Star Daughter(106)
She considered that. “Sounds simple enough. Like something my dad would say.”
“It was actually your dad’s idea,” Dev said, reaching up to play with her wig. “He told your mom to try it, and it worked.”
Sheetal tore off the wig and stuffed it into her bag. After all, she didn’t need it here in the Night Market. “I should’ve guessed.”
Dev smiled his answer against her mouth, and he tasted better than even the ice cream. Sweet, warm, and full of sunshine. Her own light flared, brilliant against her closed lids.
Harp strings began to trill, saturating the air with shimmering ornaments. “That is quite enough of your face-to-face!”
“Such thoughtless knavery in this, our place!”
Sheetal took the hint and let go of Dev, though not without rolling her eyes. “I think we’re being summoned.”
“Shall we sing again?” asked Vanita when they got back. Judging by the smudge near her mouth, she’d happily polished off what was left of the ice cream cone.
“Perhaps one about your mother?” asked Amrita, smacking her lips. Sheetal didn’t want to know what she’d been eating.
She looked from Dev to Minal, who was cracking up, to Padmini, who’d been staring at the heavens, and smiled. Tomorrow they would deliver sofas and make dinner with fathers, deal with irate cousins and grandmothers and unexpected singing careers, and figure out how to navigate life between magical and mundane worlds.
Right now, however, she had friends who saw her—the real her—and a shining crystal harp. “Well, I do know a few more stories. . . .”
Acknowledgments
They say it takes a village to raise a child or publish a book, and I’m here to say that’s one hundred percent accurate. Heartfelt thanks go out to:
First readers Amy Bai, Casey Blair, Roshani Chokshi, Rosamund Hodge, Jessica Kormos, Justine Larbalestier, Claire Legrand, Anna-Marie McLemore, Caitlyn Paxson, and Jennifer Walkup, who read what amounted to a seed striving to sprout and offered some much-needed Miracle-Gro.
Nova Ren Suma and the summer 2015 Djerassi workshop. Nova, your praise and notes spurred me to go much deeper.
Vinod Mishra, for telling me about the nakshatras. Danielle Friedman and Kunal Thakrar, for helping clarify what an intensive care unit is like and what could have landed Sheetal’s dad there.
Vashti Bandy, B. A. Barnett, Victoria Sandbrook Flynn, Annaka Kalton, Jocelyn Koehler, Claire Legrand, Jennifer Mace, Anna-Marie McLemore, and Renee Melton, for your invaluable insights and encouragement through the years of revising and rewriting. I’m so happy to call you friends and read your work, too!
Patrice Caldwell, a true advocate of diverse voices. You did so much to help me get here, and I’ll always be grateful.
J. Koyanagi, for the love, heart talks, and clear sight. Cindy Pon, for insisting my day would come and being one of my dearest friends and favorite writers. Karuna Riazi, for never once doubting, reading so many snippets, and always reminding me we both can and must make our magic. Sukanya Venkatraghavan, for the talks, love, and Kali earrings. Mikey Vuoncino, for your unwavering belief in me and the stories I have to tell, plus the suggestion for why Sheetal’s dad won the Nobel Prize. The Sisterhood of the Moon, for tons of folklore and glitter along the way. You’re the best supporters this dreamer could ask for.
Cheerleader readers Jessica B. Cooper, Jennifer Crow, and Grace Nuth, for reading and squealing about how awesome the book was long and loudly enough to get me past the precarious spots when I was ready to throw it all in the trash.
Diana DeVault, you blessing with rainbow hair, you. I would have given up long before now if you hadn’t been there with your love, steadfast enthusiasm, and excellent hugs!
Lindsey Márton O’Brien, for your love and faith and for my sparkling jewel of a website, and Asma Kazi, for plucking the Night Market right out of my imagination to form the backdrop of that website.
Terri Windling, for nurturing such an inclusive mythic arts community in a time when I didn’t see stories like this one anywhere and for believing my voice a necessary part of it.
Holly Black, Plot Whisperer Extraordinaire. A glass of frostberry wine and a front-seat ticket to the celestial art competition for you. If I ever do find those sentient cloud barrettes, they’re all yours.
Laini Taylor, for your beautiful “Stars” Laini’s Lady quotation and for inspiring me with your own enchanting tales and love of whimsy.
Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess, for your splendid illustrated novel Stardust, which first inspired Star Daughter (“I know, I’ll write a story about a girl whose mother is a star in a Hindu constellation!”).
The We Need Diverse Books organization, for awarding me an inaugural Walter Dean Myers Grant while I was revising an early draft of this book, and the late Walter Dean Myers himself, a champion of inclusion and real representation in media. We all deserve to have our stories told—in our own voices.
Super agent Beth Phelan, for your no-nonsense editorial eye, your business savvy, and your kindness—and to the entire Gallt & Zacker agency for caring so well for its clients. Here’s to many more books together!
My brilliant editor Stephanie Stein, who got my vision and guided me with liberal amounts of stardust, wisdom, and support to make it real. This book is what it is because of you. You deserve an entire table of astral sweets and a trip to the Night Market, World’s Best Editor.