Crown of Stars

by Sophie Jaff

  “An Anchor?”

  “That is true, what would you know of Anchors?” He smiles kindly. “Well then, you have heard tell of ships that sail upon the seas?”

  I manage a nod. Amid the insanity, this is something I can grasp. Ships upon the seas, yes, I have heard of them.

  “Anchors are great weights that hold ships fast to bottom of the sea so that they do not drift away.” He continues to watch me, as if to make sure I am following.

  “I do not understand you.” I do not understand any of this. In a flash of rage I wish him dead. I wish myself dead or deaf to his voice. My wishes come to nothing. Still I live and still I listen.

  “He is not of your world, and so he needed your mother, and countless others, to hold him fast upon the earth until he can complete his task.” It is the first time I think I hear a strain of distaste in his words.

  “But must he kill them even though they are not Vessels?”

  “They too are vessels of a kind. He needs what lives within them.”

  “Their blood?”

  “Their souls. A mortal is made not only of flesh and blood; a mortal possesses a soul. The capacity to feel. The Entity needs a soul. And so he must take it from others. Women. He takes their emotions. Jealousy, passion, tenderness, fear, suspicion, loyalty—all of a woman’s experience, her spirit, adds to his weight upon this earth, anchors him in the flesh he possesses.”

  “How does he know which ones to take?”

  My mother.

  “Feelings are colors to him. The ancient signs and symbols he carves into their skin release these colors, which he then consumes. Your mother,” Caradoc adds, “held both the color of tranquility, the cool hue of deepening twilight, and then also the color of anguish when she thought of you.”

  “And my color?” My words are hard, my voice cold. Inside I quake and tremble. An immortal killer, an inhuman thing scenting the air to snuff me out. At least I will know what hue has left me naked and defenseless.

  “You are red.”

  Red. The fabric that called to me that day at the market. Berries in the woods, beautiful but often poisonous. The silk dress, the color of fire but cool as water against my skin.

  Caradoc stares at me quizzically. “Do you not remember? He told you when you were but a child.”

  Did Caradoc or his kind stand idly by while my mother was murdered? Did they overhear the killer taunting me in the woods? I cannot bear to think of it.

  “Why does he come now?” I ask.

  All around me the night is still. Not an insect hums, nor a bird calls. Even the wind has died. Pools of moonlight spill over the potted basil and rosemary; patches of shadow checker the raised beds of sorrel and fenugreek.

  Caradoc’s raven shifts its weight and again twists its head on one side, the gleam of its inky eyes taking in my measure.

  “You know the answer.”

  Instinctively my hands shield my womb. The secret I was to tell Lord August tonight.

  Then a thought occurs and I shake my head with dogged certainty. Here at least is some proof that Caradoc lies.

  “I will always remember the face of my mother’s killer, no matter how many years have passed, and I have not seen him here.”

  “Ten or ten hundred of your years is nothing to him. It is a blink of an eye. Time has little relevance. He travels.”

  “He travels?”

  “You saw only the body he possessed. This is how he can endure through the ages, how he can reappear on earth as flesh and blood. He possesses a man’s body, lives within that body, but only until he has fulfilled his mission. Then he discards it as easily as you would the skin of a fruit. Often the men he chooses are good, are innocent. Who, through no fault of their own, are forced to commit the vilest acts. He drags them through a living hell and then abandons them to live with the pain and misery and guilt of what they have done, to face the consequences of actions they had no choice but to perform.”

  “So the man who murdered my mother had no choice?”

  Do not run little rabbit.

  “None at all.” Caradoc speaks with quiet certitude.

  “But why?” The words are ripped from me in a wail.

  “The Entity delights in chaos, pain amuses him. Remember that he is not of this world. He has no soul.”

  “And you?” I spit out. “And what of your kind?”

  “We too must dwell within a human if we are to exist on earth, but we do not act against that person’s will. We reside for a spell, but we do not alter that person’s destiny in any way. It is not our place to change what is to come.”

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  “Because you asked me and I would tell you the truth. He will come for you, no matter what knowledge you are armed with. And although no Vessel has ever survived him since Mary Magdalene, no one’s fate is certain.”

  He pauses, and his gaze again shifts from me to the sky. His words are almost dreamy.

  “If you or your child did live, what extraordinary power you could wield, not just over this world but over all worlds.” Then his bearing straightens, and he stares at me once more. “You had a right to know.” He thumps the end of his staff in the soft earth with defiance.

  “I will run.”

  “He will find you.” There is the faintest hint of reprimand now, as if I were a selfish, willful child. “And he will keep killing until he finds you.”

  “I will find a way.” A ray of hope dawns “I will make use of the gifts my mother gave me.”

  “Yes.” Caradoc nods thoughtfully. “You have some power, passed down through your mother, but the power of her people is tied to the things of the earth. His is not of this earth. His power is beyond it, tied to the vastness of everything.” His reasoning maddens me as a sting of an insect must madden a blundering ox.

  “I will escape! I will travel through the ages, as he does, as you do.”

  Caradoc may scoff at my spells and songs, but I am fierce and quick-witted and I can learn.

  “There is no body that can hold the soul of a Vessel. Only another Vessel could house you, and there is only one Vessel alive in any age.” He speaks quietly now.

  “So what would you advise me?”

  “I do not advise. I merely tell you the truth. I am telling you your fortune.”

  “But you will not guide me in any way?” I try one last time to appeal to this creature. It is amazing to me that he would offer no aid or advice at all.

  He shakes his head. “I am not able to help you. We do not judge. We neither help nor hinder.”

  “That is of no use to me! He killed my mother and now he means to kill me and my unborn child.” I stab a finger at his chest. “You say that there is little chance I will survive, that I will be slaughtered as a lamb.” I take a breath and fight to gain control. “But I tell you now, I will not quit this world so easily. I will destroy him, even if it takes me a thousand years, no matter the cost!”

  Caradoc studies me with a new intensity.

  “You would turn away from the light, to the darkness? If a sapling is lashed down, it grows stunted and warped. Would you destroy him if you knew that doing so would destroy what good you hold in yourself? Would you still be willing if it cost you your soul?” His voice holds no judgment or recrimination. It is only gently curious. “Would you?”

  My laughter is scornful. “I will do whatever it takes. I have been hunted for one reason or another my whole life, ever since my mother was taken from me. He shall not win this time. He will not have me. He will not have my child. When he least expects it, I shall strike, I shall bring him down, I shall end him.” Each word falls from my lips, a bruising stone, a bloody pledge.

  “Take care, Margaret. There will always be a sacrifice.” It is calmly stated, not as a warning but as a promise.

  “Go, storyteller!” I hiss at him. “Weave your fictions and fortunes somewhere else. Leave me. I have no need of you.”

  Caradoc remains a moment longer. “I am sor
ry. Would that you lived in a different age, were born under different stars. But we cannot change what is.”

  He limps down the path between the herb beds and passes under the arch in the garden wall. Soon, the night swallows him whole.

  I stand for a long while in the garden, alone. Breathing in the scent of the good and growing things all around me.

  “We’ll see,” I say aloud to the stars.

  20

  Katherine

  The countryside spills out along either side of them, green and lush despite the winter. If this were New York, Katherine thinks, everything would be buried under ten feet of snow. It’s only a forty-five-minute ride by train from London, but it feels like a different world.

  She gazes out at the fields and hills and the houses slipping past her for a while; then she looks at Lucas’s small curly head as he sits and stares out of the window. He’s doing well, excelling at school and making a multitude of friends. He has Cordelia, and Mrs. B seems to have taken a real shine to him, which, no matter her grim demeanor, clearly means she’s a person of remarkable intelligence and taste as far as Katherine is concerned.

  Sael, she is given to understand, is also performing well at work. It seems to present a near-impossible series of tasks, which suits him. After all, what else does he have to occupy him? All his domestic arrangements are taken care of, and his every other need is attended to by beautiful, competent young Georgie.

  And Katherine? Why, she’s also doing well. For a start, she has friends now. She and Niamh text constantly and speak almost daily. They exchange horror stories about the belly touchers, the oversharers of complicated birthing stories, the judgers. And there’s Matthew, whom she often meets for lunch. They talk about books and movies, and he recommends places she should visit. She’s never had a friend as glamorous or as sophisticated as Matthew. It’s like the most popular girl in school has picked Katherine to sit beside her on the bus, or invited her to a sleepover. She wonders what she’s done to deserve the attention. She doesn’t question it too much, though. She just enjoys his friendship. He’s especially riveted by her stories of Sael.

  “I must meet the divine-sounding Sael, and you must meet John,” he had said one lunchtime not long ago.

  “Really?” She knew what an honor this would be. Matthew commutes to the city to see friends and make purchases—nothing, of course, as common as working—but John tends to stay in the country.

  “Of course, we would have had you over before, but John’s been getting over this filthy flu and I wouldn’t want to inflict that upon anyone.”

  “I would love to,” Katherine had replied, already realizing the obstacles. “But Sael will probably need to work, so it would likely just be me. And I’ll need to make a plan for Lucas if it’s on a weekend.”

  “Bring him!”

  “Are you sure?” Matthew doesn’t seem like the most child-friendly type.

  “Of course! We’d love to meet him. It would cheer John up. Getting the flu somewhat depressed him.

  But when she isn’t with her friends, what does Katherine do? She visits castles, manor houses, other historic buildings or sites of interest. It’s easy with Lucas at school all week, and it’s not as if she can work in England anyway. She’s calling these trips “research,” but research for what she cannot answer. She only knows she loves the smell of old places, reading the descriptions of how the Romans or the Normans or the Tudors lived, walking where they walked and talked and loved and died. It feels grounding. In the beginning, she was reluctant to travel by herself, but now she finds satisfaction in visiting these places alone. Learning how to negotiate the trains, the buses, reading the maps. Being independent.

  It’s a good life, much better than she hoped for, and yet. And yet. Lonely. Once the thrill of independence wears off, she is left with the terrible, terrible loneliness. Katherine is uprooted, and she does not belong here. Sael does not want her. He is either at the office, working, or at home, working. He’s taken over the spare room, and even sleeps there now. He says he doesn’t want to wake her when he goes to bed so late, but Katherine feels his real reason is abundantly clear. He never touches her, not even to pat her shoulder or tousle her hair. Not since their one perfect Christmas Eve.

  He does not want you, she reflects, but he needs to know that you are safe, that you are fed. She is carrying his child, after all. She’s like a prize mare, or maybe a heifer. He is unfailingly polite and attentive. “Do you have everything you need?” he asks, over and over again. “Yes, thank you,” she replies, even though inside she’s telling him she does not.

  You do not have everything you need, Katherine admits, because you need to be touched. You need to be touched, embraced, and pinned down. You need to burrow your nose against his head and breathe in the scent of his hair. You need his hands on your thighs, your breasts. You need his tongue on your lips, your cunt, and then you need to be kissed and you need to be held.

  You need him to tell you that everything is going to be okay, even if it isn’t okay. You need him to love you. You know he lost so much, but you lost so much too. You lost one of your best friends, and you lost your trust in other people, and you lost your life back home, and you lost him. You lost and you are lost, and you need him to find you and bring you home.

  The conductor announces the upcoming station, which is Matthew’s. Katherine sits up. She was drifting to sleep. She grabs Lucas’s hand, and they step off quickly before the train can carry them away.

  Matthew lounges outside the ticket counter, looking long-legged and impeccable in dark jeans and a cashmere sweater. “Hello! How was the ride? Did you suffer? Are you exhausted?”

  “It was long and hard, but somehow we made it.”

  “Thrilling, but come, let’s away. Bella’s waiting.”

  “Bella?” Katherine tries not to feel a small surge of jealousy that he’s brought another friend. Lucas squeezes her hand. It’s creepy the way he can read her so well.

  Outside in the parking lot, inside Matthew’s car, is an old black Labrador with a wistful, sweet expression that transforms into a grin of delight as they approach.

  “I’m afraid it will smell a bit doggy, but then again this is the dog car,” Matthew says as he unlocks the door.

  “A dog car?” Lucas shoots Katherine a reproachful look.

  “Oof. Sorry, honey.” She turns to Matthew. “Lucas wanted to bring Cordy, but we weren’t sure how to navigate the trains with a puppy, or if you were up for us bringing a semi-house-trained dog into your home.”

  “Darling, I’m English. We live only to serve our dogs.” He turns to Lucas. “You’ll just have to come back again soon, with Cordy.”

  “It’s nice to have a car just for dogs.” Lucas is impressed.

  “Imperative,” Matthew says with a straight face.

  Katherine is not sure if he’s joking.

  He takes them for a ride through the main street of the village, which looks exactly like a picture book. White houses with dark timber beams and small but elegant cottages line the narrow cobbled streets. As they drive, Matthew delivers a running commentary on both the buildings and their inhabitants. They pass a pub with a little green sign swaying back and forth in the breeze.

  “That’s the pub, and our local landlord is Oliver, who has a notoriously roving eye,” he says, but Katherine only catches the word “Fox” before the sign swings back again and they pass it.

  There are several cyclists, one of them a little girl who seems only a few years older than Lucas, an old-fashioned butcher’s, a tearoom, a bookshop, and old people taking in the weak sunshine.

  Matthew laughs at her rapt expression. “I knew you’d love it,” he says. Then he waves to a cheerful-looking plump woman with dark hair who’s speaking earnestly to a mother pushing a stroller. “And that’s Brenda, who is a nightmare gossip.”

  “Unlike some.” Katherine bats her eyelashes at him.

  “Oh please, I can only imagine what they say about dear
little me.”

  They have soon passed through the village and are now driving on what seem like exceptionally narrow roads with high hedgerows blocking all the turns. Katherine winces a few times, wondering how any car could pass them, but they encounter no one and Matthew seems to know what he’s doing.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he says as he navigates through the hedgerows. “The fabulous, but terrifying, Mrs. Langley has made the most amazing cake, among other various other delicacies, and I will be livid if I end up eating the whole thing at three in the morning.”

  “Could you eat a whole cake?” Lucas clearly has doubts, but his natural good manners prevent him from saying more.

  “Ah, yes, I cannot resist its siren call. It will just croon to me, ‘Mattheeeeew, Mattheeew,’ and I’ll sleepwalk downstairs and wake up to find myself covered in crumbs and holding an empty plate, and John will be deeply annoyed.”

  “I think we might be able to help you out. Lucas and I are known to be champion cake eaters.”

  Lucas nods seriously. Matthew has turned left and slowed onto a long smooth gravel driveway, which seems to carry on for several miles before opening out onto an endless expanse of manicured green lawn and meticulously trimmed hedges. The manor house towers three stories high. Sheets of ivy drape the bottom half of the faded red brick.

  “Whoa,” Lucas mumbles. His eyes are huge.

  “Oh my God.” The words are out before Katherine can stop them.

  “Home, sweet home,” Matthew says. He’s careful to avoid yet another dog in the driveway, a fat and complacent yellow Lab, and then steps over a small dusty-looking terrier sitting by one of the massive white urns that flank the equally massive white door. “Now do you believe me? We are overrun with hounds!”

  The entrance hall has deep maroon walls contrasting with white paneling. Two portraits flank the outer hallway. The one on the left holds a fat bearded aristocrat got up in gilt-trimmed cobalt blue velvet; the other depicts an equally fat smug pug wearing a jewel-encrusted collar. Underneath the paintings are two curving china vases baring all the telltale Ming patterns of blue dragons and flowers. The floorboards gleam burnished oak and are draped with thin Persian rugs.