The jay nodded. “They live about a mile from here.”
Old hope surged in my chest. However I wore my despair, I could not leave this stone unturned. Grasping the handles of my bags, I said, “Show me.”
Ristriel gave me a somber nod and flew ahead, as slowly as a bird could without losing the air beneath its wings. My sore feet forgotten, I hurried after him. It wasn’t until I’d covered a full mile that my thoughts whispered, Trickster. But despite his confession, I could not believe Ristriel would purposefully hurt me, so I followed him besides.
The throngs thinned, and the street I followed slimmed into an easy road, turning into a residential area of the city. Narrow houses packed each side of it, some sharing walls, some with spaces only as wide as a man’s shoulders in between. There had to be fifty in all. Ristriel flew around the corner and landed atop the fourth house in the row. A wreath made from torn cloth knotted together hung from its door. I slowed as I neared it, out of breath, night descending around me.
I approached the door and stared at that wreath, wondering which of my practiced scenarios would present itself. I was under the eave, so I couldn’t tell if Ristriel was still there, or if he had flown away to leave me in peace. I wasn’t sure which scenario I preferred. But surely he’d stayed nearby, in case this was the wrong home? In case they didn’t want me?
I glanced behind me, half expecting to see him there. The street remained empty.
Holding my breath, I rapped hard on the door. I wanted to make sure I was heard. Then I waited. The urge to weep overcame me, but I stuffed it down. I could not have their first impression be of me crying in the street, so I stood tall, adjusted my bags, tidied my hair. Shuffling sounded from within, and a woman about ten years my senior opened the door.
She bore no family resemblance to me, not that I’d expected she would. Her pale eyes studied my face. “Can I help you?”
Behind her, a child scurried to the door to get a better look.
“I . . .” My throat closed, and I gently cleared it. “This is going to sound very strange, but my name is Ceris Wenden. I’ve come here from a village called Endwever. My family . . . married into your family a long time ago—”
The woman gasped, a hand rushing to her mouth. I’d forgotten what I was going to say next; she’d startled the words from my mouth.
Her hand slowly lowered. “I know exactly who you are.”
For a moment, my heart didn’t beat.
She opened the door a little wider, and the child, a blonde girl of about eight, poked her head under the woman’s arm. “Ceris Wenden,” the mother said. “You have . . . You have a statue in the Endwever Cathedral.”
Hope lifted my shoulders. “Yes.”
“Your nose . . .” When I touched it self-consciously, she let out a nervous laugh. “I’d heard rumors, but I thought they were just that.”
Knitting my fingers together, I prompted, “You know me?”
She nodded. “The story of our family’s star mother has been passed down for generations. I . . .” Her eyes watered. “I-I married into it, but . . .”
She pulled her daughter in front of her, settling a hand on either of her shoulders. “My name is Quelline. And this, this is Ceris.”
The child smiled and waved.
My jaw slackened. “Ceris?”
“It’s a family name. The first girl in every generation is named after the star mother. And you . . . you look just like the drawings.” She stepped back, revealing a set dining table and a fire blazing in a cozy hearth, and waved me forward. “Come in, come in! Please . . . I heard a star mother had returned. I never thought it would be you . . . That was six hundred years ago!”
Seven hundred, but I didn’t correct her. I was too enthralled by her smile, by the warmth of the room, by the adoring eyes of the child who shared my name.
“Come in!” Quelline took my elbow. “And tell me everything. Everything.” She hurried inside and called up the stairs. “Ruthgar! Come down, come down! Our star mother is here!”
CHAPTER 19
I had been wrong. I had not run through every possible scenario in my mind. When the women who volunteered to sacrifice themselves for new stars were told their names would be honored and remembered for eternity, it was true. In my case, literally true.
After the introductions—Quelline and Ruthgar, who had one daughter, Ceris, and lived with Ruthgar’s mother, Yanla, and his father, Argon, who came home an hour after I first knocked on the door—Quelline opened a polished wooden box kept on a high shelf in the front room and set it on the dining table. From it, she unrolled two tapestries stitched in a delicate hand, both comprised of lines and writing in varying colors—one full, the other nearly so. They were old and weathered and hemmed multiple times to combat wear; I recognized it as a record of my family line. My genealogy, preserved.