Fire in the Star

by Kamilla Benko

  “Can’t!” Lyric huffed back. “If Mama knows—and of course she does! I can’t believe I forgot about the Snitch Stitches!”

  “Snitch Stitches?” Claire asked. She wished Lyric would slow down. The Royalist cloak was thick and just a little too long, so that it flapped behind her like an obnoxious tail.

  “Needle Pointe can hear anything at any time, so long as there’s a Snitch Stitch about—but don’t worry! They’re only around the perimeter of the city,” Lyric added, correctly interpreting Claire’s look. “It’s just best not to say anything too private.” She winced. “Like our cover stories—oh, Mama is going to murder me!”

  The two girls sprinted down the road. As Lyric had predicted, the inspectors at either end of the suspension bridge that allowed pedestrian access into the city did not bother to stop them. In fact, Claire was pretty sure she saw an inspector shake his head sympathetically when Lyric yelped out their names. It seemed the Spinner girl was well known to the inspectors … as was her mother’s temper.

  It was still early enough that the streets were relatively empty, and it was easy to keep up the sprint. “If we can just get back to Tina’s,” Lyric was saying as they crossed the first canal, “then maybe—”

  “Lyric Calliope Weft.” A voice rang out over the waterways.

  Lyric stumbled to a stop. “Here we go,” she whispered. Taking a deep breath, she plastered a smile on her face and twirled around. “Hi, Mama! What are you doing up so early?”

  Claire turned just as a woman in a ruffled pink apron marched up behind them. She was a tall woman, with the same thick black hair as her daughter, though hers was twisted into a series of tight knots across her head, while one skinny braid hung down over her left shoulder. The freed braid swung like a pendulum, and it took Claire a second to realize why: Lyric’s mother was practically quaking with fury.

  “Where in thread’s end did you disappear to?” Lyric’s mother’s voice was like a teakettle’s hiss before it screamed.

  Without thinking, Claire took one step back.

  “Don’t!” Mistress Weft said as her daughter opened her mouth to reply. “Not one word from you! Can you imagine the terror I’ve been through? First, finding out you weren’t at the Hares’ house. Then being told by the Watch that they couldn’t go looking for my daughter because a Forger with a golden spyglass attacked the Thread Cutter’s crow’s nest! What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Lyric opened her mouth and closed it again, looking uncertain as to whether she was allowed to answer. By now, Claire was aware of a small group of Spinners watching from behind their shutters and a pair of boys laughing from a narrowboat. Poor Lyric. But there was nothing she could do to help—even if she did bristle a bit at the news of a “Forger attack.” Claire hadn’t attacked anyone!

  “The truth, Lyric—and I mean it!” her mother snapped.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Lyric said, sniffling a little bit. “I made a mistake—but I’m free now! Elaina saved me!” It seemed all of Lyric’s stories had gone out the window at the sight of her mother’s ruffled fury.

  “Saved?” Mistress Weft’s eyebrows shot up, and she looked suspiciously at her daughter. “Saved from what?”

  Lyric shifted guiltily, then reached into her cloak pocket to pull out a swab of web. Even seeing it sent a shiver of prickles across Claire as she remembered the sticky warmth wrapping around her ribs and coating her nose.

  Mistress Weft gaped. “Did you go to the Spyden?”

  Lyric cringed, but she nodded and didn’t run. Which was rather courageous, Claire thought, especially taking into consideration the rising color on Mistress Weft’s brown cheeks. For a moment, Claire thought the woman might actually explode. Instead, Mistress Weft took a deep breath, seeming to pull in her words like wool on a spindle, before she turned her attention to Claire. “And you saved her?”

  Uncertain, Claire nodded. Suddenly, her world was a haze of pink frills as Mistress Weft gathered Claire and hugged her tight. “Thank you,” she said into Claire’s hair. Lyric’s mother smelled a bit of lavender, reminding Claire of her own mother, who liked to make sure there was at least one jar of lavender bubble bath in the closet.

  “And what about your parents?” Mistress Weft asked. “Where are they?”

  Claire threw a frantic look at Lyric, who quickly stepped in. “The Spyden Gathered all her thoughts, Mama. She doesn’t remember much of anything.”

  “You poor dear!” Mistress Weft said, giving Claire one last squeeze before letting go. When she didn’t look like she might explode, her face was as open as a sunflower and just as pleasant. There was also something familiar about Lyric’s mother—something about the way her eyes crinkled or her nose—that made Claire wonder if she’d met Mistress Weft before. Lyric, too, for that matter, but Claire knew that was impossible.

  “Come, you must be hungry,” Mistress Weft continued, “Let’s get you comfortable while we figure out which fleet you belong to—and a suitable punishment for Lyric.”

  Lyric gulped.

  Claire followed mother and daughter through the city. Bright townhouses edged the canals like lace on a collar. But though the colors were beautiful, Claire couldn’t help but notice the odd tilt of many of the buildings that maybe a Tiller could have helped straighten out, and the crumbling corners of the stone bridges that could do with a Gemmer’s touch. After a few more steps, three more bridges, and a turn or two, they at last arrived in front of a bright-yellow door of a stately home.

  “This way,” Mistress Weft said quietly, lighting a lamp and sending the apartment into a blaze of color. Everywhere Claire looked, there was fabric: on the wall, beneath her feet, above her head, where the ceiling was draped in gauzy strips of pink, drawing out from the center like a tent’s pavilion. There were even barrels outlining the room’s perimeters, each filled to the top with Royalist-blue yarn. Claire’s stomach turned. There was enough yarn in them for a hundred new cloaks. A hundred new people who believed Queen Estelle’s lies.

  “Have a seat,” Mistress Weft said warmly, pointing to a rickety kitchen table. “Lyric—can you go get some of your sister’s clothes for Elaina to change into? Then come help me in the kitchen. You, though, poor little knot,” Mistress Weft said as she caught Claire covering a yawn, “go lie down and get some rest. We’ll call you when breakfast is ready.”

  Soon enough, Claire had dropped her Hollow Pack in the corner of the bedroom, tugged off the strangely witchy Spyden’s dress, and pulled on a new outfit, which, though a bit big, was the most comfortable thing she’d worn in weeks. The wide-legged trousers, embroidered with silver galaxies, swished around her legs like a skirt, and the scarlet sweater was as warm as her puffiest winter coat but felt as thin as moth’s wings. Ignoring the blanket on Lyric’s sister’s bed (it would be a while before Claire wanted to wrap herself up in anything), Claire flopped over the covers of the large canopy bed, and quickly fell asleep.

  A few hours later, Lyric came in to wake her and help her detangle her curls until Mistress Weft called for them. Breakfast—or brunch, rather, as Mistress Weft had let her sleep a couple of hours more—was ready.

  Between bites of thick oatmeal and nibbles of honey-drizzled toast, Lyric and her mother tried to piece together a story from Claire’s vague answers. It wasn’t hard to keep her replies short. Any time Claire paused, Lyric would barrel in, coming up with fifty different possibilities. So long as Claire remained quiet, Lyric would create Claire’s cover story for her without even realizing it.

  The only time Claire didn’t manage to keep her expression of vague confusion was when Lyric went off on a tangent, describing in excruciating detail what everyone had worn the day Historian Fray arrived with the good news.

  “Tina wore her gown that looks like an upside-down rose, but it just could not compare to the color of the prince’s doublet!”

  Claire took a bite of toast. “What prince?”

  The only prince she knew of was her many-times-gre
at-grandfather Martin, or the Lost Prince, as he was known in Arden. Most historians in Arden believed that Prince Martin was killed in battle against the Forgers and Tillers. But the truth was that the prince, horrified by his older sister’s actions, had fled to an entirely different world.

  “Ha! You’re funny,” Lyric was saying. She shook her head, smiling like Claire had made some sort of joke. “Prince Thorn, obviously— Ew, Elaina!”

  Claire covered her mouth too late to stop the spray of soggy crumbs across the embroidered tablecloth.

  Mistress Weft appeared with a damp dishrag in hand. “Is something wrong, dear?”

  Mortified, Claire took a hasty sip of orange juice and cleared her throat. Maybe the Spyden had actually done something to Claire’s mind, because she thought that Lyric had just said Prince Thorn.

  “Who?” she asked again when she was sure she had stopped coughing. It couldn’t be the same person.

  Lyric’s eyes widened. “You’ve forgotten about Prince Thorn, too?” She clasped her hands to her heart. “He’s only the reason why Queen Estelle returned! He’s her great-something-grandnephew, who managed to wake her from Queen Rock with his tremendous magic!” Her face took on a solemn expression. “He’s the most powerful Spinner of all time, to be able to unravel the queen from stone. Her Majesty has named him her heir.”

  The kitchen suddenly felt cramped. Even Claire’s skin felt too tight, as though it were too small for her body.

  Thorn Barley had once been her friend—and Sophie and Sena and Nett’s friend—until he’d betrayed them all, leading them astray while he secretly went to release Estelle from Queen Rock. He’d been born without magic, or so they had thought. But in actuality, he was a Spinner born into the Tiller guild, destined to never learn where his true talents lay so long as interaction between guilds remained illegal. But with Queen Estelle’s return, he’d met Mira Fray and learned he could spin. And so, when he’d next seen Claire and her friends, he’d tried to capture them and bring them to the Royalists. Later, however, Sophie had claimed that Thorn helped them escape from their cell underneath the Drowning Fortress. Though when it came to Thorn, Claire suspected her older sister could be a bit biased.

  Claire suddenly understood why everything felt too small. Nothing was big enough to contain the burning-red feeling that was clawing out of her, setting fire to her blood.

  Claire was angry.

  How could he? How dare he!

  And yet, Lyric was still going on and on about the great new prince of Arden. “I’ve actually seen him before, you know. He visited Needle Pointe a few times with Mira Fray.”

  “And is Prince Thorn”—the words felt like ashes in Claire’s mouth—“still here?”

  Lyric looked mournful. “No, he left a little bit ago, but he’ll be at Hilltop Palace for Starfell. Queen Estelle is going to crown him, too.”

  There it was—the opening she needed! “Crown,” she repeated, pushing aside her anger and making her eyes as wide as possible, the same way Sophie would when she was trying to look extra innocent. “When you said ‘crown,’ I think—I’m not sure, but I almost had a memory. It felt familiar.”

  Not a lie. Crowns were familiar to Claire. She’d worn them at Halloween parties and for history class, when she’d had to give a speech as King George III. And once, she and Sophie had gone through an inordinate amount of construction paper to make a crown for their uncle’s new puppy, Sir Beast, who just kept chewing them up.

  Lyric beamed. “Yay! See? I told you Gathering shouldn’t last too long. Maybe you did know about the queen’s coronation! This makes me think your family probably was planning to spend Starfell at Hilltop Palace.”

  “Maybe!” Claire nodded quickly. And though she was curious about what this Starfell was that Lyric continued to mention, she kept her question focused: “Can you tell me more about the … what did you call it? The Crown of Arden?”

  “Lyric can tell you lots about it,” Mistress Weft said as she hung up her dishrag and moved toward the spinning wheel at the far side of the room. Settling on her stool, Mistress Weft looked at her daughter with pride. “Lyric is one of only two preambles selected to attend Queen Estelle’s re-coronation. Which is why,” she said, arching an eyebrow at Lyric, “I’ve decided that your ten months of detangling my yarn barrels can begin after Starfell, so that you may use all your extra hours for practice.”

  “Oh, uh, thanks,” Lyric said, and Mistress Weft smiled before bending over her work. As soon as her mother’s attention was elsewhere, Lyric shot a Look at Claire. Claire didn’t need to know the girl well to understand what that meant: Don’t say a word about the failed audition.

  Claire nodded ever so slightly, and Lyric relaxed, though her gesticulations seemed a little more frantic than usual as she dove into the history of Arden’s crown.

  “The Crown of Arden is more than just a crown. It’s said to be the very first instance of jumbled magic in all of history. Woven, grown, sculpted, and forged from starfire, then blessed by unicorns, the crown was created to protect Anders d’Astora, a Tiller who’d been chosen by everyone to challenge a terrible evil that threatened the world. An evil so terrible that even the Spinner historians were too scared to record what it was, so that its name has been lost to time. But what we do know, is that Anders was victorious!” She brandished her sticky bun as though it were a sword. “With the crown’s help, King Anders the First saved Arden.”

  “But how?” Claire asked. “Wouldn’t a sword or something have been more useful?”

  Lyric shook her head. “The crown is rumored to have a mysterious ability to connect the monarch to the land, giving the wearer immeasurable power.”

  Oh, no.

  “What kind of immeasurable power?” Claire asked, the bits of toast feeling like boulders in her stomach. Estelle already had an arsenal of unicorn artifacts, and if she got ahold of this crown … she would be unstoppable.

  “Oh, all sorts of things!” Lyric said around a mouthful of sticky bun, finally having managed to take a bite. “Some legends say that Anders was able to make mountains walk and rivers knot up, but he’s not the only d’Astora who managed such incredible feats. Estelle herself is said to have created the Petrified Forest! The Crown of Arden is the most powerful object ever crafted, which is why, when the Guild War ended, it was decided that it would be hacked into four tines—”

  “Tines?” Claire interrupted.

  Lyric nodded. “Yes, that’s what the point on a crown is called: tine. Rhymes with ‘line.’ Anyway, the Crown of Arden had four: the Spinners’ Love Knot Tine, the Forgers’ Hammer Tine, the Tillers’ Oak Leaf Tine, and the Gemmers’ Stone Tine. It was decided that each guild would guard its own piece—a symbol that each guild would from now on be in charge of its own destiny.” Lyric gave a slight flourish of her hand and bowed her head. “The end!”

  “Well told,” Mistress Weft said kindly. “But the tale isn’t done.”

  Lyric’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re right!” she said. Beaming, she turned to Claire. “I forgot, because this history hasn’t ended! Queen Estelle has invited each of the four guilds to Hilltop Palace to celebrate this year’s Starfell—”

  “Starfell?” Claire interrupted again.

  Lyric blinked, startled. “You—you don’t even remember Starfell ?”

  Claire bit her lip. Maybe Zuli or Lapis had mentioned it in passing, but when she was at Stonehaven, Claire had other things on her mind. She shook her head.

  “It’s only the biggest holiday of the year!” Lyric flung out a hand so wildly she almost took out the honey pot. “It’s a ginormous meteor shower that marks the end of the traveling season and the beginning of winter. We usually start the evening with a special dance and then spend the night bundled up with friends and families on rooftops, eating and drinking, while we watch the stars until they fade. Mama, Kay, and I usually go over to Tina’s house.”

  “This year will be different though,” Mistress Weft said, momentarily pa
using the wheel to collect more blue yarn from her basket.

  “What do you mean?” Lyric asked.

  Mistress Weft glanced sharply at her daughter. “Both you and Kay will be spending Starfell at Hilltop Palace, performing for the queen’s re-coronation … won’t you?”

  “Oh right, that, yes, of course!” Lyric said quickly. She turned away from her mother’s shrewd gaze and looked at Claire. “The guilds will present their tines to Queen Estelle that evening.” The girl’s eyes practically shone like stars themselves. “Then the crown will be reforged, and Arden will be like it was in the days of yore, when magic was strong!”

  A hole seemed to be digging itself in Claire’s stomach. For all Lyric’s talk of a perfect, sparkly past, Claire knew it had not been like that for every guild, especially the Forgers, who’d toiled under horrendous and dangerous conditions for the Gemmers and Spinners.

  “And do you think that all the guilds will give her their piece?” Claire asked.

  “We are unsure,” Mistress Weft admitted from her corner. “The Spinners have already decided to support her, and we can’t imagine the Gemmers would go against one of their own. But as for the Tiller and Forger guilds …” She paused in her spinning. “The future is never certain.”

  Claire bit her lip. So much of life was uncertain—so much of it new and strange, but now, at least, she knew one thing for sure: she needed to collect the tines of Arden—and she needed to get them before Estelle did, if she were to have any chance of crowning Nadia queen. But first …

  “So the Spinners—I mean, we,” Claire quickly corrected herself, “have a quarter of the crown. Where do we keep it?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” Lyric shoved away her breakfast plate and sprang up. “We’re going to be late anyway!” She leaped to the door and picked up a box of woven ribbons waiting beside it.

  “Don’t forget your cloaks,” Mistress Weft called. “It’s getting cold.”

  “Wait, where are we going?” Claire asked, getting up and clearing her dishes to the great tin sink.