Sing Down the Stars (The Celestine Series Book 1)

by L. J. Hatton

  “I thought Magnus had told all of his girls. When he said he’d asked for a meeting to discuss—” Her attention came back to me and she stopped. I was branded the child who’d wandered in on a delicate conversation. “I thought surely he would have prepared you before he left.”

  “Prepared me for what?” I asked. “Why did he want a meeting with you?”

  “Not me, kid. There were hounds sniffing around, and a lot of chatter about The Show and its untapped assets. Your dad refused to listen to sense; he said he still had a card or two to play in negotiation, so he kept the train rolling.”

  “Negotiate? With who? For what?”

  “The Commission, honey.” Beryl patted my hand. I didn’t know why she insisted on treating me like I was a toddler. “He had some secret he’d kept in his back pocket for years, and he hoped it would be enough to buy him more time. Obviously, it wasn’t.”

  My father didn’t have any secrets that I knew of. Xerxes was the last major build he’d done that wasn’t specifically on Commission order. The only thing I could think of that he was keeping secret besides me was Klok. He knew what the wardens would do to Klok; my father would never let him face that.

  “Is my father alive?” I asked. “Did you see him after he left us?”

  Beryl shook her head, like I was speaking a language she didn’t understand.

  “Magnus said you’d lived a shielded life on the train, but I had no idea,” she said to the floor.

  “Actually, I think he meant ‘shielded’ in the literal sense,” Mary Alban said. She took a seat on the bench in front of Beryl so she could turn sideways and face her. “I finally understand why he built his circus inside a cage.”

  “Set dressing,” I said, wondering how that was possibly relevant. “People like the light show.”

  “Maybe, but Magnus used it as a dampening field to suppress your touch. It’s how he kept you under wraps, and it’s why you’re so worried about your abilities now.”

  “Suppress? He didn’t train you?” Beryl asked, shocked.

  You couldn’t train a Celestine. I was a sparking wildfire wrapped up in a flood fueled by hurricanes and earthquakes. No one could tame that, certainly not me.

  “If my father had to suppress my abilities, it’s only because I can’t control them.”

  “Your power is raw, but judging by the control you showed tonight when Dorcas was trying your temper—” Sister Mary Alban started, but I cut her off.

  “I couldn’t control it; I could only stop it.”

  “Which is harder—firing a gun, or stopping the bullet once it’s in flight?”

  “Stopping it, but—”

  “But nothing. You channeled the momentum and dissipated the force. Your problem isn’t control, Penn. You need practice, and now that we’ve found you, Beryl can—”

  “No! My abilities are too dangerous. I’m dangerous.” And I wasn’t about to pass that danger on to someone else. “That’s why there was chatter, wasn’t it? They saw. I messed up, and he tried to fix it.”

  “Absolutely not,” Beryl said. She reached for my hand, but I pulled it out of reach.

  “One of you tell me what’s going on. No more half answers. No more secret looks,” I demanded. I didn’t bother to tell them that I was a breath away from screaming for Klok, or that he was under direct orders from my sister to protect me.

  “Show her,” Sister Mary Alban said.

  Beryl nodded solemnly. She rose and stepped into the aisle.

  “I don’t see anything,” I said, but once the words left my lips, they were a lie.

  Beryl’s skin changed, losing its color and turning pallid and sickly. Her hair thinned into scraggles. She shrank, losing mass as fast as a collapsing golem until she wasn’t herself anymore. A chillingly familiar hag had replaced her.

  “What’s your tale, girl?” the Abbess from the warehouse asked.

  “Wh-what is this?” I stammered.

  I had nowhere to hide, and I couldn’t escape. The benches where Mary Alban sat blocked one door, and the Abbess blocked the other. I couldn’t go out the front for fear of the warden.

  Which monster should I choose?

  “Penn, calm down,” Sister Mary Alban said. She’d promised the church was safe; she wasn’t supposed to usher danger in the front door and arrange a private meeting. “She’s not what you think.”

  “Stay away from me,” I warned, ready to bring the building down on top of us, if I could. A corpse couldn’t be sold and it couldn’t be made into a hound—problem solved.

  “It’s me,” said the Abbess’s mouth with Beryl’s voice. The fractures in her appearance returned, chasing the pasty color from her skin and revealing her true face underneath. “It’s really me.”

  “What are you?”

  “Someone like your father, and your aunt, and untold others who were either lucky or unfortunate enough to be touched at the inception of the Great Illusion.”

  “My father was an adult then,” I argued. “So were you.”

  It was only the children who were touched; you had to be born that way.

  “People say the Medusae covered the whole planet, but not at first contact. Do you know what an antipode is?” Mary Alban asked.

  “Should I?”

  “It’s a spot on the globe that’s connected to a reciprocal location on the other side. You could drill a hole from one to the other, through the core, and have a straight line.”

  “Like the poles?” I asked.

  “Exactly. There were tiny gaps between Medusae bodies all over the world, less than a quarter mile wide, and every one had an antipode that was also a gap. Our skies didn’t turn pink for days.”

  “We thought we were lucky, that they were safe zones.” Here, Beryl took over the story. “But they were channels that the Medusae used to get a closer look at our planet.”

  “How close?” I asked.

  “Close enough to touch—if you don’t mind the pun. Most points have land on one side and water on the other, so they could get wide-spectrum results.”

  “You mean they actually landed?”

  There were no pictures of that during the anniversary. The whole mystique of the Medusae was that they were passive observers. If people knew otherwise, it would change everything.

  “I wouldn’t call it landing,” Beryl said. “It was more like sentient luminescence. Lights that filtered through the clouds and moved from person to person. Through people, in some cases. They were sampling our environment—and us.”

  There were definitely no pictures of that, either.

  “I think they only meant to get a closer look at us,” Sister Mary Alban said. “But there was a reaction in everyone they came into contact with. It seemed short-lived at first, with the only side effect being a bit of extra life to the eyes—much like your magician friend.”

  “Jermay’s normal.”

  “Isn’t everyone in their own way?” the sister asked. “The glittering effect only lasted hours, but when that faded, the other changes kicked in.”

  Jermay’s only abilities were the kind his father taught him, and I would have said the same of my father. If he’d been touched like Sister Mary Alban, then what was his gift? I’d never seen him do anything more spectacular than build exhibits for The Show. Was it just him, or had my mother been affected, too?

  “Being touched is why you can throw sparks?” I asked Mary Alban, then I turned to Beryl and added, “And how you can change your face?”

  “I can make you believe I have,” she corrected. “Which comes in handy when one is trying to locate and secure scared runaway children who often run straight into trouble.”

  “You save them!”

  As the Abbess, all she had to do was put out word that she’d pay for any kid taken in off the street, and scum like Tuck did the legwork
for her. Paying more for the uninjured kept them safe. And with someone like Sister Mary Alban to help, she could relocate touched kids to new families who didn’t know their backstories, and who wouldn’t be under Commission surveillance.

  “Wait . . . How did I know all that?”

  “Because what I do is project thoughts,” Beryl said, grinning. “That’s how I got you here.”

  Follow the flame . . .

  She grinned again.

  “It can go the other way, too—pulling them out. I had to see if you were who you appeared to be when I saw you in that warehouse.”

  “That was you pulling up my memories of The Show?”

  “It was, and now that we’ve got you here safe, I can pick up the slack your father never should have left you with. How many of you made it?”

  “All five of us, and we’re going home,” I told them. I didn’t need a new family or a new life. Mine was waiting at the Hollow. “My father has a safe house. Hopefully he’s there, and even if he’s not, the others will be.”

  “That warden’s well on his way to sealing the block. I barely made it inside, even projecting a uniform,” Beryl said.

  “Which is exactly why you can’t walk us out, but I was thinking that maybe someone else could. Several someones.”

  I had it worked out in my head. Come Sunday morning, the church would be packed with parishioners and people seeking first-Sunday charity. No way could the warden screen everyone going in or out, not with people rushing back to their cars, and kids running around to burn off the energy they’d pent up during services.

  “On Sunday morning, we could each leave with different groups of people. You can watch our backs unseen, and the five of us can meet up at the edge of town.”

  Neither Sister Mary Alban nor Beryl was thrilled with the idea of us splitting up, or continuing down the road unescorted, but it was the lesser risk. There was nowhere in the town or surrounding area that Beryl could hide us that the warden wouldn’t search. We were too big a target, and that put her and every child under her protection in danger.

  The two women remained behind in the sanctuary, conspiring to find a plan B, or at least to strengthen plan A. I went back to the little house with its fire and cramped spaces. Klok looked up, but once he was satisfied that it was only me, he went right back to work. It was the first time I’d ever thought about him having to sleep, though I knew he had a bedroom on the train. I didn’t think he’d taken so much as a catnap the whole time we were in the church.

  I returned to my chair to find Jermay had adjusted it so he could lie down on his chair with his feet hanging through the space in the back of mine. Instead of waking him up, I slipped in beside him so that he was lying at my back. A moment’s hesitation, and I reached for his hand, which had already chased away so many bad thoughts on our journey. I threaded my fingers through his, pulling his arm around me without a word; he moved a bit, settling his chin on top of my head.

  It was as close to home as I could get until we reached the Hollow. I closed my eyes, and hoped to dream of anything other than falling stars and wishes that never came true.

  CHAPTER 13

  Saturday passed in lurches of hours that were separated by dragging lulls. I’d ask Sister Mary Alban every question I could think of at once, then my brain would try to digest what she’d said. By the time Sunday arrived, I’d convinced and unconvinced myself that we might actually escape. I was a wreck.

  The sister raided some donation bins so we could change our clothes, and others’ perceptions of us. Winnie and Birdie would wear the white and brown uniform of parochial schoolchildren. Klok stood tall in dingy workman’s jeans and a shirt with no coat. The sleeves were long enough to cover his arms, and leather gloves kept his hands out of sight.

  Jermay and I drew what could be called Sunday best. A regretful tide churned inside me when Mary Alban brought in my clothes, draping them over a chair, and I wondered if somehow she’d guessed the thoughts I’d harbored about Winnie on Friday night. My suit was beautiful: satin and lace, with a long-tailed bustle-blouse and fancy trousers fit for the pampered princess that Bull had accused me of being.

  I wanted to retch.

  “We will make it to the Hollow,” Klok assured me. “And you look pretty. I like blue.”

  Because, of course, compliments and color preferences were of equal importance to escaping with our lives.

  He meant well, but there was a new earnestness to Klok’s expression that made me squirm. In a way, he was becoming too human to me. Too real, and too much like the surrogate brother that my father had always treated him as. Brothers didn’t fare well in my family.

  “Don’t look so grim,” Sister Mary Alban warned me as I worried my sleeve.

  I’d taken to chanting “Don’t fall” under my breath to make sure the stars didn’t answer a call I never meant to give. The mumbling must have sounded like “Don’t fail,” because Mary Alban assured me we wouldn’t.

  “I won’t say this will be easy, but it’s doable,” she said, when she’d gathered us all together in the last hours before our escape.

  “They’re here,” I said. “I can feel it.”

  The night the warden took the train was terrifying, but what I felt in that room was a quiet fear—one that had built up without my notice until it was dense enough to flatten my lungs.

  “I need some air,” I said. I had to move, or else I was going to pass out.

  “Should I come with you?” Klok asked. He looked almost hopeful, but he looked at me with my eyes and that was too much. Why couldn’t my father have used brown instead of green?

  “I’ll be okay,” I said, instead of the “absolutely not” I wanted to throw at him.

  I had a vague memory of being inside a church when I was small, but the details had worn away, like a dream too many hours past waking. The sweet mix of incense and candle wax was familiar, but the wooden floor felt odd and too hard under my feet. I liked the color of the rising sun through the glass panes, but for the most part, it was the antithesis of the train. No machines, no technology, no ambient sounds beyond the wind against the outer walls.

  A pair of boys in gold robes came in early to light the hundreds of candles that would burn throughout the service. Each tiny flame changed the appearance of the sanctuary by a degree. Together, they gave the room and the moment a sense of mystery, and a weight that would have been missed had the church allowed electric lights.

  Against the wall, there stood a tiered table with rows of other candles unlike the tapers the boys had lit. These had been used and snuffed for years, their wax forming a deep seal as it melted down the sides in layers. I had asked Sister Mary Alban why most of them were dark, and she said they only burned when someone wanted to send up a special thought or prayer for a loved one. I chose five in a row, one for my father and each of my sisters, then a sixth for everyone else I hoped had escaped the train, and I finally felt like I’d accomplished something.

  I sat on one of the carved benches and lay down to watch the candle smoke trail to the rafters. Everything mingled into clouds that had darkened the ceiling nearly black, and it was easy to imagine that all the years the church had seen still lived there. All the breath and songs and prayers hung over the people who would soon fill the room and add to the mix.

  The church was built from history, where every sound and scent mixed with textured wood and paper to create something that couldn’t be copied by metal or circuitry. I liked it. I felt safe, and it was a feeling I was loath to give up, but there were footsteps crossing the floor. A hesitant tap of shoe against wood.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” Jermay said. He stopped near my feet; I didn’t sit up.

  “I needed to think.”

  “You usually think faster.”

  “Blame the hat.” Sister Mary Alban had pinned a rid
iculously undersized piece of silver to the side of my head, claiming it was all the rage with local girls. It looked like an upside-down teacup. “I can’t think straight in a crooked hat.”

  “Does lying down help?” Jermay asked. He lay down at the opposite end of my bench, stretching his legs out so our shoes were sole-to-sole. “What are we looking at?”

  “Nothing.” I tapped my foot against his. “And everything.”

  “Really? Because all I see are filthy tiles that Mother Jesek would break her neck trying to reach.”

  He tapped my foot back. I’d hoped to be given a pair of magnificent heels, like Vesper’s, but instead I was wearing boots. They were beautiful, with silver laces and metallic thread embroidered along the sides, but they still reminded me of my ringmaster boots.

  “I’ll be sure to tell her how little you think of her acrobatic skills.”

  Jermay pulled his foot back and kicked the bottom of my boot.

  “You do, and you’re dead.”

  Neither of us bothered to say the obvious where our deaths were concerned.

  “Now I have another reason to make it to the Hollow,” I said. “I want to see Mother sic Birdie on you.”

  Tap.

  Jermay’s turn.

  “Won’t happen. Little Bird’s my new best friend.”

  Tap.

  I sat up.

  “Good, then you don’t have to worry about replacing Penn.”

  “You’re not serious.” Jermay sat up and faced me, cross-legged.

  “I don’t know what I am. I think I lost myself under all the makeup and costumes and lies, and this is just another one.” I shook my blouse hem. “We’re a great big lie sitting in the middle of a place where people are supposed to tell the truth.”

  “The truth is that you’re Penelope Roma. The truth is that no matter the clothes or the voice or the face, you’re the person who marched out in front of a warden and stared him down.”

  “The person who almost killed you, and Winnie, and—”

  “And so what? Even trained soldiers misfire now and then.”