Crown of Stars

by Sophie Jaff

  “I hate the way she hid them.”

  “That isn’t great, but maybe she felt like she was going the extra mile. Anyway, I think we talk about it with her and give her one more chance before letting her go.”

  “Okay. But I also think we should speak with Lucas and find out how this has affected him.”

  “I agree.”

  “And if it happens again, or he starts spouting some weird religious nonsense? Or shows the slightest effect of brainwashing?”

  “We scream out, ‘Hallelujah, praise Jesus!’” He sees her expression. “Okay, okay. She’s gone. Deal?”

  “Deal. And I think we also look for another babysitter.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  But she wonders if it is fine.

  Earlier in the evening, when she had been putting him to bed, Lucas had sensed that something was wrong.

  “Hey, Kat. Are you mad?” He had squeezed her arm, the tone of his voice anxious.

  “I’m not mad.”

  He had looked at her with a little frown of concern that made her heart sink.

  “Okay, well, I was a little . . . upset. But not at you.” She decided to tell him the truth. “I found . . . some stuff in your room.”

  “Stuff? What kind of stuff?”

  “Just stuff. Grown-up stuff.” She had plunged on. “Um, Lucas? Has Mrs. B ever told you anything and said it was a secret?”

  “A secret?”

  “Yeah. Did she ever tell you anything and say you shouldn’t tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Because you know you can tell me anything, right?”

  “Right.”

  But she thought he seemed uncomfortable. “Does Mrs. B ever say anything to you that didn’t make sense, that confused you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, because if she did, that’s all right, I’m not mad, I just need to know. Because I don’t ever want you to be confused.”

  “Okay.” Now, of course, he was confused.

  Before heading downstairs to confront Sael, Katherine had returned for a final check on him. He appeared to be sleeping, but when she turned to leave his room—

  “Kat?”

  “Oh, Lucas, I thought you were sleeping! Everything okay?”

  “I was thinking about it.”

  “Thinking about it?”

  “What you said about Mrs. B.”

  She came back and sat down on the edge of his bed. “Yes?”

  “I did tell her something.”

  “Yeah?” Katherine nudged him gently.

  “There was one time when I was scared.”

  “What were you scared of, honey?”

  He was silent. This is a child who has been visited by the dead. The ladies.

  “Lucas, can you tell me what scared you?”

  He hesitated a moment more. “It was a lady.”

  “Like the ladies you saw a while ago?” She remembered his drawing. The woman’s yellow ponytail, the big black circle of her screaming mouth, the red squiggles of blood, the angle of her broken neck.

  “No, this lady is different.”

  “How is she different?”

  “She’s . . .” He’d struggled for words. “She’s not, she’s not like them.”

  “I don’t understand, honey. How is she different?”

  “She’s older.”

  “Like an old lady?”

  “No, like older than that.”

  “What scares you about her?”

  “She doesn’t like me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The way she looks at me when she thinks I don’t see her.”

  “Oh, honey.” Katherine felt terrible that she hasn’t been there for him, that it has been Mrs. B comforting him instead. “And what did Mrs. B say?”

  “She said she would help protect me.”

  Shit. Katherine had kicked herself. Now you can’t even be angry at her. “Did she say what she would do?”

  “No, she just said she would take care of it.”

  “Well, love, I’m glad you told me and I want you to know you can always tell me when something scares you.”

  He still appeared a little unsure. It’s as if he’s holding something back, something important. But how can she dig further without alarming him? Bad enough he’s been confiding in someone else. She won’t push more tonight.

  “All right, Lucas, you need to go to sleep now, but let me know the next time you see this lady, and I’ll deal with her.” I have no idea how I will deal with her, she admitted to herself, but the way I feel now, I know even a ghost doesn’t stand a chance. A ghost of a chance. Ha, ha.

  “Okay, but Kat?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be angry with Mrs. B.”

  “Love, I’m not mad at her, I’m mad at myself because I couldn’t be there for you.”

  “She’s nice.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And she makes chocolate cake.”

  “That’s true, she does make excellent cake.” Maybe I’ll get the recipe before I fire her religious ass, Katherine decided. So much for turning the other cheek.

  He saw her smiling. “Promise?”

  “Promise what?”

  “That you won’t be mad with her.”

  “I promise,” she had said. “I promise I’ll give her a chance, if you will make me a promise in turn?”

  “What?”

  “You promise me that if Mrs. B ever says anything or does anything that you don’t understand, or that makes you feel uncomfortable, you’ll let me know?”

  “I promise.”

  “Then I guess we have a deal.” She gave him a kiss. “Night, Lucas.”

  “Night, Kat. I love you.”

  “I love you too. So, so much.”

  Cordelia had growled softly at her as she got up, but she ignored her. If the dog made Lucas feel safe, so be it. She didn’t shut his door all the way, careful to let a little light into his room.

  25

  Margaret

  Thomas bounds into the brewery, excited. He has caught a golden coin. He is the envy of all the pages and most of the assembled crowd, though several others have also been lucky. “She threw a handful, Margaret. A handful!”

  “Tell me all of it,” I demand, “from the beginning.”

  And he does.

  He describes how the procession made its way toward the chapel. How minstrels and musicians on lute and pipe and drum, led with sweet solemnity, and then behind them came all the lords and ladies of the neighboring counties in glorious gowns and tunics and doublets and cloaks of reds and blues and yellows and greens, silks and satins and furs. How her kinsmen and his paced in stately solemnity, arm in arm, followed by Lord August’s knights and advisers and finally Lord August himself, walking slowly through a crowd of all the castle’s servants, villagers and farmer and traders and merchants dressed in their best clothes. When he reached the chapel door, Lord August stood with Father Martin and waited, splendid in a doublet of emerald and bright silken hose.

  “And over that he wore an ermine-trimmed cloak, and upon the cloak a gleaming brooch which winked bright in the sun—”

  “A brooch, did you say? The ring brooch?” This is the detail I have been waiting for.

  “Yes!” Thomas is annoyed at the interruption. “The one I risked my life for, the one you intended to bless as your wedding present.”

  “That is good to hear. Forgive me, please continue.”

  “Then the bride approached.” Thomas sighs. “Margaret, I swear you have never seen such loveliness. Truly, she seemed to be not flesh and blood, but an angel. Her dress was bright and brilliant, blue as the sky to match her eyes, and upon it was a silver mantle set with gleaming pearls. Her hair was loose and long and circled with a crown of tiny white wildflowers. We all knelt as she went passed, as though she were a queen, and Lord August—”

  Abruptly, he falls silent. It seems he has finally remembered who is l
istening to him. His careless words would have stung me once, but now I only smile as Thomas sings Lady Generys’s praises. “Yes?”

  Thomas looks guilty. “I do not wish to bring you pain, Margaret.”

  “Not at all,” I say, raising one arm to wipe my brow as I bend over the vat. “I am most intrigued.”

  “Well then, Lord August also fell to his knees and said—” Thomas sinks onto his own knees and proclaims dramatically, “‘My lady, you outshine the sun. No damsel in the land can compare with thee.’”

  “Very prettily said,” I agree.

  He stares intently at my face, but my expression remains serene. “You are different today.”

  I am seemingly engrossed in my stirring, careful that nothing I say or do belies my words. “In what way?”

  He shakes his head, confused. “I cannot name it, but I know.”

  “Well, I have been hard at work. Brewing this amount of ale is no easy task!”

  “You have brewed vast quantities before,” he points out.

  “But not ale fit for a great lord’s table upon his wedding day.” I look up and smile. “My reputation hangs in the balance!”

  Thomas leans in and sniffs. “I’ll grant you, it smells good. What’s in there?”

  “Marjoram and nutmeg, lavender, chamomile, valerian root, among other things. A special blend—”

  Before I can stop him, he has grabbed a cup and dipped it into the vat.

  “Stop!” I cry as he raises it to his lips.

  He freezes, mouth hanging open, the cup in his hand.

  “It is not ready yet,” I finish lamely.

  “Oh.” He pours the contents back, then glances from me to the foaming liquid, an unhappy expression forming.

  Partly to distract him and partly from curiosity, I ask, “How will you spend your coin?”

  My question has the desired effect of bringing him back to his sudden good fortune. “I do not know yet.” He hugs himself with joy. “Perhaps buy a great house so that you will no longer have to brew, nor Rudd and I to work, and a fine steed as Lord August has.”

  “All on one coin?”

  He is a crestfallen.

  I am touched by his generosity and have no desire to dampen his dreams. “And why not?”

  His face lights up again.

  “I wish you well of it. Now, if I were you, I would go and continue to celebrate the day.”

  He glances at me again, puzzled, but really he needs little encouragement. It is hot down here and growing hotter. I can hear the cook already working himself up into a frenzy of screaming, while outside there is a fresh breeze, and in the Great Hall minstrels and music, drink and dancing, feasting and finery.

  At the door, he turns back to me. “Save me a wing of the roast capon.”

  “I’ll save you the nose and the tips of the toes.”

  Our little exchange finished, he beams at me. I know this will be the last time I look upon his face, and so am glad he is smiling. I smile too. Then I return my attention to the contents of my vat, with another kind of smile altogether.

  Engrossed, I stir and stir, thinking of brimming cups and of toasts, of drunkenness. A vision of dark green vines entwining all who drink and pulling them down, down, down to drown in vast red flowers full of wine and ale. Down, down, down to the very bottom, hands rising, hair drifting up in coils, weighted with drink, anchors, merely anchors, as Caradoc once said—

  I blink, come to my senses. I am still standing in the brewery, but the kitchen next door is now fully come to life as a great beast. There are plenty of hands to help, more than one voice braying orders, even other alewives, although they brew for the servants, for the guards and all the others. Only I am in charge of ale for the wedding party. Scullions are running frantically hither and thither, and the poor little naked spit boys are cranking for their lives. Underlings and kitchen servants grunt and struggle to lift the dishes, which are sent up one by one. Glazed swans with ginger, plums stuffed in their mouths; lampreys baked in vinegar and honey; brawn in mustard; stewed pheasant; fritters of marrow from the finest beef. Stuffed fowls in a rich wine sauce; a whole roe deer bursting with rabbit and herbs and bread crumbs; clutches of eggs spiced liberally with saffron. Massive golden-lidded pies filled with pigeon, the crusts fluted with silver; great loins of veal; herrings coated in soft white sugar, salmon in syrup, bream in aspic; colored jellies for the different crests of the houses. And throughout it all, continual demand for more soft white bread for their soft white hands to sop it all up.

  I take off my apron and wipe down my hands along the sides of my dress. I cast one last look around the bustling, frantic underbelly of the castle. I will never see this place again. Then I walk slowly, slowly, for I have all the time in world, up toward the Great Hall.

  The banquet I attended seems like an age ago, and it was a small affair compared to this. The tables are covered not with linen tonight, but with the finest silks in the de Villias colors; green, red, and silver. A firmament of candles burns and splutters and flickers in great silver candlesticks, dishes and platters of pewter and of silver sparkling in their flame, some even gleaming gold. Tonight the saltcellars take the form of huge silver stags. Even the ewers, holding rose water in which the guests can rinse their fingers before drying them upon soft linen napkins, are silver.

  More minstrels and musicians than I have ever seen before are gathered here, but while their chorus is loud, the laughter and talk and toasts are louder. I am pleased to see the servants rushing to refill the cups and vessels as they are raised over and over and over. Throughout it all are presentations of wedding gifts. Rings, brooches, swords, bolts of cloth, and caskets of wine are placed before the bride and groom. Then I realize I have arrived just in time to see the triumph of the evening, Lord August’s gift to his new wife.

  The din ceases as guests and servants alike stare in awed silence. Six strong men are needed to lift it, and it stands taller even than Rudd. A golden cage, covered with golden leaves and blooms of amethysts and rubies and pearls sparkling along its bars. Inside are nightingales, fluttering wildly and filling the vast hall with frenzied song. Lord August looks just as magnificent as Thomas had said, though now I note he is a trifle flushed with drink and pleasure.

  He turns to Lady Generys. “For my new bride, who brings music to my heart and gives me wings to fly.” And he draws her hand up to his lips as she blushes so prettily.

  I need not remain here any longer. The roaring cheers of the guests are deafening, and the musicians strike up again in earnest. Soon everyone will be dancing and my ale will not cease to flow till dawn.

  I make my way to Lord August’s solar, quick and silent. I know the route well by now, which turns to take through the passageways to reach the staircase. I encounter no one. As I suspected, even the guards are having their own celebrations.

  The room is half lit. A smoldering fire in the fireplace laces shadows upon the great canopied bed with its damask covers and silken sheets, where Lady Generys, not I, will make her way tonight. There, next to the bed upon an ornately carved chest I spy a gold goblet, inlaid with ruby and pearl. I pick it up and place it upon a small rounded table. I cover the goblet with a silken cloth that I have kept pressed to my breast, tucked up in my dress. It was given to me by Lord August, a lifetime ago. I know Lady Generys will take it as a sign. Then I glance around the chamber one last time, a room of seemingly endless nights that ended all too soon.

  I close the door very gently behind me.

  Outside, the guards sway back and forth. They are drinking the servants’ ale readily, and there is talk that perhaps Lord August may give them a taste of the banquet ale too, though I hope for their sakes he is not so generous tonight.

  I stand in a dark corner of the courtyard, and I take out the knife, the one I filched from the kitchen unnoticed amid the madness. It will not have been missed. When I hold it up to the moon, its edge gleams dully. I am not regretful or afraid, only glad.

  Al
l that could make me sad or fearful is now locked within the brooch he wears. My once-beloved love. So it is with delight that I slowly run the tip of the blade over my wrists, the sharp pain is sweet to me. As I work the blade back and forth, I sing one last time.

  Sing me a song of the stars and the moon,

  Sing of the one that was taken too soon.

  A smile in the dark,

  A knife gleaming bright,

  Sing me a song of the night.

  I am only sorry I will not see the fruits that this night shall bear.

  In the Great Hall the banquet is in full flood. I see as I walk past that all are sodden with drink. The silks drenched in spilled mead. Bones scattered on the floor amid the rushes, and the dogs are snarling. The nobility is unraveling. The music is bawdy and the revelers raucous. No one sees me, hooded and silent. They would not see me anyway, for they do not see alewives. They do not see servants, even ones who leave a thin trail of red behind them.

  “A toast!” someone slurs. “A toast!”

  The ones who still can raise their chalices do so, toasting with my ale, and face the bride and groom. Lord August’s face is ruddy. His eyes shine. He laughs. He takes his lady’s hand and kisses it.

  Another great shout. “A toast!”

  I walk on. Still, I can hear it.

  “May you bear many sons!”

  I smile. I walk on.

  It is quiet here in the place of the dead. There is no warmth. There is no noise. A few torches flicker high above me in their iron brackets. I walk past the great stone coffins; I walk underneath the angels with their dead stone eyes. I walk toward the thing that waits for me in the farthest corner, my own stone bed. It will serve me well. It houses another, but I know she will not mind. I am only a servant and not a person, after all.

  I push against the lid. The grating of stone across stone, giant teeth grinding together. I push until there is just enough room for me to slide in. I shed my garments, but my wrists remain wreathed in red.

  From dust have ye come, and to dust ye shall return.