When Stars Die (The Stars Trilogy) (15 page)

I close my eyes, digging around the chasm of pitched memories. That day Sash left our cell with a smile on his face. I wasn’t in there, but Colette was. He must have touched her to know that she could see him. She’s a good actor then, a right liar, keeping that from me, trying to convince me that I was just seeing things when she could see them all along. That’s just like her to want to protect me, even if that means endangering her own life. Then during our second trial, she kept talking about dying. She must have been worried the Shadowmen were going to kill her. But they didn’t kill her. I almost killed her. I have harmed her indefinitely to the point where the Professed Order sees her as enough of a burden to foist her on some asylum by the sea. To blame the Shadowmen about Colette would be preposterous.

At the same time, Colette’s condition makes her vulnerable. Why haven’t they killed her? Perhaps she’d carry her condition to the next life, and they don’t want that burden either. After all, Asch looks like he is carrying burdens from his previous life.

I cock my head. “If you aren’t here to hurt me, then why are you here?”

Asch approaches me and bends down to my level, almost closing the space between us. I flinch over how close he is to me. He smells like death, not the decomposition of death, but rather the frigidness of death. “I’m here to erase your memory so you can forget we ever existed. It’s my power as a Shadowman. In life, I wanted to forget my own existence.” He straightens, a scowl replacing his grin. “This is my own little undertaking, not an order from Purgatory. I would think he’d want me to do this to you, to protect you. He’s so keen on doing that himself though. If you don’t submit, I will kill you.”

My nails go back into my palms. I don’t know what he means by wanting to keep me away from Purgatory. He talks as if I know this Shadowman, but I don’t. Asch and Sash and Gisbelle are the only identifiable Shadowmen. No one else. I swallow. “What is the purpose of erasing my memories? Is my knowledge of your existence really so dangerous?”

Without warning, Asch pushes me against the wall of the grotto, trapping me with an arm on either side. He bares down on me with hardened eyes. “It is dangerous, in fact. Why should we trust you to keep our existence a secret? Witches like you can harm us. Fire is our undoing. Our own magic is our undoing. Those are the only things that can kill us. There is no guarantee you won’t start an uprising of your own.”

An uprising of my own? I straighten against the wall to make myself seem tall. “You’re not taking my memories.” I don’t want anyone dulling my experiences, putting holes in my life and leaving me to wonder what happened in those in-betweens.

Asch curls his fingers against the wall and puts his face against mine, a hairsbreadth of space between us. He grits his teeth. “Then I will kill you.”

The icy scent of his breath, laced with something like a rotting carcass, spears my heart. He is serious about killing me.

“You won’t respond?” Asch asks. “You rebel in silence, I see.”

Asch grabs my throat, my hands instinctively flying to his wrists. He presses his fingers so hard into my neck that I fear my windpipe will split along its seam. As a small, pathetic cry funnels through my throat, a familiar voice forces Asch to pull away.

“Leave her alone!”

Oliver appears from the other side of the grotto, dressed in the same clothes he wore the day he dropped Nathaniel and I off. He has dark bruises beneath his eyes.

Asch tenses his fists, but one look from Oliver sends him away from me. “I suppose you’ve just been saved, Amelia.” He runs around the grotto, probably into the hills that extend forever.

I look at Oliver, my heart fluttering in my chest to see him. “Olly!” A true smile replaces the fear that held my body in ropes.

Oliver doesn’t return my smile. His look is callous. “Go,” he says.

“Olly--”

“I said go!”

He turns away from me and heads in Asch’s direction, leaving me rooted to the spot. The happiness dissipates when I begin to realize that Oliver, too, must be a witch, since he was so assertive toward Asch without fear. I shouldn’t be surprised. His sister Ella is. I suppose any children whose parents suffered a Seven Deadly Sin will be witches, no matter if that sin was cured or not. Then again, I wonder why Asch listened to him. What’s so special about Oliver that Asch won’t even question him, or make a quick kill of me before running off? And why was Oliver so cruel?

Disappointment expands in my chest, settling too thickly in my heart. I will die into a Shadowman, regardless of how I live this life. Even worse, Oliver hates me.

#

At night, in my room with my door locked and my window open to the wintry sky, I sit at my desk by the light of a taper, staring at a blank piece of paper. The taper throws my hunched shadow against the wall paneling. Outside, snow falls in a gentle hush, a few flakes landing, then melting on my desk. I tap the nub of my quill against the aged wood, finding comfort in the regular tap-tap-tap rhythm. The inkwell set in the corner of my desk taunts me with fresh ink that knows I have no idea what or to whom to write. The words have been snipped from my heart, buried in the shadows of uncertainty that have stolen hope from me.

I was in the library earlier reading The Vulgate, and trying to find some reassurance that there was a fate for witches other than dying into a Shadowman at the mercy of this mortal world. There is nothing about the fate of witches though--only that we do not get a chance at Paradise.

I hoped I could change that. That was the sole reason for my desire to be professed. To know that can’t be changed, even if I were to bleed myself for Deus, unravels my heart. I could continue to convince myself otherwise and to hold on to the hope there is more out there for witches, but I can’t keep living in denial. Living in denial for these past three years is the reason I feel the way I do right now.

I look out into the night sky, unable to find comfort in the stars that litter the black canvas of the world. Mr. Lordes once taught Nathaniel and I that the stars we see may no longer look the way our eyes perceive them, and they may no longer even be there. Those stars existed centuries ago, and are billions of miles away from this earth. The light takes centuries to travel, so we see the light that took so long to get here, while the physical bodies of the stars are something different.

Yet, even when stars die, they leave a lasting impact through their light, their diamond brilliance as they scatter their material to form new stars. When people die, they leave the same impact with the footprints they leave on people’s hearts. Even the ones who feel insignificant go out, leaving behind dust that can nourish the world anew. But do witches go out in the same way? Or do we disappear, leaving no such brilliance behind because of what we become when we die?

It’s cruel that being a Shadowman is supposed to be a gift for enduring suffering in life. Being a Shadowman is not being in Paradise. One is still tied to this world, unable to move on to another life. The Vulgate has talked extensively about Paradise, even though Paradise is not described. That leaves room for one to imagine Paradise for him or herself. I once imagined Paradise as a world in constant spring. Now I no longer know what to think.

I no longer know what to do. I wanted to go back to Cathedral Reims or seek out another convent, but what is the purpose of being professed if that will not prevent me from dying into a Shadowman? There is no purpose. None whatsoever. All that is left for me now is accepting my Father’s dream. I could finish my tutoring with Mr. Lordes, maybe even go to a finishing school for a year and have my season in Norbury. Father can set me up with a rich suitor who will take care of me and will ensure my Father’s health in old age. I’ll have children. I won’t commit any of the Seven Deadly Sins. When I die, I’ll turn into a Shadowman, but at least my children will be the stars I leave behind for the world to see years after I am gone. They won’t bear my sins, my stigma, because they won’t be witches.

I dip my nub into the inkwell, deciding to write to Oliver, who I’m not even sure will get this letter since I have no idea where he is. He obviously didn’t go back to Cathedral Reims after leaving me stranded here. But I write, if only to comfort myself.

I tell him that I have no such plans of coming back to Cathedral Reims, that he should forget about me and anything we had between us, and that I am okay with his not saying good-bye to me. I pen those final words, and a sob racks my body. Suppressed tears trickle down my face in droplets and create dark splotches on my letter. I put so much pressure on the quill that the nub breaks and ink flies out in a black ribbon that drapes across the page, obscuring the contents of my letter. A final tear mixes in with the splotch.

I pull myself out of my desk, grab the letter, and rip it to shreds. I throw my hand out the window and let the icy wind and snow carry my shredded letter somewhere far, maybe even to another country with a girl exactly like me, in the exact same situation, pondering the exact same thoughts. She’ll have to put the letter together herself, but the message is there: I have given up; there is no bringing that faith back.

I go over to my four-poster bed, and throw myself down on the satin sheets, heaving the curtains around my bed so that velvet darkness embraces me. There will be no end to the tears. I cry for myself, for Mother, for Nathaniel, for Father, for Colette, and for Oliver. My tears are angry with Oliver though. He abandoned me, left me with only a callous stare, and now that I need him and crave him more than ever, he is nowhere to be seen. Not a call, not a letter. Nothing.

I turn on my back, gripping one of my pillows. My nails find a loose seam. They dig into the seam, pulling out bits of string, and cotton spills through. I beat the pillow against the bed, and once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see cloud-shaped cotton spilling everywhere. These intense emotions are no longer for the things I was too afraid to cry about. These intense emotions are for Oliver. Their presence only makes me angrier, so I beat the pillow harder and harder against my bedspread until there is no cotton left and only a velvety husk clutched in my hands. Since the velvet is all that remains of the pillow, I feel around the sack for another seam, dig my nails into that, and start tearing off strips of the velvet.

“I hate you, Oliver. I hate you, Olly. I hate you!” I scream these last three words so loud my throat goes raw from the sharpness edging each syllable. I then collapse back on to my bed and both cry and scream. “Why did you have to leave me? Why did you have to leave me here to deal with this loneliness?” I sniffle, turning on my back and staring up at my darkened ceiling. “Olly, what do I do? Why did you just leave me like that?”

I sit up in bed, gasping. If I should be asking anyone for advice, it should be Colette. I should be screaming for Colette, should be cursing myself for what I did to her. She’s supposed to be my best friend, the one I have the strongest bond. Yet every day I feel more and more distanced from her while Oliver’s absence makes me feel closer to him. Why is this? I don’t understand. Does this mean being professed is truly not meant to be if I cannot hold on to memories of someone who is my best friend and Sister? When I first entered Cathedral Reims, I swore myself to my sisters that I would lay my life down for them if I had to. I promised this especially to Colette, the only sister who helped me with my tin soldiers because I was the only one struggling to make even one.

Some Sister I am, pining over a mere boy. Sister Allyn punished me with mopping the latrine my second month at Cathedral Reims because I hadn’t prepared my speech for elocution class. Oliver offered to help after discovering that I had a difficult time cleaning due to the noxious stench. Such an interaction was forbidden; even though I mentioned this to him, he still helped. And then I started developing feelings for him as the months passed, ones I have been able to suppress. I knew he had feelings for me too because of our subtle flirtations: kisses on the cheek, soft hugs, gentle touches. Yet, with Oliver’s desire to kiss me, and my thoughts latched on to him like an anchor, we can’t have feelings for each other and be friends without admitting we want more. Maybe Oliver sees this too.

Even worse, I have spent more time with Colette than anyone else, but who do I want by my side more than anyone?

I grab another pillow and toss it at my curtains. “Really, Olly, where do I go from here?”

Chapter Fifteen

It is early spring in the plum orchard at Cathedral Reims. Plum blossoms fall in gentle spirals around us, some landing in my hair, in the crook of my lap, in the grass, even on Oliver. The air is ripe with their intoxicating perfume. Come summer, we’ll be able to pick fresh plums for pies, jams, and other sinfully delicious desserts. In the bright sunlight, Oliver’s eyes gleam like silver, not the plain gray I’m so used to. His skin isn’t a sickly pale. He has color, a tinge of peach that flushes his cheeks. His black hair isn’t droopy but full and feather light. Oliver reaches over and plucks a plum petal out of my hair. He inhales the sweet aroma. “A plum with a little bit of you.”

Heat blooms in my body, starting small in some private place within me, then radiating out in concentric circles. The warmth is delicious. I want more. Getting on my knees, I reach out and plant my hands on Oliver’s chest. I ease him to the ground with gentle force, then straddle him. He closes his eyes, a smile on lips I hunger for. I press myself down on him, the heat bursting in sparks through me that strips my nerves raw. Oliver grabs my waist, pushing himself into me, making my nerves feel like they’re going to scream. I dig my fingers in Oliver’s collared shirt, pull him up, and plant my lips on his, my teeth grazing his bottom lip. He tastes like fresh snow.