A Sliver of Stardust (5 page)

“You don't,” Mary said, pushing her sister away. “You weren't falsely accused. You weren't branded a traitor. All your years of research weren't stolen from you and given to others.” Her voice broke, and there was an awful pause. “I am going to the Crooked House, and I'm taking the apprentices with me. They'll have to at least give me credit for that.” She beckoned to Wren and Simon. “We'd go now if I didn't need to settle things with your parents.” She gave Liza a stiff hug good-bye. “If you decide to join us, we leave tomorrow at dusk.”

Mary, Mary quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

Silver bells and cockleshells,

And apprentices all in a row.

I
didn't know they allowed falcons within town limits, even on an urban farm,” Wren's dad said after Mary had left. “Another reason I love this city.” Mary had come home with Wren and wielded a different kind of magic with her parents. She had told them all about the falcons she cared for at the university and how she was short of help and asked if they would mind terribly if she took Wren on as an apprentice with Simon, since they were such good friends. Wren could have her own room there, Mary had said, since the falcons needed constant attention, and would there be any way Wren
could start right away, that very evening? It was masterfully done because, excluding the bit about Simon and Wren being good friends, Wren couldn't catch her in a single lie. Mary simply left out the whole part about magic and Fiddlers and all the rest.

Wren flopped a big cheesy piece of pizza onto her plate.

“Mary's program sounds interesting,” Wren's mom said. “And I want you to know I'm so proud of you for trying something outside of your comfort zone, Wren. But falcons? Really?” She fidgeted with the edge of her napkin. “Are you sure you want to spend a whole month there? I mean, you could at least wait a few days, think it over.”

“I'm sure, and I want to start now.” Wren worked hard not to roll her eyes. First her mom worried about Wren not doing enough social things. Now she was worried Wren would do too many. “It's not like you get days off when you're taking care of animals anyway.” Wren swallowed hard. Her parents wouldn't say no, would they? What if Mary started apprenticing Simon without her? He would be light-years ahead of her. “Look,” Wren said in her most grown-up-sounding voice. “I'll be less than a mile away. Dad is
on the campus almost every day, and I can come home if I want to. Besides, it's not like anyone will be here anyway. Dad has classes to prep for, and you'll be busy with the play.”

“You're right about that. I thought I'd never get out of the theater, and I have yet another meeting tonight,” Wren's mom said as she poured a big glass of water. “There are some copyright issues—can you believe that?—and now I have to either come up with an original script or find a different project. It's going to be a massive undertaking to finish it all in time for Springfest.”

Wren made a noncommittal sound. Every year her mom swore she wouldn't direct the outdoor performance that ushered in the beginning of summer, and every year she ended up doing it anyway. Wren could count on it like clockwork: April was the month that her mom turned into a stressed-out director who would make the best actor cringe. Wren listened to her mom talk about how she was going to start allotting thirty minutes a day for meditation, and told herself that was why she wasn't talking to her parents about the Fiddlers.
It's for their own good.
Untangling Wren's new reality would be too much for them right now.
She would wait until May, long after the Springfest performance was done, and then she would tell them everything. She forced the bite of pizza down, but there was a knot in her stomach. Wren had never lied to her parents like this. Even if she was technically telling the truth—or, rather, postponing it—she felt horrible.

“It would be great to find something unconventional. Something we could turn on its head and wow the audience with.” Wren's mom rubbed her temples the way she did when a migraine was coming on. “Fairy tale retellings are so popular these days. Maybe I should do one of those.”

“Or Mother Goose,” Wren said, half under her breath. “Some of those old rhymes are pretty weird.”

“Wren!” Her mom pressed both hands flat against the table. “That's a brilliant idea! And I don't think anyone's done anything like it. All the material is public domain, and we could do a mishmash of things.” She flipped open her laptop and began typing madly. “Think of the costumes!”

“I was only joking,” Wren said, wondering if her suggestion counted as spilling some of the Fiddlers' secrets. “Nursery rhymes? Really, Mom?”

“I won't tell anyone you came up with it,” her mom
said, giving Wren's shoulder a quick squeeze. “Though you may change your mind when it's a smash hit. We're performing at the stage in the park this year. I'm picturing sheep. And cows. Aren't there a lot of animals in those rhymes?”

Wren's mom was opening tabs faster than she could talk. Wikipedia entries on Mother Goose and photo collages of nursery-themed parties. Wren peered at her screen, wondering if anyone anywhere had any inkling what the rhymes were really about.

Her dad was talking about the midterm grading he had to do for his classes. “You know, Wren, you still could join one of the college clubs if you'd rather. I know nothing ruffles your feathers, Little Bird, but farm chores—even on an urban farm—are awfully hard work.”

Wren ignored her dad's pet name for her. “I want to do the apprenticeship with Simon,” she snapped, and then immediately regretted it when she saw his expression. He should have been looking cross. Instead, he and Wren's mom were sharing a tiny knowing smile.
Shoot.

“Okay, okay.” Wren's dad spread his hands out in front of him. “I knew this day was coming, when other
guys would bump your old dad off your list.”

“It's not like that, Dad,” Wren said, but she could tell it wasn't any use. “Simon's just a friend.” She thought of their history of shared competition and Simon's insufferable tendency to be a know-it-all. “Well, sort of a friend.”

“Sure,” her mom said as she gave Wren a wink. “We won't say another word about it.”

Mary opened the door when Wren and her mom arrived at Pippen Hill that evening. “I know you're short on time,” Mary said to Wren's mom, who was trying to inconspicuously check the clock on her phone. “I can have Wren fill out this paperwork here”—she pointed to a rolltop desk over by the wall—“while I give you a quick tour. You can see the falcons another time, but let me show you where Wren will be staying.” Mary must have used the stardust to mask things, because neither the plant-filled library nor her workroom were anywhere in sight. Instead, the cottage at Pippen Hill looked like an old, dusty farmhouse in need of remodeling.

“That sounds great,” Wren's mom said, the relief showing in her eyes. “I'm usually not this distracted; it's this ridiculous Springfest play, and—” Her phone
beeped. “I'm sorry, let me send a quick reply.”

“No problem,” Mary said pleasantly, leading the way out of the room while Wren's mom punched out a text message.

Wren bent down to the look at the papers on the desk and read the words written in old-fashioned script:

Fiddlers one and Fiddlers all

Are welcome in the Fiddler Hall

Their lips are sealed

Their confidence won

A Fiddler once made

Can ne'er be undone.

Sapiens dominabitur astris

Simon came into the room and moved close enough to read over Wren's shoulder. “What a stellar motto, pun intended.”

“Ha-ha.” Wren scrawled her signature at the bottom of the page. “So what did your dad say about Mary?”

“He thinks it's a good idea. I've been talking about volunteering at a veterinary clinic anyway, so when I told him about the falcons, he was happy for me. What
about your parents?” Simon folded his arms across his chest and leaned one shoulder against the wall.

Wren picked up the paper, letting its edges curl into a scroll. There was no way she was going to tell Simon her parents thought she
liked
him. “You know how they are. With the unschooling and everything. They said I could do what I want.” She twirled the rolled-up paper in her hands. “I felt bad not telling them everything, though. Like I was lying or something.”

“Yeah.” Simon looked down at his arms. “But what else are we supposed to do? Give up the stardust?” He shook his head. “Mary did say we could tell them someday.”

Wren nodded. She just wished someday didn't feel like another word for maybe never.

“Excellent.” Mary's voice drifted from somewhere down the hallway, and soon she and Wren's mom appeared. “So Wren will be able to pop home if she needs to, but we'll take good care of her. Not to worry.”

“Sounds fine to me.” Wren's mom came over to her. Her phone was back in her pocket, and she was channeling normal, non-stressed-out Mom. “If you need anything, we're just a few minutes away, okay?” She laughed. “You know my phone will always be on.
Text me. Every day, all right?” She gave Wren a hug. “It looks like a great opportunity, Wren. I'm proud of you.”

Wren returned the hug, tighter than she would have otherwise, wondering if her mom would still be proud of her when Wren finally told her why she'd really been at Mary's. For a moment, she wondered what would happen if she just blurted it all out now. What Mary would say and if they could somehow make Wren's mom understand. But then her mom's phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming call, and she gave Wren a quick peck on the cheek.

“It's the costumer. I've got to take this one. Thanks so much, Mary. Bye, Wren. Simon.” And then she was gone.

“I thought that went well,” Mary said, a pleased smile playing about her lips. “I'm a little rusty on my interaction with contemporary families, but I'd say that was a success.”

I am a gold lock.

I am a gold key.

However high and low you hunt,

You'll never find me.

M
ary opened the door to Wren's room, which looked like it belonged in a turn-of-the-century novel. There was a big tiled fireplace in the center of one wall with a rocking chair situated in front of it. Across from that, a four-poster bed, complete with velvet curtains that hung from the canopy, took up most of the remaining space on the hardwood floor.

Wren set her suitcase on the window seat and, after bidding Mary good night, slipped into her pajamas. She was too tired to brush her teeth or to feel nervous about sleeping in a new place. She lay down on the
massive bed, positioning the pillow so that she could see out the window. The sky was only partially clear, but she could still spot a corner of the Big Dipper.

Wren pulled the covers up to her chin. Even though she was not far from her house, her old life felt a world away. She smiled at the thought. She should be frightened, or homesick, or overwhelmed, shouldn't she? Instead, she felt quiet inside. Everything, all of a sudden, seemed simple and easy. No need for social development or trivia challenges or internet forums. There was only the new idea of stardust. Of Fiddlers and magic and ancient guilds from before the dawn of time. She squirreled deeper under the blankets. Perhaps she wasn't freaking out because she felt like she'd finally come home.

Wren woke to find the curtains around her bed drawn closed. The air had that sharp cold that came with the very early morning, and Wren breathed deeply to shake off the fogginess of sleep. Her chest was tight, as though somewhere deep inside she knew that it would be a Bad Thing if she were to leave her bed. From the other side of the curtains, Wren heard voices. She didn't recognize who was speaking, but she could hear the words very clearly.

“Boggen's had the city searched from top to bottom,” a woman was saying. “Three silversmiths have already been executed for claiming ignorance. He'll be after us next.”

There was the clattering sound of wood on wood, and then a man's voice. “It's not here. Marley left it behind in the Crooked House and paid for it with his life, but there'll be no convincing Boggen of that fact. Now that he's made contact, he's hungrier than ever to find the golden key.”

The Crooked House!
Wren got up on her hands and knees, easing herself over to the curtains. She twitched the fabric a fraction of an inch, enough to peek through.

“We waste time talking while Boggen's henchmen might be on their way here.” The man was standing at a table, dumping things into a wooden trunk. He wore odd clothes crisscrossed with belts and buckles, and the layers of fabric were covered with a film of dirt that made Wren wonder when they were last washed. “Best make a run for it while we can.”

“Robin isn't home yet.” The woman looked slightly cleaner, her ratty hair held back with the goggles that were pushed up onto her forehead. “We can't leave without her.”

The voices grew less distinct as the man and woman
turned away to gather things from a chest against the wall. Something about messages and candles and sleep. Whatever was going on, their panic transferred over to her, and she felt an icy chill crawl up her spine the more they talked about Boggen and his bloodthirsty hunt for a key. The name tickled at her memory—she had heard it somewhere before.

While they were busy with the chest, Wren tried to gauge the distance to the door, and that was when she realized that the room beyond was nothing like the room she'd gone to sleep in. There was no rocking chair. No window seat. There was a smoky fire where the fireplace should be, but instead of a tiled mantelpiece, Wren saw hammered metal that glinted in the shadows. The walls were covered with the same substance, and a jumble of off-kilter tables and stools were piled where the bedroom door should have been.
Where am I? What is going on?
She sat back on her heels right as a light flashed before her.

“Wait!” The woman must have seen her. “Dreamer! Wait!” Someone ripped aside the curtain around Wren's bed, and she saw the woman standing there, her grubby hand reaching for her, but suddenly a dark silhouette loomed in the doorway behind her, towering
up and over. As the shadow expanded, the whole scene disappeared with a thunderclap.

Wren woke in her bed in Pippen Hill, the sheets and blankets a tangle around her ankles, her heart pounding. The curtains hung as she had left them, open, and showed her room at Pippen Hill as it should be. A nightmare
.
That was all it was. Only a nightmare. Her neck and shoulders were stiff with fear, and she had to breathe deeply to still the racing of her heart. It was dark outside, the few stars now blotted out by heavy cloud cover. The wind set one tree branch tapping against the window, as if to remind her it was all a dream.

Wren leaned back against the pillows. This dream wasn't like other nightmares she'd had, ones where memories of events faded with each passing minute. Instead, every detail seemed clearer to her waking mind. The grainy feel of the scene, almost like it was an old black-and-white film. The smoky look of the room. The tense conversation. The woman's final frantic approach.
Dreamer
,
she had called to Wren, as though she knew Wren was asleep and dreaming.

Wren shoved off the covers and switched on a lamp.
The adrenaline rush had chased away any chance of going back to sleep. She slid her feet into her shoes and made her way down to the kitchen. The orange warmth of the old-fashioned stove set off a cozy glow, leaving the farthest corners of the kitchen bathed in shadow. Wren wished that she could rummage in her own familiar refrigerator, maybe find a piece of leftover chocolate cake and pour an ice-cold glass of milk. If she was lucky, her dad might come down, and they could sit together, sharing the cake and talking things over. Maybe he could help her understand what was going on, why she felt haunted by the thought that it was more than a dream.

“You couldn't sleep either?”

Wren jolted, bumping her elbow on the wall, the too-recent feeling of fear returning with a rush.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you,” Jack said with an apologetic smile. “I thought you saw me come in.” He pointed to a door tucked under the corner staircase. He reached into a cupboard and pulled out a plate of cookies.

“Yeah, I couldn't sleep,” Wren said. She took the cookie he handed her. “Though now I'm kind of glad.”

“When I visit my grandfather out in the country
and can't sleep, I go outside and stargaze,” Jack said, and Wren knew they were going to be friends for sure. “And other nights I don't want to sleep.” Jack bit off the edge of a chocolate chip cookie. “Mary says the stardust can affect our dreams. I had the hardest time my first month after touching it. Crazy nightmares. Sleepwalking. You'll get used to it.”

“That's a relief.” Wren breathed out a sigh and tried to make it into a joke. “I was beginning to think I might be going crazy. I've never had such intense dreams.”

“‘All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.' Didn't Edgar Allen Poe or somebody say that?” Jack pulled up the collar of his sweater against the early morning chill. “It's no surprise, really. Especially with all that you just learned about Fiddlers. Let me guess, you dreamed about magicians or blackbird pies or golden eggs or something.”

“A golden key, actually.” Wren grinned, sliding onto one of the chairs next to the big kitchen worktable. Now that she was awake she knew where she had heard the name in the dream. “And the Fiddler that Mary and Baxter were talking about—Boggen?—was hunting for it. I guess all the stuff I heard about the Fiddlers got jumbled up in my brain.”

“Any clue as to where the key was?” Jack joked. “Maybe we can beat Boggen to it.” He winked at her. “Welcome to the Fiddler nuttiness.”

Wren supposed her dream made a strange kind of sense, what with her discovering nursery rhymes were tied to magic and stardust and all the talk about the Crooked House. “I think I'm having a little trouble making sense of everything.”

“Only a little?” Jack grinned at her. “When I found out that magic was real, my mind was blown for a month. But soon you'll be in what I call magical mode. The impossible won't seem strange anymore.”

“How long have you known?” Wren stood and pulled on the sideways chrome handle to open the fridge. Talking to Jack had awakened a whole flood of questions. “When did you become an apprentice? How did Mary find you?” She grabbed the milk and poured them each a glass.

“Thanks.” Jack took a big gulp. “Actually, I found Mary about six months ago. My grandpa's kind of a conspiracy theorist. He thinks everyone is working together to pull off some big lie.” Jack tipped his chair back so it was balancing on two legs. “He's always thought magic was real, and that the rich and powerful
people are hogging it all for themselves. Trying to learn about magic got him all obsessed with alchemists—you know, those old scientists who thought you could use elements to turn rocks into gold and stuff?”

Wren nodded impatiently. She knew that some of the earliest astronomers had been alchemists and had theorized that atomic particles might have had magical properties. “So? What did your grandpa find out?”

“Nothing.” Jack smirked at Wren's expression. “
I'm
the one who did the finding. Grandpa had all these faded newspaper clippings and journals full of notes about alchemy clubs. Most of it meant nothing, but one woman's face kept popping up in the newspapers. She was this botanist who exhibited at the world's fair. But she was also a friend of Marie Curie. And then I found copies of her scientific papers and essays on women's suffrage.” He let his chair fall to the ground with a thump.

“Who was she?” Wren asked.

“I'll give you three guesses,” Jack said, but Wren didn't really need them.

“It was Mary?”

“Sure was. I did some more hunting and found her in some old photos. Shaking hands with Albert Einstein.
Congratulating Feynman when he won the Nobel. In the front row at one of Stephen Hawking's lectures. Of course, at the time, I didn't know it was the same woman.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I thought it would be her descendant, and I wanted to talk to her and see if she knew anything about the alchemy stuff.” He gulped the rest of his milk and set the glass down, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “So I did some searching online and found out she was going to be at an herbalist's convention in Manhattan—which isn't that far from where my grandpa lives. When I started asking about alchemy she got all funny, and then she threw stardust at my face. None of the people around us could see it, I guess any non-Fiddler wouldn't, but I started shouting at her, and then she realized I could see it, and, well, the rest is history.”

“Wow,” Wren said. “I mean, I knew she was old, but hearing about her doing all those historical things makes it so real.”

“So your grandfather knows?” Simon's voice took Wren by surprise. He was leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairway, and Wren wondered how long he'd been listening. “About the Fiddlers?”

“Sure.” Jack ran a finger around the neck of his sweater like he was loosening a tie. “I mean, he was
right, wasn't he? There
is
a huge conspiracy going on.”

“It must be nice to not have to lie,” Wren said, her guilt over not telling her parents returning in full force. “To have it all out in the open.”

“Sometimes,” Jack snorted. “Except he's always pumping me for information and showing me random old Mother Goose rhymes and stuff. But he's not bad for all that.”

“Come sit with us,” Wren said to Simon, scooting the nearly empty plate toward him. “There're cookies.”

“Nah. I'm headed out for an early run,” Simon said, and that was when Wren noticed that he was fully dressed, ready for the day.

She groaned. “It's morning already? I barely even slept.”

“Sleep is overrated,” Jack said, popping the last cookie in his mouth. “Wait for me, Simon, and I'll come with you. Wren? Want to join in?”

“Pass,” Wren said, piling the dishes in the sink. Even if she was tempted to go running, which she most definitely wasn't, the night was catching up with her, and she made her way back up to her room, fingers crossed for dreamless sleep.