When Stars Die (The Stars Trilogy) (4 page)

Oliver reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. To an outsider, this would seem like an affectionate gesture between two lovers. Of course, Oliver has been my friend about the same length as Colette has. We just don’t get to see each other as often. I will admit I’ve always felt something for this boy, but I have always kept my feelings at that: a little something. Relationships are impossible for those in the Order. He’s also the first boy I’ve interacted with who is my age, so that ‘little something’ could be a false feeling.

“So tell me what happened today,” he says, his voice a whisper to keep sound from echoing in the spacious nave. “Don’t keep all of this to yourself. You know I’m here for you just as much as Colette is…whenever I can be, and I do try, so don’t think I’m not.”

I can’t help but to let out a small laugh over Oliver’s obvious feeling of guilt for not being able to be there for me as much as he wants to be, though this is by no means his fault. The Professed Order just demands different things of the two sexes, things that often keep us separate. “I fainted when Mother Aurelia brought out the leeches.” I show him the puckered wounds on my flesh. That same sickness I had before I fainted creeps up again, so I look away while Oliver inspects the lesions.

He sighs, rubbing a pale finger around each sore. His skin is cool, though his touch sends electric swirls through me I cast out by pressing a welt on my back. “This is nonsense, what they do to you ladies.”

“Those aren’t even the worst. You should see the welts on my back.”

“I don’t want to. If you ask me, I find all of this undeniably cruel. I don’t understand why you ladies let yourselves put up with Theosodore and Mother Aurelia. There is more to life than being trapped here.” A bitterness edges his tone. “There is so much more you could be doing.”

I pull my arm away and bury both of my arms in my skirts. “There isn’t, Olly. You know why I’m here.”

He is the only one who knows my brother is a witch, but only because his younger sister Ella is one. He told me he joined the priesthood in the Professed Order for her, for the exact same reason I did. I suppose all of us with witches in the family desire Deus’s forgiveness in some form, and serving Him seems to be the highest form of asking for it. The only difference between Oliver and I is that he left his sister behind while I had to bring my brother with me. Whatever sins my parents committed to birth him, I didn’t want those sins to eventually come out and punish my brother. There is no happy ending for a family with a witch in it. The Seven Deadly Sins break families apart sooner or later.

“There is no turning back for me. We haven’t spoken with our parents in three years. Who knows if they’re even looking for us?”

Oliver takes my chilled hand in his icy one. Even on warm days he’s cold, due to a blood problem he was born with. “Some days I think that you and I and your little brother should run away from all of this. Then other days I see the determination in your eyes and have to remind myself this is something you want. But mostly, I just wish there
were something else out there for us.”

The thought of running away with him makes my cheeks bloom with heat. Again, I stamp this out by pressing one of my welts. His words bring bitter tears to my eyes that I manage to hold back.

“There isn’t, and there never will be. Face it, Olly. This is the way the world is and always will be. People like Ella and Nathaniel, they’ve always been hated, always been a blight upon this world, and we don’t even understand why.” My voice rises with fervor. “Day in and day out, it’s drilled into our heads that Deus works in mysterious ways. We’re not supposed to question what he does for us, only that what he does is for the best in the end. But you can’t say that when you’re suffering until the end of your life.”

My own cynicism makes me want to cry over the unfairness of what I’ve just said. This would be different if humanity were doing this to us, but it’s Deus, a being we can’t see, a being we only believe in through faith. How can one change something whose image is impossible to picture?

Oliver squeezes my hand, trying to infuse me with warmth I doubt will ever be there for me again. “We’ll change the world, Amelia. We’ll rise so high in the ranks of the Professed Order that every word we speak will not be questioned, even when we tell people to start accepting witches as human beings. We’ll just have to push through this, and everything will work out in the end. It has to.”

I almost want to laugh over the enormous amount of hope he has for our futures. But as I look into his gray eyes, I realize he is serious, and a small part of me wants to share in this dream--no, needs to share in this dream. I need a new dream, one that is beyond being professed. Even if this dream isn’t tangible, I need some sort of hope to cling on to, something that will push me to keep going despite insurmountable odds.

I turn to him, moving in close so that there is only an inch between our faces. “Let’s make a promise then. Let’s promise that no matter what, we will encourage each other to keep going, to keep rising, right until the very end. Even if I’m dying, I want you to keep pushing me, and I’ll keep pushing you.”

Oliver smiles, his eyes brightening. “How will we seal this promise?”

I kiss him on the cheek, his scent of winter and ice catching the edge of my nostrils. Like Colette’s clover scent, his wintry scent is not unwanted. “Like that.” He kisses me on the cheek too, and our promise is sealed. On occasion, we will risk daring affections with one another, but nothing ever beyond a light kiss on the cheek. I yearn for more though. “There is no going back. If you break this promise, you’re telling me you no longer wish to continue our friendship, and it is the same if I break the promise as well.”

Oliver nods, a smile planted firmly on his face. “I like this nightly jaunt. We should have this every night.”

“And increase our chances of finding trouble? Then we’ll have an excuse to break the promise because expulsion can’t be helped by that point.”

Oliver holds up his hands. “All right then. Every once in a while. How does that sound? I hate thinking of you locked in that room for most of the day. I know how close you are to Colette, but it sometimes helps to speak to someone outside of all this, doesn’t it?”

“It does. But only once in a while. I hesitate to say once a week.”

“Then whenever I know it’s safe.”

Oliver takes me back to my cell. When we come upon it, Sash is leaving with a smile. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, yet that smile indicates Sash discovered something. I don’t want to know what it is, so when Oliver hugs me goodnight, I throw the door closed and jam the piece of wood back into the lock. I try to hold on to the warmth of the promise I made with Oliver, but thinking about these shadows elicits a vicious chill.

Chapter Four

Despite seeing Sash last night, I face this next trial with a renewed sense of vigor, even with pain that shoots through me with every step I take. I am taut and sore from the thick scabs that cover my upper back in whorls, and stiffness has caught up to me from kneeling on those wood chips. Each step I take is small and filled with splintering agony, but I am determined to share in the next trial with my sisters.

Today we’re all in the basement of Cathedral Reims, a place filled with abandoned tunnels that smell like distilleries. Cracked, wooden beams crisscross above our heads, occasionally dropping dust and dirt in our hair. Tapers sit cradled in wall sconces, the basement’s only source of light. The walls are made of rough-hewn stone, and as we walk through, Theosodore informs us that this basement used to be a wine cellar a few centuries ago. There are remnants of barrels and broken wine bottles lining the walls.

The basement is even colder than outside, the dirt flooring moist from snow that somehow slips into the basement through cracks we can’t see. I’m somewhat used to the cold, though I find myself pushing against Colette to share in her warmth; she is unresponsive. When we woke up this morning, she was silent, passive, and unmoving. Only Theosodore’s whip of a voice could get her to move, and even then she took tiny steps to line up with the rest of the sisters in the corridor. I have no idea what caused this sudden change in her.

I look at her downturned face and whisper, “Are you angry at me for going off with Oliver?” This would be a ridiculous reason, but I can’t think of anything else.

She shakes her head.

I suck in the frigid air through my teeth, the coolness chilling my lungs and making my bones rattle. “Then what is wrong? You’re usually not like this.” I’m usually like the way she is today. “Did you have a nightmare? Do you not feel well today?” I pause, trying to sort through my distressed thoughts. I can’t think of what could be bothering her. “Tell me, Colette.”

She shakes her head again. In a small voice, she says, “Later.”

Theosodore pushes on a flimsy door with an iron rung for a knob and leads us down an even narrower corridor with closed doors made of iron. Once we walk a few paces, he stops and gestures around the small space. “Two sisters to each cell. Today you will spend the day praying.”

We bristle over the simple request. Praying itself is never a simple matter, yet compared to yesterday’s trial, this one seems too easy. Theosodore starts unlocking each cell and instructing two sisters at a time to enter. He bolts the doors behind each group, and when he gets to Colette and I, he does the same, ushering us into our own cell. When he bolts the door behind us, I realize just what is so challenging about this particular trial. The cell is only big enough to fit Colette and I, who stand with elbows touching. There is only a prie dieu and one taper already melting to a stub. There is no latrine, no space, no way to keep warm besides the wick, and when the wick goes out, we’ll be left in impenetrable darkness.

Colette takes in a few gulps of air before settling herself on the cushion. I sit down beside her, our arms cushioning each other. I’ve never been prone to claustrophobia, but I can see myself developing a fear of small spaces by the end of the day. With the cell being as small as it is, and being so close to Colette, the temperature rises a few degrees and stops torturing my wounds.

“We should pray together,” I say to Colette as she clasps her hands around her rosary beads. “We can pray for a bigger candle, more matches, even more candles, a fleece blanket, even a toilet.”

Colette says nothing at my weak attempt at humor. She only stares at her hands, whose thumbs toy with the rosary beads. I thought my comment would have brought at least a small smile to her face.

I stare into the candle flame, thinking of what to say next, thinking of what to even pray about. I’ve never prayed much and only do so when I’m supposed to, or when Colette wants me to. I’ve never willingly prayed alone because I’ve never had anything to say.

I sigh, looking sideways at Colette. She’s still toying with her rosary beads. By looking into her eyes that reflect the candle flame, I know she is not praying. “Colette, please tell me what’s wrong. Are you certain you’re not angry with me for last night?”

She looks at me. I swear to Deus I see the reflected flame in her eyes flare. “No, Amelia, it has nothing to do with that. I’m not angry with you, I promise.”

“Then what’s wrong? You’re usually not the sullen type.”

“I just--” Her voice cracks, though no tears come. “Amelia, what would happen if I were to die?”

The question takes me by surprise. “Why are you asking me such a preposterous thing?”

“Because I want to know. I need to know. How would you feel if I were to die?”

The question is so far flung from our current reality that I don’t even want to answer it. How can she think about this when there is so much more at stake than our insignificant mortality? There is a deep seriousness in her eyes though, one I can’t ignore. “I’d be devastated, of course. You keep me grounded, and you’ve always kept me grounded. I don’t think I would have even made it to initiation without you by my side.”

Colette narrows her eyes, the flame dancing in her irises. “You have Oliver.”

I unclasp my hands and lay them flat on the prie dieu. “I knew this had something to do with Oliver. Colette, you are my best friend, and you always will be. Of course Oliver is very dear to me, but I hardly ever see him and I get to see you every day!”

She shakes her head, looking away from me. She reaches out and teases the flame of the candle, putting her finger through and then pulling it out fast, her lily skin untainted. “This really has nothing to do with Oliver. I’m just trying to say, would you be able to move on if I were to die?”

“Colette, this is ridiculous. Why are you so fixated on your own mortality now? You’re the same age as me, eighteen, for Deus’s sake! Instead of speaking of something so gloomy, why don’t we actually pray? You always have the most enlightening things to say.”

She looks at me, her eyes muted. “I have nothing to pray about today.” She falls silent, going back to toying with her rosary beads.

I sigh, closing my eyes and resting my head against the cold, gray stones of the cell. Outside the cell, Theosodore stomps up and down the corridor with his self-righteous strut. I can’t for the life of me figure out why Mother Aurelia would choose to make him her companion. There is nothing remarkable about the man, other than his possible ascension to cardinal in the Professed Order. Other than that, he’s a lout with a penchant for flirting with the sisters, and I’m not talking about those already professed, but the ones who come in young enough to be his daughters--and the man is in his thirties! He hasn’t tried anything with me, but I’m not pretty. My age shows twice over that of Colette, who can pass as a fifteen-year-old.