A Sliver of Stardust

by Marissa Burt

  She tried to scream, but her voice was muffled as though someone had put a pillow over her face or trapped her words in a cramped little box. She heard a sound from somewhere near the edge of the woods and saw a girl about her own age, a shepherd’s crook raised high above her head. Wren couldn’t tell if she was frightened or excited. Her mouth was open, and she was shouting something at Wren, waving her crook, as she ran toward her.

  Wren held out her hand, her voice still paralyzed with fear. She wanted to warn the girl to stay away. That something horrible was going on here. That there was blood and sheep’s tails, and the nightmare of not being able to speak. The girl was closer now, and Wren could see that she was indeed a shepherdess, because her flock was following her from the cover of the trees. Behind them was a shadowy shape that tickled Wren’s memory.

  “A Dreamer,” the shape said, and Wren heard a man’s voice that was full of surprise. “Come closer, Dreamer, so that I can have a look at you.”

  Wren’s feet were rooted in the ground, but even if they weren’t, she would never come closer. He seemed made of shadows, despite the contrasting landscape, and his words sounded almost robotic.

  “Dreamer!” he said, much louder this time. Wren tried to speak, but her voice was trapped inside, her chest squeezed with the pressure of it. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t run or move. He had her in some strange spell, and even though he hadn’t moved from the forest’s edge, she knew he was coming for her. Wren fought against it. If she could tear her gaze away, perhaps the rest of her would follow.

  “Dreamer!” It was the girl’s voice this time, and it was what Wren needed. She wrenched her thoughts away from the man, reaching for some protective wall, and she saw his look of astonishment as she eluded his control. Wren’s limbs were free now, and she moved toward the girl.

  The shepherdess was almost to the tree, her mouth open, wailing at the sight of the tails hanging there, and then she turned to Wren, her dark eyes wet with tears. “Dreamer,” she said. “You have to help us.”

  The shepherdess didn’t see the man behind her, didn’t see how he clapped his hands in delight at the sight of her dismay, didn’t see how he looked over the top of her head at Wren, his soulless black eyes piercing her skull. “You will be mine, Dreamer.”

  THIRTEEN

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  How I wonder what you are.

  When Jill came to find her the next morning, Wren had been sitting on her bed for what felt like a long time. She couldn’t shake the memory of her dream, but she tried to hide her unease from Jill.

  Jill brought a note from Mary saying they were to begin their apprentice studies and “stay out of trouble.”

  Jill waited until Wren read the note, then said, “The library is two floors up—cross the bridge over the Opal Sea. You can’t miss it.” She prepared to leave.

  “Wait.” Wren grabbed her apprentice cloak off its peg. “We can go together.”

  “Today isn’t a group lesson,” Jill said, explaining that apprentices spent most days with their mentoring Fiddler. A few times a week, they gathered to study as a group. Her face fell flat. “I belong to Elsa, so I need to go find her.”

  Wren pounded on Jack and Simon’s door, eager to get to the library and finally ask Mary some questions. The boys were ready and waiting, and soon they were following the same route they had taken the night before, up the spiraling stone steps and out through the cavern with the turquoise pool of water.

  As they moved farther into the cave, Wren saw signs of Fiddler life. A grated fire pit with wooden benches situated around it. A wagon laden with glass jars and beakers. Several deserted kiosks looked like they belonged at old-fashioned county fairs but were each fitted with electrical outlets. Wren made a mental note to return there when she needed to charge her phone. Green doors dotted the wall nearest them, most flanked by signs with faded letters.

  Wren hurried past the amphitheater. If she didn’t look at it, maybe she could avoid the embarrassing memory of how she had lost control and become labeled a Weather Changer. She had a lot of questions for Mary.

  Soon they were in what seemed to be a more inhabited part of the Crooked House. They began to see other people who looked as if they actually belonged in the present century, even if their skin was a bit sallow looking. A man in a dirty white lab coat nudged a woman with her hair pulled back in a smooth bun, and both stared at them as they walked by. A cluster of men, who looked like they went shopping at vintage thrift stores, were leaning around one of the green kiosks, sipping coffee. Wren could feel their gazes trailing her. A boy a little older than them and wearing an apprentice cloak was pushing a cart loaded with baked goods, selling them to hungry Fiddlers. He stopped and gawked at them outright.

  “Does everyone know?” Wren tried to slink down into her cloak.

  “Hmm?” Simon said in an absent voice. He had been covering the distance in fits and starts, stopping to look for evidence of subterranean animal life at every turn.

  “Haven’t you noticed?” Jack said with a laugh. “Wren’s famous.” He nudged her with an elbow. “A Weather Changer. You should have told us.”

  “Stop it.” Wren wasn’t in the mood for Jack’s teasing. “It’s not funny. I wish I’d never said anything to the Council. I wish I’d never come here. I wish—” Wren broke off what she had been about to say, because it wasn’t true. She didn’t really wish she’d never even heard of the Fiddlers.

  “You’re not the only weirdo here,” Jack said in what Wren guessed was a consoling voice. “Most of the Fiddlers look like they are the ones in their rhymes. That must be Jack Sprat himself,” he said, pointing to a rail-thin man who towered over his companion, a stout woman who overflowed her corseted dress. “Or maybe Peter the Pumpkin Eater.”

  “Don’t be mean,” Wren said, choking back a giggle that became a laugh when he started reciting “Little Miss Muffet” as they passed an old woman sitting by herself and scowling at everyone.

  Soon they arrived at a gothic-looking double door. Even if Wren hadn’t seen the neatly painted sign marked LIBRARY, there was a shingle hanging above it with a picture of a stack of books.

  If any two spaces were the opposite of each other, it would be the Crooked House and the library. Instead of the soaring blue ice-cathedral, they were in a small round room that looked like it belonged back at Pippen Hill. Wood-framed bookcases attached to the rocky walls were lined with tomes that could have been centuries old. There was no table, though. Instead, a large flat stone about waist-high took up most of the floor space. Perfect for standing at while flipping through books. They roamed about the room, but only for a moment, because the door behind them opened and Liza poked her perfectly coiffed head in.

  “Hello, darlings,” she said. “Surprised to see me?”

  “Liza!” Wren gave her a hug, while Liza air-kissed both of her cheeks. She turned to greet Jack and Simon, and when she moved, Wren spotted Baxter waiting beyond.

  “You came! What happened to you never visiting the Crooked House again?” Wren ran over to give Baxter a hug. “Not that we aren’t glad to see you.” She felt a rush of relief at the sight of friends.

  Baxter clasped arms with Simon and Jack. “Even we couldn’t ignore the summoning. It required all Fiddlers—even estranged ones—to return to the Crooked House immediately. We came right away, and I’m sure others will be trickling in for weeks. The Crooked House won’t know where to put us all.” He smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And we arrive to find you all at the heart of it.”

  “Mary told us what the stone revealed. How Boggen isn’t dead.” Liza rubbed her hands together and avoided looking at Wren. “But that’s no reason your apprentice lessons should stop. Mary is busy with the Council, and if we don’t step in, the Mistress of Apprentices will.”

  Wren couldn’t tell if they had heard about the Weather Changer thing. She would’ve thought not, except for the occasional moments where Liza’s glance lin
gered on her a second too long, or when Baxter’s eyes looked sad. She tried to stop guessing what that might mean and focus on her first official Fiddler lesson.

  Liza rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a pair of chic glasses. She put them on and began to jot something down in a little jeweled notebook. “Now, let’s find you some basic Fiddler texts. The Mother Goose codex, I think—all the volumes, please, Baxter, and The Legends of Nod. Those will give them a good start.”

  “Excellent choices, mi amor.” Baxter splayed his palm along the shelves nearest Wren. “You apprentices can choose from any of these. I’ll give you a few minutes to make your selections, and then we’ll begin the practical lesson.”

  Wren crowded closer with Jack and Simon. It was almost humorous to see the dark, faded leather of the spell books labeled Mother Goose at the top. Simon wasted no time and grabbed two that had subtitles having to do with animals. Wren skimmed over the faded spines until she came across one titled Fiddler Talents through the Ages. She slipped it out, pulling another one at random, leaving Jack still hunting.

  She set her choices on the stone table with a thunk, opening the first to carefully lettered words, some using such an archaic spelling that Wren could barely make them out. Embellished pictures in the margins showed figures in motion, some accompanied by animals or detailed drawings of plants. It seemed to be arranged alphabetically, and Wren flipped the pages until she came to the Ws.

  And there it was. A whole chapter on Weather Changers. There was a rhyme demonstrating how a Fiddler who also had a talent for gardening could pair the two and increase a harvest. And another having to do with turning a sprinkle into a downpour. She skimmed more rhymes, which seemed mostly to center around plants and agriculture. Apparently, Weather Changers were quite useful in times of drought and famine.

  She stopped at the part that detailed historical uses of weather-changing, which was topped with a definition of sorts. An inherent strength at manipulating the weather can have other collateral effects. She ran her forefinger down the words, skimming the list of symptoms. Sleep disturbances, geological changes, foretelling visions, climate control, and emotional manipulation of others. Great care must be taken for these Fiddlers to learn to identify and accept their response to the stardust in order to avoid unintended consequences.

  Wren read the paragraph again. She’d already bought the reality that there was magic in the world, and that she, Simon, and Jack were some of the few who could play it. Accepting that her abilities might have other bizarre consequences didn’t seem like that much of a leap. At least, that’s what her head told her. Inside, she was terrified.

  She read the rest of the page, but most of it had to do with recorded instances of geological phenomena attributed to Weather Changers. A big earthquake back in the 1500s. And a flood shortly thereafter. Wren only read that bit through once. It was hard enough to deal with this new reality without worrying about what horrible thing she might accidentally do. But no matter how many instances of disastrous weather she could ignore, she couldn’t wipe out of her mind that one nagging phrase: sleep disturbances.

  The nightmarish dreams that she’d been somewhat successful in pushing to the edges of her mind came crashing back in. She skimmed faster. Were the dreams connected to being a Weather Changer? She found a rhyme about the phases of the moon and how that might increase the dream cycle in nighttime sleep. And how a Fiddler could induce a dreamless sleep by lighting a certain herb or cause someone to have extra-vivid dreams with another. She bent closer, hunting for clues, and then saw that someone had ripped out several pages from that section. The book went from talking about sleep disturbed by something called dreamopathy to how the cycle of the moon could help a woman give birth to a baby. Wren glanced through the rest of the pages, but they all felt irrelevant, information to help people who’d lived hundreds of years ago. She sighed. No doubt the answers she was looking for were somewhere in the missing pages, and judging from the weathered appearance of the book, those pages were long gone.

  “If that one’s boring,” Jack said, misinterpreting her sigh, “try this one. It’s all about love potions.” He snickered.

  “That’s nothing.” Simon barely looked up from his books. “This volume catalogs other species besides falcons that have adapted to a regular use of stardust.” His ever-present notebook lay flat next to the spell books, and he was carefully copying down what he read.

  “Not boring.” Wren leaned back and rubbed her eyes. “Just confusing. I mean, were Fiddlers like witch doctors or something? Good harvests. Medicine. That’s what we have irrigation and vaccinations for. What’s the use of some of this stuff?”

  She picked a rhyme at random and read it out loud:

  As soft as silk, as white as milk

  As bitter as gall, a strong wall,

  And a green coat covers me all.

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It’s your job to find out,” Baxter said, bringing over an armload of books to set in front of them. “You didn’t think Fiddlers from the Dark Ages would be writing about cellular biology, did you? They were medieval people, and so their science reads more, well, medievally.”

  “Like alchemists,” Jack said.

  Simon leaned close to read over Wren’s shoulder. “I wonder if it was cow’s milk.”

  “Alchemists,” Wren said, ignoring Simon. “Or Magicians.”

  “Exactly,” Baxter said. “But don’t say the M-word around the Crooked House if you know what’s good for you.” He pretended to wipe at some nonexistent dust on his sweater.

  “What do you mean?” Wren asked. “You’ve been telling us that stardust is magic since the beginning.”

  Baxter and Liza exchanged glances.

  “We said that so you would understand,” Liza said. “But if you talk like that here, they’ll think you’re talking about Boggen and his Magicians.”

  “The Magicians,” Wren said as evenly as she could manage, looking at Liza. Cole had said there hadn’t been a Weather Changer since the Magicians. “I thought you all were Magicians.”

  “We are in the sense that we all can work stardust. But a long time ago, two groups formed among the Fiddlers: the Alchemists and the Magicians.” Liza grabbed a piece of paper and began to sketch. “It might help to think of what Fiddlers do as two equal and yet codependent forces: alchemy and magic. Alchemy, like science”—she drew a diamond shape—“enables us to understand and, in certain ways, manipulate the properties of all living things. Magic”—she drew something that resembled a flame—“does the same thing on a metaphysical level. You know, the unseen realm of thoughts and emotions.” She circled both markings. “As Fiddlers, we work together to unite the two forces. Those of us who were stronger in what you might call the scientific part became Alchemists. This is our mark.” Her pencil point touched the diamond. “Those who were stronger in, well, the rest of it, became Magicians.” She let her fingers rest on the flame.

  “That’s the same symbol that was on Boggen’s stone,” Wren said.

  “That’s right.” Baxter sighed. “The problems started when the ordinary world began to suspect and despise us. The Alchemists and the Magicians disagreed on how to respond.”

  “Disagreed!” Liza snorted. “A civil war is more than a disagreement.”

  Baxter continued. “The Magicians wanted to take over, to rule the ordinary world. They increased their power by consuming the lives of others.”

  “Living stardust.” Simon’s voice was agitated. He flipped back several pages in his notebook. “That’s what the Council called it yesterday. Living stardust.”

  “You’re right.” Baxter’s voice cracked. “It was disgusting. They thought that stealing life from another would somehow enrich their own. But they were wrong. Death begets death.” He shook his head. “Sad as we were at their demise, we were glad when the Magicians failed. Their dying brought an end to the civil war.”

  “I don’t understand,” Wren said, her wo
rds spilling faster at the thought of what she’d overheard the day before. “The Council was talking about the Magicians. About how they weren’t dead after all.”

  “So we heard,” Liza said, taking off her glasses and folding them up. “They told us at the summoning, but I still can’t believe it. Not dead? What can it mean?”

  “We will find out. All the Fiddlers have been summoned, and with this new development, the Council will certainly give Mary access to the rest of Boggen’s research.” Baxter squeezed Wren’s shoulder and looked at the rest of them in turn. “The important thing to remember is that there are centuries of conflicts and alliances that you know next to nothing about. Better not to speak to any full Fiddler in the Crooked House. Best of all not to mention magic or Magicians or Boggen’s name. Understood? Now, back to our lesson. We must begin the practical portion. The starlamp first, I think.”

  Baxter and Liza led them through one of the library doors and into a space three times its size and completely empty. Wren soon saw why. “Put one foot behind the other, here.” Baxter pressed on Simon’s chest. “And lean your torso back like this. Good form. Now, say the rhyme, and I’ll show you what to do with your hands.” Baxter pinched some stardust and tossed it into the air, stirring up a cloud of silvery blue around Simon. Baxter chanted the lines and then instructed Simon to repeat after him:

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star

  How I wonder what you are.

  “Cup one palm like this,” Baxter said, letting some of the dust settle. “And use the fingers of the other hand to cut this pattern in the remaining dust as it falls.”

  Up above the world so high,

  Like a diamond in the sky.

  Simon’s fingers traced a diamond through the stardust.

  “Now, raise your hand up here,” Baxter said, “toward the ceiling. And sing the rest of the rhyme.”

  There your bright and tiny spark