. And magic.”

The fire covered half of Mary's face in shadow. “For a time, we who could work the magic lived in peace with the people around us. They would come to us for small favors: to ease the birth of a baby or enhance a fruitful harvest. Ordinary people called us Fiddlers, because the way we coaxed life from stardust reminded them of the lesser magic of their musicians.” She waved one graceful arm through the air, and Wren thought of the spiral of stardust and how it
looked like some otherworldly dance.

“But as time passed, people became less accepting of the Fiddlers and more suspicious of things they could not explain.” Mary's voice hardened, and she leaned toward Wren. “Their hearts grew cold, and they saw evil in our good gifts. They began to despise and shun the Fiddlers, and soon any record of the good we had done was lost. The world fell into ignorance, and most people forgot there had been any such thing as Fiddler magic.” Mary's falcon fluttered from her shoulder to a ledge on the wall that must have been crafted especially for it. “Scraps of the Fiddler story are still found in children's rhymes, and hints of our powers are woven into legends of other lands. What many consider nonsense is really a garbled version of the truth.”

“So the poems you sent us . . . They're supposed to be about the Fiddlers?” Wren pulled the packet of papers out of her pocket, letting her gaze fall on the topmost one about a hopping little bird. She couldn't see the connection between the wild tale that Mary was spinning and old Mother Goose rhymes.

“The rhymes have their own kind of magic.” Mary nodded at the papers in Wren's hand. “The ones you have there are instructions for how to weave the stardust.
But there are other rhymes, some that record what happened to Fiddlers long ago, and some that even foretell what may yet come to pass.”

“Instructions for weaving the stardust,” Simon echoed. “How exactly does one go about doing that?”

Mary laughed at his question. “You won't learn it by taking notes, that's for sure. That's why you're not a student, you're an apprentice. Apprentices learn by doing. You'll learn to be a Fiddler by working the stardust's magic.”

Wren's mind whirled. Could it be possible? A small part of her thought the whole thing was some enormous joke, but she had seen the magic with her own eyes. Besides, the rest of her felt connected to what Mary was saying, like a string was stretched between them, pulling her near. “So what next?” she asked. “What kind of spells can you—I mean,
we—
do? I bet you do all sorts of things to help other people and stuff.” Her mouth was working to catch up with her thoughts. “I can't wait to tell my parents. My dad is always going on about—”

Mary interrupted her. “Wren, you mustn't. Not yet.” She frowned at both of them. “It is a dangerous thing to be a Fiddler in this world. Ordinary people
don't understand. You cannot breathe a word of this to anyone.” Her gold-flecked eyes seemed to plead with them. “When you are stronger, you may tell whomever you wish and endure the consequences. Until then, you will set your mind to learning everything that I and the others can teach you.”

Prickles crawled over Wren's skin. She imagined telling her parents about all of this—from the flying bird to the children's rhymes to the Fiddlers—and wondered what they would say. If they couldn't see the stardust for themselves, would they believe her anyway?

“What others?” Wren swung the cloak around her shoulders and began fastening the buttons. In that moment, she knew that it didn't matter if no one else in the world believed her. It didn't matter if she had to keep the secret forever. If there was magic in the world, she wanted to play it.

Wash the dishes, wipe the dishes,

Ring the bell for tea.

Three good apprentices,

I will give to thee.

M
ary led them through the workroom to an alcove nestled in the back. There was a circular green door in the center, and Mary knocked on it.

When the door opened, a delicious smell wafted out. It promised pies and cookies and every delicious thing Wren had ever seen in a bakery window. The man standing beyond it looked older than Wren's father. His dark hair was shot through with silver, and the crinkles around his eyes hinted that he often smiled. As if to confirm Wren's suspicion, his face broke into a wide grin.

“Mary,” he said in a booming voice as he pecked the air near her cheeks. “You're just in time for supper. Liza will be pleased.”

“Liza's back? Where is she? Did she bring the potions I asked for?” Mary brushed past him into the room beyond, which glowed orange from the fire blazing in the stone hearth. Worn-looking furniture sat next to tables crowded with books. Shelves full of glass jars and bottles covered the walls, so that the space felt like a strange blend of an old-fashioned sitting room and an herbalist's shop.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man in front of her said with a formal bow. “I'm Baxter, and I'd wager you must be the apprentices Mary told us about. Outstanding. I never thought I'd see the day. Two new apprentices from the wild.”

“Mary told you about us?” Simon asked, reaching for the pencil behind his ear. What he found noteworthy in that statement, Wren couldn't imagine, but he rifled through the pages of his notebook and began to write.

“I'm Wren,” she said. “And this is Simon.”

Simon grunted and continued to scribble, talking without looking up. “This stardust,” he said. “How
does it change the appearance of things?” He frowned down at the page in front of him. “Is there a material alteration? Or more of an optical illusion? Perhaps it might be both, because there's no way the cottage we saw outside was as big as this place—”

“Do you like cake?” Baxter asked, bypassing Simon's interrogation.

Wren opened her mouth, hunting for the thread of the conversation. Was this some secret code for stardust? Was Baxter talking about magic? Then Baxter laughed. “Why am I even asking? Who
doesn't
like cake?”

He ushered them past the musty furniture and into a kitchen nearly the size of the first floor of Wren's house. An iron chandelier filled with flickering candles hung from the ceiling. Two large stone countertops flanked the room, with all manner of cookware spotting their surfaces. Large bowls piled high with red and purple berries crowded next to one another, and a huge butcher block squatted in the center of it all, covered with flour. In one corner of the room, a black falcon perched next to another feathered in deep purple.

Baxter examined a row of tarts that were set out next to a flat circle of dough. “Beautiful!” he exclaimed, kissing his fingertips.

“Those look good,” Wren said. “You must like to cook.”

Baxter narrowed his eyes at her. “Like to cook? Oh, child,” he said, “you have much to learn.” He wiped his hands on the long white apron that hung from his waist and reached for the huge oven door. “One doesn't just like to cook. One is born to cook.” He slid out a round chocolate cake, inhaling deeply as he set it down on the counter. “Or, as the case may be, to bake. Here, you take care of the whipped cream.”

While Wren scooped the perfect white peaks from a mixing bowl into a smaller serving dish, she looked around the kitchen. There was a pot of something steaming on the stove, and Simon had been put to work arranging fruit and cheese on a wide platter. Baxter hoisted a tray of frosted glasses and beckoned Wren to follow. They walked into a dining room where the walls were all windows that looked out on to a tangled green forest.

“Where are we?” Wren stared at the trees. This didn't look like the college campus at all.

“Right where you belong, darling Wren,” a throaty female voice said. A woman with dark hair curving around her tanned face came up to Wren and kissed
her, first on one cheek, then the other. The woman set the fluted glass she was holding on the nearby table, then lifted a perfectly manicured hand to riffle Wren's bangs. “I could do something with you, I think.” She stepped back, examining Wren as though she were something for sale. The woman was dressed in black, her form-fitting clothes drawn together by a wide red belt. “Much potential.”

“Good luck,” Baxter said under his breath as he passed her with the chocolate cake, and Wren opened her mouth to snap out a retort until she realized he was wishing
her
luck with this woman.

“Leave Wren alone, Liza,” Mary said as she helped Baxter set the table. “She needs lessons in stardust, not in fashion.”

“Really, Mary, you'd never know we're sisters.” Liza began picking at Mary's ratty hair. “There is a most fabulous salon in Paris. If you would only—”

Simon had swapped his notebook for one of the maps he had brought to the coffee shop and was now unfolding it. “There is the observatory,” he mumbled from behind the wrinkled page. “And with Main Street running there”—the map jiggled as he poked it—“and the edge of campus here. Aha!” Simon carefully folded
the map. “That must be the forest outside of town.” He looked around triumphantly. “I don't precisely know how we got here, but it appears that Pippen Hill stretches underground somehow.” He glanced over at Liza and Mary, seeming to notice for the first time that there were other people in the room having a different conversation. “Oh, sorry. Wren asked where we were, and I . . .” He trailed off.

Liza raised her eyebrows and exchanged a look with Mary.

“Clever ones, these new apprentices of yours,” Baxter said as he set down the chocolate cake, now garnished with a bright red dipping sauce.

“They're not mine,” Mary said stiffly and turned to Simon. “Well done, Simon.”

“He's right?” Wren looked out at the forest.

Mary calmly picked up a pitcher of water and began to fill the glasses. “We were here long before the university, though they, too, found this to be a prime stargazing spot. The stardust hides the entrance to Pippen Hill. It's how we keep out the nosy non-Fiddlers. They have no more idea that we're here than you did.” The ice cubes in the glasses clinked together as she poured.

“But I've come to the observatory hundreds of times. How is it that I've never seen anything?”

“Because I didn't yet want you to see anything. Now that you've awoken to the reality of stardust, you will find that many things are different than you've always perceived them to be.” Mary nudged her to a seat at the table. “Don't look so distraught, Wren. The ability to do things unseen by non-Fiddlers is one of the perks of stardust. You can count on there being many others.”

She and Liza shared a laugh, obviously enjoying Wren's confusion, and found their seats. They looked as much like sisters as the sun and the moon. Mary was fair, her long strings of beads trailing over her ruffled dress like some waifish hippie. Liza was swarthy and mysterious, her glamour straight out of the pages of a runway magazine.

“Decadent as ever,
mi amor
,” Liza said to Baxter as he set one of the perfectly baked tarts before her. It was shaped like a heart, and Wren could tell by the way Baxter winked at Liza that they were a couple.

Wren took a seat, her mind spinning. Hiding a whole house in plain sight? What else was possible with stardust?
The mouth-watering smell of the cake Baxter slid onto the plate in front of her was irresistible.
She felt a laugh bubbling up from somewhere down below. Magic was real. And she was going to learn how to use it.

“What do you think of our little feast, Wren?” Baxter was watching her carefully. “Good?”

“Perfect,” Wren said.