Page 134 of Fire to the Stars

The briefest gust rustles my clothes. Dazed, I turn to Noctu. To thank him, I think. To ask what I’m supposed to do with my life now that his brother is done with me. A celestial being must know the answer.

But he’s already gone.

I went to open for breakfast, but I found cardinal robes in a pile of dust on my patio. I’ve heard my case is only one of many instances, but I must insist you investigate my crime scene first. I have a restaurant to run!

—Spontaneous combustion report no. 32 submitted to Irvin Bard, marshal of Jardincourt, from the owner of La Cuisine du Roi, January21, 1761 AA

Chapter Forty-Nine

Abel

Doves huddle in the rafters of Varsonne’s aviary post. The one I pick to carry a message squawks while I tie the strip of paper to its leg.

“Give it a rest. Warmer days are ahead of you— Ouch!” I hiss, shaking out my pecked hand. The bird flies through the open window as if resentful.

It is a summons—for the Slayers Guild.

The message provides notice of a cure—for lack of a better term—signed not only by me but also by Marshal Abigail Payen and Lyle Meteku. As far as Marshal Payen could find out upon our return, every archivist in Varsonne has turned into dust. The cardinals too. All that’s left of our belief system are the slayers. I pray a marshal’s endorsement is enough to bring them here in two weeks’ time.

I exit the aviary into heavy snowfall that Lucy immediately shakes off. Martial law has been lifted. The city remains sleepyunder a blanket of white, but freshly shoveled paths prove that no one is afraid to brave the cold.

Claire is the exception. She won’t leave the inn.

The impulse to confide in my friend leads me to Madame Afi’s hillside home. Just as I raise my fist to knock on the door, it opens. Lyle looks up from the pile of dirt he was about to sweep outside.

“Oh. It’s you,” he says, stepping aside. “Come in.”

“Thanks. I— Lucy, no!”

Lucy slips past me in a straight line for the coals crackling under the stove. Mercifully, Lyle rescues his teapot from the impact of her pounce. It whistles weakly but steams enough for him to shrug off the rest of the wait time.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I would’ve left Lucy with Claire, but she’s been clingy since I almost died.”

“Cheers to breaking through the favoritism,” he laughs. “Tea? I’ve got chamomile.”

“You hate chamomile tea.”

“I found the leaves when I cleaned out Ma’s cabinets yesterday.” He points to a small basket on the kitchen counter, stuffed with Madame Afi’s favorite tea set. “I miss that disgusting smell.”

“Then let’s pour ourselves a cup.”

While our tea steeps, Lucy emerges from the coals. Soot covers her muzzle. Shegekkers in excitement, deciding that this is the correct time to sprint across the clean floorboards and bite the bristles of Lyle’s broom.

“Bad Lucy,” Lyle scolds. He pulls a strip of venison from hisback pocket, then tosses it to her. She drags it beneath the dining table.

“I’ll clean up after her,” I sigh.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“If there’s anything I can do for you—”

“I know.” Lyle smiles ruefully. “I’ll ask. Thank you.”

The scent of chamomile curls into the air between us, the ghost of his mother with it. The smell convinces me she’s here, sorting through her crafting materials. In a different life, there’d be no dragon curse. Just friends and family spending time together in Madame Afi’s atelier. She’d smack sweets out of Micah’s sneaky hands but save them as rewards for later, once he did his apprentice chores.

“Drink on three?” Lyle offers.

I nod. “One.”