A Sliver of Stardust (2 page)

A tisket, a tasket.

Use the dust to mask it.

I wrote a letter to the one,

And on the way I dropped it.

I dropped it. I dropped it.

And on the way I dropped it.

A little girl picked it up

And put it in her pocket.

“
H
ow are things going with cross-country?” Wren's dad asked Simon's dad around a mouthful of enchilada. “You have any good races scheduled for this year?”

“You bet.” Mr. Barker reached across the table to pass Wren the salsa. “Simon and I are training for a 10K in July.”

Wren scooped a mound of salsa onto her plate.
Running a 10K sounded like a kind of punishment. She was glad Simon was at the opposite end of the table, with their parents sandwiched between them. She crunched into a chip and replayed the scene in the gym over in her head for the millionth time. Was there a special breed of bird that, when threatened, produced a defensive cloud of gas that obliterated people? At least a skunk-bird made more sense than people appearing and disappearing into blue smoke. She wished everyone would hurry up and finish eating so she could get somewhere by herself and examine the packet of papers that the bird had dropped.

“Wren, you could join Simon's cross-country club!” Her mom's voice interrupted her thoughts. “Wouldn't that be fun? Jogging together is a great way to get to know people.
And
maximize your potential.”

Wren choked down a laugh. Her mother wouldn't be caught dead running. “Can we not talk about this now?” she asked, hoping that Simon wasn't paying attention to the conversation. “Besides, the Science Olympiad
is
social.”

“All the more reason to build off this great foundation, Wren. I just want you to be well-rounded, sweetie.” Wren's mom was using her I-mean-business voice, and Wren wasn't ready to find out what voice
she'd use if she knew about the bird hallucination or whatever it was. Wren's mom turned to Simon's dad. “Last month I twisted Wren's arm to take a babysitting training class with other girls her age, and this month I've made an agreement with her: a one-hour limit on her computer time until she's found something social to do.” She patted Wren's hand. “It's like I always say: No girl is an island. People need one another.”

Wren's face flamed with heat, and it wasn't because of the spicy salsa. The babysitting class had been a fail. A whole weekend spent making forced conversation with kids she'd never met before and would never see again. If her mom was hoping for social development, she'd have to aim somewhere else. All Wren walked away with from that class was a hazy understanding of emergency CPR and a sore stomach from where her partner had practiced the Heimlich maneuver.

“Great idea,” Simon's dad said. “That's the biggest challenge about unschooling, isn't it? Finding opportunities to meet other kids? Simon has some trouble with that, too.”

Wren made herself look at Simon, but he was examining his fajitas as though he'd never seen a tortilla before.

“The college has a bunch of clubs.” Wren's dad wiped
his mouth with his napkin. “I could pull some strings and see if they'd let younger students participate.” He leaned back and put one arm around Wren's mom's shoulders.

“That's an interesting idea,” Simon's dad said. “They could give each other moral support.”

“Sure,” Wren's mom said. “Simon and Wren could really maximize their potential together.”

Wren poked a fork at the remainder of her burrito.
I'd rather go running
. Her parents usually weren't this focused on what she was doing. They were busy with work, and Wren was busy with whatever she was studying, and once in a while they played a board game together. Until a few months ago, when the neighbor who'd lived down the street from Wren her entire life said, “You have a daughter? How come I've never seen her before?” And, while Wren's mom was perfectly content to let her maximize her educational potential on her own, she was now obsessed with Wren's social development.

Wren wished she could make her mom understand that she was happy being by herself, but it seemed like her mom had seen too many movies in which the smart, quiet girl dreamed about being pretty and popular. Sure, Wren spent a lot of time alone, but she never felt like she was missing out. She could read whatever
books she wanted. She could stay up late puttering around her favorite astronomy forum. She could watch old sci-fi reruns on TV. Wren had lots of plans for her time, and none of them included clubs at the community college, cross-country running, or Simon Barker.

Wren's napkin slipped off her lap, and when she reached down to retrieve it from under the table, she noticed an odd mark on her sweatshirt. One side of her hoodie was covered with black dirt. She brushed at the stain, but instead of getting better, the spot seemed to grow darker, and even worse, little bits of soot transferred onto her fingers. Wren rubbed her hands together, and in the dimness under the table, the dust flared with blue-green light. Exactly like the cloud around the bird woman.

The papers!
They seemed to be giving off the same strange dust that the bird had emitted. Dinner or not, she had to look at them now. Wren snatched her napkin off the floor and slid back up into her seat to find that her parents and Simon's dad had started debating the merits of the new mayoral candidates. She reached a tentative hand into her pocket and discreetly pulled out the bundle, which sparked with little blue lights as she unfolded it.

Keeping it low in her lap so the others wouldn't
notice, Wren began to read the paragraph centered on the first page:

Once I saw a little bird

Come hop, hop, hop.

So I cried, “Little bird,

Will you stop, stop, stop?”

And was going to the window

To say “How do you do?”

But he shook his little tail,

And far away he flew.

There was nothing else. No explanation, no pictures, nothing but the silly rhyming words. The next poem was just as bad:

Away, birds, away!

Take a little and leave a little,

And do not come again;

For if you do, I will shoot you through,

And there will be an end of you.

Was it supposed to be poetry? Literature had never been Wren's strong suit, but even she could tell these were no good. She skimmed through more rhymes
and was halfway done with the packet when she finally stumbled across one she recognized:

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are.

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

There your bright and tiny spark

Lights the traveler in the dark,

How I wonder what you are,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Wren's mom had sung this to her when she was a little girl. It used to be her favorite. Wren flipped to the back cover. As if it had been added later, one more poem was written in shimmery ink:

'Twas once upon a time,

When Jenny Wren was young,

How expertly she played and how prettily she sung.

        
The Ancient and Honorable Guild of the Fiddlers invites

        
Jennifer Wren Matthews

        
to join their number.

        
You are expected at Pippen Hill tomorrow.

Sapiens dominabitur astris.

Wren rubbed her thumb over the embossed letters. Was this some sort of practical joke? Nursery rhymes and a guild of fiddlers? This day kept getting weirder and weirder. Her thumb was black, as though bits of the poems were sticking to her. Wren folded the papers, sending a shower of blue sparks to the floor, and tucked them back in her pocket. That was when she noticed that Simon Barker was staring at her, his gaze flicking between her face and the smudges on her hand.

“You got the poems, too?” Simon said in a near whisper, glancing at the grown-ups, who were distracted by their political debate. Wren's surprise at him speaking directly to her was soon overcome by the sight of his left hand, covered with the same clinging, shimmery dust.

As I was going up Pippen Hill,

Pippen Hill was steep.

And there I found the truth of it,

All the secrets I would keep.

A
fter Wren woke up the next morning, she stayed in bed for a long time. Her sleep had been plagued by strange dreams, ones where the whole world was black and white and a chorus of voices kept chasing after her. Wren pushed the images from her mind and pulled out the bag she kept in her nightstand drawer. The sky map on her bedroom ceiling was nearly finished, tiny glow-in-the-dark stars marking out the patterns of the Northern Hemisphere. The other walls waited to be transformed into snippets of the Equatorial and Southern Hemispheres.

Wren's dad had gotten her a student pass to the college observatory, and since they lived in the faculty housing on campus, it didn't take much to sweet-talk him into taking her there on clear nights. Wren liked to mark out the constellations she had actually seen with blue stars. Just last week she had finally gotten a good glimpse of Leo.

But replacing Leo's old stars with new blue ones didn't distract her for long. Wren reached under her pillow and pulled out the folded shimmering papers again, as if staring at them would uncover their meaning. Dinner had ended too soon for Wren and Simon to talk more, but they had agreed to meet this morning at a nearby coffee shop.

When Wren arrived in the kitchen, her mom was about to leave for work. “I'm so proud of you, sweetie,” her mom said as she poured her tea into a travel mug. “Getting up this morning and taking initiative.”

Wren didn't bother to correct her. If her mom thought interrogating Simon about his packet of papers counted as her social interaction, Wren wasn't going to argue.

The sky was surprisingly clear and sunny for early spring, and after biking to the coffee shop, Wren was
hot and thirsty. Simon had beaten her there and was sitting at an outdoor table, two bottles of pop in front of him.

Wren parked her bike and grabbed the packet of papers from the white wicker basket.

“Root beer is the best option here,” Simon said, sliding one of the bottles toward Wren without looking up from the notebook he was flipping through. “No caffeine. Best value for the price. And”—he smiled in Wren's direction—“it tastes good.”

“Can't argue with that logic,” Wren said, slipping into the chair across from him. “Did you bring your poems?”

They traded, and Wren sipped her root beer while she read. Simon's back page had a different rhyme about a canary, but the rest were the same. And so was the shimmering dust.

“There's no Pippen Hill anywhere in town.” Simon opened a fat folder full of maps he'd printed off the internet. “How can we be expected at Pippen Hill today if there is no such thing?”

Wren stared at the wrinkled edges of one of the maps. Simon must have stayed up all night doing research. “What about similar names?” she said, making it
sound as though she'd done more than just think about the poems. “What if there's a location that used to be called Pippen Hill?”

Simon pulled another file out of his backpack. “Historical maps, all the way back to the town's founding in 1851. There's never been a Pippen Hill anywhere around here.” He tossed the stack in front of her. “There are, however, plenty of hills that have had apple orchards on them.”

“Apples?” Wren echoed. “What do apples have to do with anything?”

“Pippins are a type of apple,” Simon said in a lecturing tone. “I'm surprised you didn't know that, Wren.”

Wren ignored the barb. Why would he think she was some kind of apple expert? “Okay. But maybe the apples are a coincidence.” Wren flipped through the neatly cataloged maps. “What about the town's historical society—”

“Already called them,” Simon said. “They've never heard of a Pippen Hill or any kind of fiddling guild.” He hunched forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I bet it's some kind of a test.”

“A test?” Wren handed the files back to Simon. “For what? To see if we can read nonsense poems?”

“Not a test about the poems.” Simon looked in her direction. “A test for the fiddler people. Maybe they want to see if we're clever enough to find Pippen Hill by ourselves.”

Wren was used to seeing Simon's profile while their parents talked to each other, but now she found it odd that he rarely maintained eye contact, even when speaking directly to her, which made him appear a little shifty.

“I'm sure of it,” he continued. “This invitation is a riddle.”

“Why would they—”

“Why would they do anything?” Simon interrupted. “Why invite us with nursery rhymes? Why the shimmering dust? Why use a falcon to deliver the papers?”

“You saw the bird?”

“Falcon,” Simon said, rummaging around in his backpack. “Long wings. Swift flight. And did you see those talons? Birds of prey are fascinating animals.”

“You saw the falcon.” Wren didn't care what he called it.

“Of course I saw the falcon.” Simon sounded annoyed and started skimming through his notebook again. “Who didn't see the falcon?”

“Um . . . everyone else? I thought I was the only one, or that I was imagining the whole thing, or that the bird was someone's science project or—”

“No live animals are allowed to roam free in the main exhibition hall,” he said with a disapproving frown, as though Wren was suggesting they break conference rules.

“Maybe you were too busy scratch-scratch-scratching with your pencil,” Wren said, leaning in so Simon would look at her and actually hear what she was saying, “but
no one else
saw the bird.” She told him how everything seemed like it had been paused for a moment. And then it hit her. “Except for your pencil. You weren't on pause either. You
did
see it!”

“How else do you think you managed to tie me for the win? With all the commotion, I kept losing my place in the trivia questions. I was lucky to finish the first problem before time was up.” He pulled out a pencil and scribbled something in the margin of his notebook. “I must be missing something.”

“
I
managed to tie with
you
?” Wren said to the top of his head. “I don't think so. If it hadn't been for the stupid bird, I'd have— Wait, how many years have I won the trivia challenge?” Wren put her finger on her
chin as though she had to think hard. “That's right, four. So I'd have a fifth medal. You should thank your lucky stars that bird showed up when it did. I ought to—”

Wren caught her breath as something clicked. “That's it! The stars!” She grabbed her packet of papers and rustled through it, sending aqua sparks ricocheting around their tabletop, until she found the page with the invitation. “
Astris
means ‘stars.'” Wren might not have spent the whole night Googling the topography of the town, but she had looked up the Latin phrase. She pointed to it. “
Sapiens dominabitur astris
: ‘A wise man can rule the stars.' That's the clue.”

“Clue to what?”

“Your riddle!” Wren folded the papers back up. “I know where Pippen Hill is.”

Simon had walked to the coffee shop, so Wren wheeled her bike alongside as they made their way across the university campus. “The observatory is surrounded by apple trees,” she said, following the familiar path. “My dad told me the whole campus used to be an orchard.” She mimicked his teacherish tone from earlier. “I'm surprised you didn't know that, Simon.”

But Wren soon forgot to be snarky with him. As they approached the observatory, she noticed something she had never seen before. Something she was certain had never been there before. Situated in a clump of apple trees some distance from the observatory building was a cottage that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, complete with misshapen bricks, thatched roof, and a tottering second story dotted with chimneys.

Wren propped her bike against a tree, and they picked their way along the uneven stone pathway that led to the front porch. “How could I have never seen this before?”

“You've never seen this house before, and here it is.” Simon took the porch steps two at a time. “No one else saw the falcon, yet both you and I saw it. And no one else saw the dust but you and me. Somehow everything is related.”

“How do you know no one else saw the dust?”

“My dad didn't.” Simon shrugged. “I accidentally dropped my packet in the living room, and he never said a word, even though the carpet was covered with the stuff.”

Wren thought of how the papers had stained her pocket. If her mom had noticed that half of Wren's
hoodie was covered with ashes, she would have had plenty to say about it.

“Every problem has a logical explanation.” Simon rubbed his forehead vigorously, like he could find the answer by sheer willpower. “If we had more data, we could come up with a better hypothesis.”

“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” Wren straightened her sweatshirt and knocked on the weathered door.

When it opened, Wren knew that they had indeed found Pippen Hill. Standing in front of them was the mysterious woman who had disappeared at the trivia challenge, and perched on her shoulder was her sleek white falcon.

“I'm Mary,” the woman said, giving them a conspiratorial smile. Mary's dreadlocked hair was twisted into a fat knot on the back of her head, and thick strings of beads were looped around her neck. “You are Wren and Simon, the brand-new Fiddler apprentices”—she pulled a small silver hourglass from her skirt pocket and peered at it—“who are right on time. Come in.”