A Sliver of Stardust

by Marissa Burt

  After Wren woke up the next morning, she stayed in bed for a long time. Her sleep had been plagued by strange dreams, ones where the whole world was black and white and a chorus of voices kept chasing after her. Wren pushed the images from her mind and pulled out the bag she kept in her nightstand drawer. The sky map on her bedroom ceiling was nearly finished, tiny glow-in-the-dark stars marking out the patterns of the Northern Hemisphere. The other walls waited to be transformed into snippets of the Equatorial and Southern Hemispheres.

  Wren’s dad had gotten her a student pass to the college observatory, and since they lived in the faculty housing on campus, it didn’t take much to sweet-talk him into taking her there on clear nights. Wren liked to mark out the constellations she had actually seen with blue stars. Just last week she had finally gotten a good glimpse of Leo.

  But replacing Leo’s old stars with new blue ones didn’t distract her for long. Wren reached under her pillow and pulled out the folded shimmering papers again, as if staring at them would uncover their meaning. Dinner had ended too soon for Wren and Simon to talk more, but they had agreed to meet this morning at a nearby coffee shop.

  When Wren arrived in the kitchen, her mom was about to leave for work. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie,” her mom said as she poured her tea into a travel mug. “Getting up this morning and taking initiative.”

  Wren didn’t bother to correct her. If her mom thought interrogating Simon about his packet of papers counted as her social interaction, Wren wasn’t going to argue.

  The sky was surprisingly clear and sunny for early spring, and after biking to the coffee shop, Wren was hot and thirsty. Simon had beaten her there and was sitting at an outdoor table, two bottles of pop in front of him.

  Wren parked her bike and grabbed the packet of papers from the white wicker basket.

  “Root beer is the best option here,” Simon said, sliding one of the bottles toward Wren without looking up from the notebook he was flipping through. “No caffeine. Best value for the price. And”—he smiled in Wren’s direction—“it tastes good.”

  “Can’t argue with that logic,” Wren said, slipping into the chair across from him. “Did you bring your poems?”

  They traded, and Wren sipped her root beer while she read. Simon’s back page had a different rhyme about a canary, but the rest were the same. And so was the shimmering dust.

  “There’s no Pippen Hill anywhere in town.” Simon opened a fat folder full of maps he’d printed off the internet. “How can we be expected at Pippen Hill today if there is no such thing?”

  Wren stared at the wrinkled edges of one of the maps. Simon must have stayed up all night doing research. “What about similar names?” she said, making it sound as though she’d done more than just think about the poems. “What if there’s a location that used to be called Pippen Hill?”

  Simon pulled another file out of his backpack. “Historical maps, all the way back to the town’s founding in 1851. There’s never been a Pippen Hill anywhere around here.” He tossed the stack in front of her. “There are, however, plenty of hills that have had apple orchards on them.”

  “Apples?” Wren echoed. “What do apples have to do with anything?”

  “Pippins are a type of apple,” Simon said in a lecturing tone. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Wren.”

  Wren ignored the barb. Why would he think she was some kind of apple expert? “Okay. But maybe the apples are a coincidence.” Wren flipped through the neatly cataloged maps. “What about the town’s historical society—”

  “Already called them,” Simon said. “They’ve never heard of a Pippen Hill or any kind of fiddling guild.” He hunched forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I bet it’s some kind of a test.”

  “A test?” Wren handed the files back to Simon. “For what? To see if we can read nonsense poems?”

  “Not a test about the poems.” Simon looked in her direction. “A test for the fiddler people. Maybe they want to see if we’re clever enough to find Pippen Hill by ourselves.”

  Wren was used to seeing Simon’s profile while their parents talked to each other, but now she found it odd that he rarely maintained eye contact, even when speaking directly to her, which made him appear a little shifty.

  “I’m sure of it,” he continued. “This invitation is a riddle.”

  “Why would they—”

  “Why would they do anything?” Simon interrupted. “Why invite us with nursery rhymes? Why the shimmering dust? Why use a falcon to deliver the papers?”

  “You saw the bird?”

  “Falcon,” Simon said, rummaging around in his backpack. “Long wings. Swift flight. And did you see those talons? Birds of prey are fascinating animals.”

  “You saw the falcon.” Wren didn’t care what he called it.

  “Of course I saw the falcon.” Simon sounded annoyed and started skimming through his notebook again. “Who didn’t see the falcon?”

  “Um . . . everyone else? I thought I was the only one, or that I was imagining the whole thing, or that the bird was someone’s science project or—”

  “No live animals are allowed to roam free in the main exhibition hall,” he said with a disapproving frown, as though Wren was suggesting they break conference rules.

  “Maybe you were too busy scratch-scratch-scratching with your pencil,” Wren said, leaning in so Simon would look at her and actually hear what she was saying, “but no one else saw the bird.” She told him how everything seemed like it had been paused for a moment. And then it hit her. “Except for your pencil. You weren’t on pause either. You did see it!”

  “How else do you think you managed to tie me for the win? With all the commotion, I kept losing my place in the trivia questions. I was lucky to finish the first problem before time was up.” He pulled out a pencil and scribbled something in the margin of his notebook. “I must be missing something.”

  “I managed to tie with you?” Wren said to the top of his head. “I don’t think so. If it hadn’t been for the stupid bird, I’d have— Wait, how many years have I won the trivia challenge?” Wren put her finger on her chin as though she had to think hard. “That’s right, four. So I’d have a fifth medal. You should thank your lucky stars that bird showed up when it did. I ought to—”

  Wren caught her breath as something clicked. “That’s it! The stars!” She grabbed her packet of papers and rustled through it, sending aqua sparks ricocheting around their tabletop, until she found the page with the invitation. “Astris means ‘stars.’” Wren might not have spent the whole night Googling the topography of the town, but she had looked up the Latin phrase. She pointed to it. “Sapiens dominabitur astris: ‘A wise man can rule the stars.’ That’s the clue.”

  “Clue to what?”

  “Your riddle!” Wren folded the papers back up. “I know where Pippen Hill is.”

  Simon had walked to the coffee shop, so Wren wheeled her bike alongside as they made their way across the university campus. “The observatory is surrounded by apple trees,” she said, following the familiar path. “My dad told me the whole campus used to be an orchard.” She mimicked his teacherish tone from earlier. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Simon.”

  But Wren soon forgot to be snarky with him. As they approached the observatory, she noticed something she had never seen before. Something she was certain had never been there before. Situated in a clump of apple trees some distance from the observatory building was a cottage that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, complete with misshapen bricks, thatched roof, and a tottering second story dotted with chimneys.

  Wren propped her bike against a tree, and they picked their way along the uneven stone pathway that led to the front porch. “How could I have never seen this before?”

  “You’ve never seen this house before, and here it is.” Simon took the porch steps two at a time. “No one else saw the falcon, yet both you and I saw it. And no one else saw the dust but you and me. Somehow everything i
s related.”

  “How do you know no one else saw the dust?”

  “My dad didn’t.” Simon shrugged. “I accidentally dropped my packet in the living room, and he never said a word, even though the carpet was covered with the stuff.”

  Wren thought of how the papers had stained her pocket. If her mom had noticed that half of Wren’s hoodie was covered with ashes, she would have had plenty to say about it.

  “Every problem has a logical explanation.” Simon rubbed his forehead vigorously, like he could find the answer by sheer willpower. “If we had more data, we could come up with a better hypothesis.”

  “Well, then, what are we waiting for?” Wren straightened her sweatshirt and knocked on the weathered door.

  When it opened, Wren knew that they had indeed found Pippen Hill. Standing in front of them was the mysterious woman who had disappeared at the trivia challenge, and perched on her shoulder was her sleek white falcon.

  “I’m Mary,” the woman said, giving them a conspiratorial smile. Mary’s dreadlocked hair was twisted into a fat knot on the back of her head, and thick strings of beads were looped around her neck. “You are Wren and Simon, the brand-new Fiddler apprentices”—she pulled a small silver hourglass from her skirt pocket and peered at it—“who are right on time. Come in.”

  FOUR

  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.

  Before 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. “T
heir 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.”