Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(19)

I wanted to see Caen again, to witness his happiness. Part of me would always love him, but nothing could jolt or destroy my new sense of peace. There would only be joy in our reuniting, nothing else.

Picking up my skirt, I hurried into the cathedral. I heard someone deeper within it, despite the early hour. Was it Father? He was the one who swept out the church. Heart racing, I turned past the main doors and wrapped around to the back, finding a man wearing a cap, sweeping the floor. But it wasn’t my father.

“Oh,” I said, and the man looked up at me, his face completely unfamiliar. He was about fifty years old and wore a white stole embroidered with gold. I’d never seen the like before. A pair of dainty spectacles rested on his nose.

“I-I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were someone else.”

He smiled at me. “I am only myself.” Taking one hand from the broom, he adjusted his spectacles and squinted at me.

Suddenly embarrassed, I asked, “This is Endwever, is it not?”

“Yes, of course.” He took a step closer to me. His expression went slack suddenly, his skin pale. “By the gods.”

Uneasy, I asked, “What?”

“You . . . But it can’t be.”

I repeated, “What?”

He let the broom drop from his hand. “My dear woman . . . what is your name?”

I answered, “Ceris Wenden,” only to have him recite my last name along with me. He gawked, and I smiled. “I know—no one was expecting me to come back. You must have met my father.” A sudden rush of fear prickled down my spine. “Is he well?” I didn’t know this man, and it was my father’s duty to take care of the cathedral.

He hesitated a moment before replying. “Oh, I . . .” He rolled his lips together, thinking. “Here . . . come with me.”

He left his broom and moved deeper into the temple. He had a slight limp in his right leg. Despite my eagerness to return home, I followed him past the ambulatory and out a small door that opened onto the cemetery. My heart leapt into my throat and squeezed my windpipe, making it impossible to speak or breathe. The grounds were larger than I remembered, but I didn’t visit them often.

He paused once, then continued walking, leading me to a row of large graves, notably higher and more ornate than the other tombstones. They were weathered and worn, their writing nearly illegible, the Sun spokes carved atop the stones short and rounded from wind and rain.

“These are the Wendens.” He pointed them out with a weak gesture.

“Wendens,” I repeated, emphasizing the s at the end. I glanced to the row behind them, to a row of even older graves. Weren’t those the Wendens? I had thought my grandparents were buried in that corner . . . but perhaps I was mistaken.

Reaching forward, I brushed the top of the highest tombstone. I could make out an A in the engraving, a faded Sun above it. I shook my head. “These stones must be centuries old. My family was in good health when I left.”

The man didn’t answer, so I turned to look at him. Sadness dipped his eyes and confusion thickened his brow. I straightened, waiting for an explanation, but all he said was “You really are Ceris Wenden of Endwever.”

He spoke like he was announcing a queen. I nodded.

He wrung his hands together. “Come.” He headed back into the cathedral.

I jogged to catch up with him. “What is it you’re not telling me?” I asked. “What is your name?”

“I’m Father Aedan, Your Highness.” He covered his mouth to cough. “Star Mother. Forgive me, I don’t know what to call you.”

“Ceris is fine,” I assured him, but he shook his head as though he didn’t agree. We stepped back into the cathedral, Father Aedan leading me closer to the eye, but I stopped in my tracks, spying a sculpture that had not been there on my last visit, standing directly across from the apse. It was life-sized, made of marble, and stood atop a three-foot-high pedestal. A woman draped in billowing clothing, skirt running past her toes, a crown of Sun spokes gracing her brow, a five-pointed star in her outstretched hand.

The face was undeniably mine.

Gaping, I dragged my feet forward, moving closer. I touched the ends of the stone dress, which were smooth from the passing of a million fingers. I studied my face—it was reverent and wise, chiseled into an expression I don’t think I’ve ever actually worn, but it was lovely and inspiring, nonetheless.

No wonder Father Aedan had recognized me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he whispered.

I nodded. “Who carved it?”

“Alas, I do not know.”

My gaze dropped back to the hem of the skirt. The sculptor must have made quick work of it, to capture my likeness so perfectly, to have it put in the cathedral already. How could anyone who worked here not know his name?

Why was the stone so worn, like it was . . . old? Just like those tombstones . . .

“Father Aedan”—I enunciated every syllable of his name—“how long have I been gone?”

He swallowed and looked around, searching for something. I now realize he might have been searching for a place for me to sit. “Our scripture says you left in 3404, Star Mother.” He gestured weakly to the pedestal, and I saw the same four numbers etched there.

When he didn’t continue, I pushed another question through my tight throat. “And what year is it now?” My thoughts cried, 3405. Please say 3405.