A Sliver of Stardust

by Marissa Burt

  “Don’t be silly, Liza.” Mary’s eyes were shining, and she touched the stone almost reverently. “Cole isn’t vengeful. He leads the Council well.”

  “I was thinking this might be something important to share with the other Fiddlers. Maybe we could all go to the Crooked House together.” Jack gave them a winsome smile. “C’mon, don’t you miss seeing more Fiddlers than just one another? Mary said she hasn’t been there since last year. Aren’t you even a little bit homesick?” He shook his head. “Hanging out with other apprentices sounds nice to me.”

  “Well, if it sounds nice to you”—Baxter’s voice was icy cool—“then you must ignore our years of experience. You’ve been a Fiddler for, what, a couple of months? Surely you are prepared for the politics of the Crooked House.” His words were thick with sarcasm.

  “Mary! You went back last year?” Liza’s forehead was creased with displeasure. “And you didn’t tell us?”

  “You don’t tell me everything either, Liza.” Mary sounded offended. “I had my reasons”—she held up a forestalling hand—“which, I might add, are no one else’s business.”

  “Trying to appeal to the Council again, Mary?” Baxter clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “They won’t rewrite history on your word alone. The Crooked House is closed to you. And I, for one, am glad to be rid of the whole lot of them.”

  Mary clenched her jaw. “The Council didn’t know I was there. I went only to the repository, and I slipped out unseen.” She glared at Jack. “I understand now I should have kept the whole thing to myself.”

  “Did you notice the rhyme on the back of the stone?” Jack asked. “It’s in a different language.”

  “Where did you find this?” Baxter’s voice sounded hard. “Tell us the truth, boy.”

  “Grandpa bought it on his last trip to London. Said he got it in some shop that was going out of business.” Jack spread his hands wide. “That’s all I know, honest. He’s always bringing junk back, but this seemed special, you know? With the Fiddler marks and all?”

  “It is special,” Baxter said, looking up at Mary. “It was written by Boggen himself.” He pointed to some words that the other grown-ups seemed able to read. “It predates his demise.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” Mary knelt in front of the table and peered at the stone. “Perhaps we can finally access some of his research.” Her voice was soft. “Perhaps it isn’t gone.”

  Liza and Baxter exchanged weary looks. “Let’s see what it says first.”

  Wren leaned in toward Jack, who had come to sit between her and Simon. “What is she talking about? What’s going on?”

  “Pretty much every time they get together, they fight about the Fiddler Council and the guy who runs it—Cole.” Jack shrugged. “Best I can tell, Mary loved him, but for some reason he exiled her from the Crooked House a long time ago. It’s the first they’ve said of this Boggen and his research, but fat chance I’m going to ask for more details.” He nodded toward Mary, whose face was hard, her words aimed like darts at Liza and Baxter.

  “You don’t believe me either, do you? I’m telling you the truth; I’ve always told you the truth.” Mary slapped her hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “I didn’t know what Boggen was doing. I wasn’t part of it back then, whatever the Council says, whatever false evidence against me Boggen planted for them to find.” She stepped forward, snatching the stone and holding it aloft. She was nearly yelling now. “Don’t you see? This stone, forgotten for centuries, might hold the truth of Boggen’s dealings. It might prove my innocence once and for all.”

  “Come now, Mary.” Baxter raised both hands in a placating gesture. “We are your friends. And we were Cole’s and Boggen’s friends as well.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It is not we who you are angry with.”

  “I tire of this same old argument.” Liza crunched some of the broken glass under her heel. “We are not the Council at the Crooked House. You don’t need to constantly convince us of your innocence. What are you going to do? Take it to the Council?” She pointed at the stone, pinching her lips together as if she smelled something horrible. “And what if it confirms your guilt?”

  Mary flinched at Liza’s words. “Impossible.”

  “Are you so sure?” Liza said. “Once the Council opens it and finds Boggen’s message, there is no undoing it.” She wrapped her arms around Mary in a gentle hug. “It is ancient history now, Mary, whatever you did back then. We don’t have to do anything with this stone. We don’t have to go to the Crooked House.”

  “You don’t,” Mary said, pushing her sister away. “You weren’t falsely accused. You weren’t branded a traitor. All your years of research weren’t stolen from you and given to others.” Her voice broke, and there was an awful pause. “I am going to the Crooked House, and I’m taking the apprentices with me. They’ll have to at least give me credit for that.” She beckoned to Wren and Simon. “We’d go now if I didn’t need to settle things with your parents.” She gave Liza a stiff hug good-bye. “If you decide to join us, we leave tomorrow at dusk.”

  SEVEN

  Mary, Mary quite contrary,

  How does your garden grow?

  Silver bells and cockleshells,

  And apprentices all in a row.

  I didn’t know they allowed falcons within town limits, even on an urban farm,” Wren’s dad said after Mary had left. “Another reason I love this city.” Mary had come home with Wren and wielded a different kind of magic with her parents. She had told them all about the falcons she cared for at the university and how she was short of help and asked if they would mind terribly if she took Wren on as an apprentice with Simon, since they were such good friends. Wren could have her own room there, Mary had said, since the falcons needed constant attention, and would there be any way Wren could start right away, that very evening? It was masterfully done because, excluding the bit about Simon and Wren being good friends, Wren couldn’t catch her in a single lie. Mary simply left out the whole part about magic and Fiddlers and all the rest.

  Wren flopped a big cheesy piece of pizza onto her plate.

  “Mary’s program sounds interesting,” Wren’s mom said. “And I want you to know I’m so proud of you for trying something outside of your comfort zone, Wren. But falcons? Really?” She fidgeted with the edge of her napkin. “Are you sure you want to spend a whole month there? I mean, you could at least wait a few days, think it over.”

  “I’m sure, and I want to start now.” Wren worked hard not to roll her eyes. First her mom worried about Wren not doing enough social things. Now she was worried Wren would do too many. “It’s not like you get days off when you’re taking care of animals anyway.” Wren swallowed hard. Her parents wouldn’t say no, would they? What if Mary started apprenticing Simon without her? He would be light-years ahead of her. “Look,” Wren said in her most grown-up-sounding voice. “I’ll be less than a mile away. Dad is on the campus almost every day, and I can come home if I want to. Besides, it’s not like anyone will be here anyway. Dad has classes to prep for, and you’ll be busy with the play.”

  “You’re right about that. I thought I’d never get out of the theater, and I have yet another meeting tonight,” Wren’s mom said as she poured a big glass of water. “There are some copyright issues—can you believe that?—and now I have to either come up with an original script or find a different project. It’s going to be a massive undertaking to finish it all in time for Springfest.”

  Wren made a noncommittal sound. Every year her mom swore she wouldn’t direct the outdoor performance that ushered in the beginning of summer, and every year she ended up doing it anyway. Wren could count on it like clockwork: April was the month that her mom turned into a stressed-out director who would make the best actor cringe. Wren listened to her mom talk about how she was going to start allotting thirty minutes a day for meditation, and told herself that was why she wasn’t talking to her parents about the Fiddlers. It’s for their own g
ood. Untangling Wren’s new reality would be too much for them right now. She would wait until May, long after the Springfest performance was done, and then she would tell them everything. She forced the bite of pizza down, but there was a knot in her stomach. Wren had never lied to her parents like this. Even if she was technically telling the truth—or, rather, postponing it—she felt horrible.

  “It would be great to find something unconventional. Something we could turn on its head and wow the audience with.” Wren’s mom rubbed her temples the way she did when a migraine was coming on. “Fairy tale retellings are so popular these days. Maybe I should do one of those.”

  “Or Mother Goose,” Wren said, half under her breath. “Some of those old rhymes are pretty weird.”

  “Wren!” Her mom pressed both hands flat against the table. “That’s a brilliant idea! And I don’t think anyone’s done anything like it. All the material is public domain, and we could do a mishmash of things.” She flipped open her laptop and began typing madly. “Think of the costumes!”

  “I was only joking,” Wren said, wondering if her suggestion counted as spilling some of the Fiddlers’ secrets. “Nursery rhymes? Really, Mom?”

  “I won’t tell anyone you came up with it,” her mom said, giving Wren’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Though you may change your mind when it’s a smash hit. We’re performing at the stage in the park this year. I’m picturing sheep. And cows. Aren’t there a lot of animals in those rhymes?”

  Wren’s mom was opening tabs faster than she could talk. Wikipedia entries on Mother Goose and photo collages of nursery-themed parties. Wren peered at her screen, wondering if anyone anywhere had any inkling what the rhymes were really about.

  Her dad was talking about the midterm grading he had to do for his classes. “You know, Wren, you still could join one of the college clubs if you’d rather. I know nothing ruffles your feathers, Little Bird, but farm chores—even on an urban farm—are awfully hard work.”

  Wren ignored her dad’s pet name for her. “I want to do the apprenticeship with Simon,” she snapped, and then immediately regretted it when she saw his expression. He should have been looking cross. Instead, he and Wren’s mom were sharing a tiny knowing smile. Shoot.

  “Okay, okay.” Wren’s dad spread his hands out in front of him. “I knew this day was coming, when other guys would bump your old dad off your list.”

  “It’s not like that, Dad,” Wren said, but she could tell it wasn’t any use. “Simon’s just a friend.” She thought of their history of shared competition and Simon’s insufferable tendency to be a know-it-all. “Well, sort of a friend.”

  “Sure,” her mom said as she gave Wren a wink. “We won’t say another word about it.”

  Mary opened the door when Wren and her mom arrived at Pippen Hill that evening. “I know you’re short on time,” Mary said to Wren’s mom, who was trying to inconspicuously check the clock on her phone. “I can have Wren fill out this paperwork here”—she pointed to a rolltop desk over by the wall—“while I give you a quick tour. You can see the falcons another time, but let me show you where Wren will be staying.” Mary must have used the stardust to mask things, because neither the plant-filled library nor her workroom were anywhere in sight. Instead, the cottage at Pippen Hill looked like an old, dusty farmhouse in need of remodeling.

  “That sounds great,” Wren’s mom said, the relief showing in her eyes. “I’m usually not this distracted; it’s this ridiculous Springfest play, and—” Her phone beeped. “I’m sorry, let me send a quick reply.”

  “No problem,” Mary said pleasantly, leading the way out of the room while Wren’s mom punched out a text message.

  Wren bent down to the look at the papers on the desk and read the words written in old-fashioned script:

  Fiddlers one and Fiddlers all

  Are welcome in the Fiddler Hall

  Their lips are sealed

  Their confidence won

  A Fiddler once made

  Can ne’er be undone.

  Sapiens dominabitur astris

  Simon came into the room and moved close enough to read over Wren’s shoulder. “What a stellar motto, pun intended.”

  “Ha-ha.” Wren scrawled her signature at the bottom of the page. “So what did your dad say about Mary?”

  “He thinks it’s a good idea. I’ve been talking about volunteering at a veterinary clinic anyway, so when I told him about the falcons, he was happy for me. What about your parents?” Simon folded his arms across his chest and leaned one shoulder against the wall.

  Wren picked up the paper, letting its edges curl into a scroll. There was no way she was going to tell Simon her parents thought she liked him. “You know how they are. With the unschooling and everything. They said I could do what I want.” She twirled the rolled-up paper in her hands. “I felt bad not telling them everything, though. Like I was lying or something.”

  “Yeah.” Simon looked down at his arms. “But what else are we supposed to do? Give up the stardust?” He shook his head. “Mary did say we could tell them someday.”

  Wren nodded. She just wished someday didn’t feel like another word for maybe never.

  “Excellent.” Mary’s voice drifted from somewhere down the hallway, and soon she and Wren’s mom appeared. “So Wren will be able to pop home if she needs to, but we’ll take good care of her. Not to worry.”

  “Sounds fine to me.” Wren’s mom came over to her. Her phone was back in her pocket, and she was channeling normal, non-stressed-out Mom. “If you need anything, we’re just a few minutes away, okay?” She laughed. “You know my phone will always be on. Text me. Every day, all right?” She gave Wren a hug. “It looks like a great opportunity, Wren. I’m proud of you.”

  Wren returned the hug, tighter than she would have otherwise, wondering if her mom would still be proud of her when Wren finally told her why she’d really been at Mary’s. For a moment, she wondered what would happen if she just blurted it all out now. What Mary would say and if they could somehow make Wren’s mom understand. But then her mom’s phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming call, and she gave Wren a quick peck on the cheek.

  “It’s the costumer. I’ve got to take this one. Thanks so much, Mary. Bye, Wren. Simon.” And then she was gone.

  “I thought that went well,” Mary said, a pleased smile playing about her lips. “I’m a little rusty on my interaction with contemporary families, but I’d say that was a success.”

  EIGHT

  I am a gold lock.

  I am a gold key.

  However high and low you hunt,

  You’ll never find me.

  Mary opened the door to Wren’s room, which looked like it belonged in a turn-of-the-century novel. There was a big tiled fireplace in the center of one wall with a rocking chair situated in front of it. Across from that, a four-poster bed, complete with velvet curtains that hung from the canopy, took up most of the remaining space on the hardwood floor.

  Wren set her suitcase on the window seat and, after bidding Mary good night, slipped into her pajamas. She was too tired to brush her teeth or to feel nervous about sleeping in a new place. She lay down on the massive bed, positioning the pillow so that she could see out the window. The sky was only partially clear, but she could still spot a corner of the Big Dipper.

  Wren pulled the covers up to her chin. Even though she was not far from her house, her old life felt a world away. She smiled at the thought. She should be frightened, or homesick, or overwhelmed, shouldn’t she? Instead, she felt quiet inside. Everything, all of a sudden, seemed simple and easy. No need for social development or trivia challenges or internet forums. There was only the new idea of stardust. Of Fiddlers and magic and ancient guilds from before the dawn of time. She squirreled deeper under the blankets. Perhaps she wasn’t freaking out because she felt like she’d finally come home.

  Wren woke to find the curtains around her bed drawn closed. The air had that sharp cold that came with the very early mo
rning, and Wren breathed deeply to shake off the fogginess of sleep. Her chest was tight, as though somewhere deep inside she knew that it would be a Bad Thing if she were to leave her bed. From the other side of the curtains, Wren heard voices. She didn’t recognize who was speaking, but she could hear the words very clearly.

  “Boggen’s had the city searched from top to bottom,” a woman was saying. “Three silversmiths have already been executed for claiming ignorance. He’ll be after us next.”

  There was the clattering sound of wood on wood, and then a man’s voice. “It’s not here. Marley left it behind in the Crooked House and paid for it with his life, but there’ll be no convincing Boggen of that fact. Now that he’s made contact, he’s hungrier than ever to find the golden key.”

  The Crooked House! Wren got up on her hands and knees, easing herself over to the curtains. She twitched the fabric a fraction of an inch, enough to peek through.

  “We waste time talking while Boggen’s henchmen might be on their way here.” The man was standing at a table, dumping things into a wooden trunk. He wore odd clothes crisscrossed with belts and buckles, and the layers of fabric were covered with a film of dirt that made Wren wonder when they were last washed. “Best make a run for it while we can.”

  “Robin isn’t home yet.” The woman looked slightly cleaner, her ratty hair held back with the goggles that were pushed up onto her forehead. “We can’t leave without her.”

  The voices grew less distinct as the man and woman turned away to gather things from a chest against the wall. Something about messages and candles and sleep. Whatever was going on, their panic transferred over to her, and she felt an icy chill crawl up her spine the more they talked about Boggen and his bloodthirsty hunt for a key. The name tickled at her memory—she had heard it somewhere before.

  While they were busy with the chest, Wren tried to gauge the distance to the door, and that was when she realized that the room beyond was nothing like the room she’d gone to sleep in. There was no rocking chair. No window seat. There was a smoky fire where the fireplace should be, but instead of a tiled mantelpiece, Wren saw hammered metal that glinted in the shadows. The walls were covered with the same substance, and a jumble of off-kilter tables and stools were piled where the bedroom door should have been. Where am I? What is going on? She sat back on her heels right as a light flashed before her.