Star Daughter(41)

“Twenty-seven passageways for twenty-seven nakshatras,” Sheetal guessed, ignoring the question of friends.

“Indeed. And our house is—was—the highest in the court.”

“But if there’re only twenty-seven nakshatras, what about all the other stars in the universe?”

Nani nodded slightly, as if Sheetal had just confirmed a private theory. “Your mother did not teach you much about our ways, did she?”

Maybe it was because of Nani’s obvious irritation, but Sheetal’s first reaction was to defend Charumati. She pushed back against it. What had her mother done to deserve her loyalty? Not stick around, that was for sure. “Some. I know stories.”

“Yet do you know us?”

What was Sheetal supposed to say? Of course she didn’t. Until last week, she hadn’t even known her mother ever planned on seeing her up close again.

“You might have been raised as a mortal,” Nani said firmly, her uncanny eyes kindling, “but here you are one of us, and it is time you learn.”

They walked on. One of us. What did that mean? What did Sheetal want that to mean?

Nothing, she reminded herself. Dad was the only reason she was here at all.

Making a clicking sound of disapproval, Nani closed the distance between them and gripped Sheetal’s hand. “Stop that.”

Her thumb stung. She’d been tearing at her cuticle again.

“You must never treat yourself like that,” admonished Nani. “Self-flagellation is a foolish habit, a mortal habit. You must behave as the precious being you are.”

Well, yeah, Sheetal thought. Of course you think I’m precious. Without me, you have no champion.

“I realize this is a great deal to take in at once, but it is vital you learn as much as possible in the time we have. When I called to you,” Nani said, releasing her, “we had already waited too long.”

She smoothed a nonexistent stray strand back into her bun. “As I was saying, the nakshatras. Without question, there are many stars in the heavens, but it is as with your mortal courts: a few royal houses govern the masses, and to preserve order, one house rules over the rest.”

Silver radiance haloed Nani’s form. In that moment, Sheetal glimpsed both aspects of her grandmother: the old woman who stood before her and the blazing star. Her power was obvious, a tangible thing. Here was someone who had ruled entire courts, who had sung before Lord Indra and had his ear.

“There is a good deal of responsibility that comes with our position. It is our duty to light the way for others, to burn brightly in the darkness. We are the children of possibility, and we wake that possibility in those who witness our flame. That flame,” Nani declared, standing taller and yet more brilliant, “is in you, mortal blood or no.”

“Or maybe that mortal blood is inside me, flame or no,” Sheetal muttered, but so softly Nani didn’t catch it. “I have questions,” she said more loudly.

Nani waggled her head. “Then ask as we walk.”

In rapid succession, Sheetal learned that stars didn’t need to sleep but instead had an aspect that spun in the sky each night; that there was indeed a place stars watched humans, called the Hall of Mirrors—a place she intended to check out as soon as possible—and that the stars had devised a method for inspiring mortals from afar.

Nani led her through a long colonnade. “Speaking of that, I suspect you will enjoy this next part.”

They emerged onto a balcony that bordered a round, dark room, its ceiling and floor both open to the night sky. Crystal jars as high as Sheetal’s hip lined the balcony, their contents casting a slight silver glow through the space.

“This room is off-limits to our mortal visitors,” her grandmother said, “as I am certain you can understand. Every night, we empty jars of stardust into the heavens. These are the bits of us that fall through the clouds and enter mortal imaginations, what you call inspiration.” She frowned. “It is not as powerful as when we walked the earth, but the risk of face-to-face contact is too great.”

“Why?” Sheetal asked, expecting Nani to bring up Dev’s ancestors, but Nani only motioned to the jars before them.

“Pick one up,” she said. “It matters not which.” Sheetal picked up the nearest jar. To her surprise, it weighed almost nothing. “Now turn it over the balcony.”

“But—”

“Go on,” Nani said.

A soft hum stirred the air, rousing Sheetal’s skin, and she sucked in a breath when she realized it was coming from Nani. Her grandmother was singing.

The contents of the jars responded with a high, sweet counterpoint that felt like yearning in its purest form. Melancholy, longing, an ache for something more. The ache Sheetal had always known like an old injury that had never quite healed.

Humans needed this like flint to the tinder of their imagination. Inspiration. And she needed to give it to them.

Leaning over the railing, Sheetal raised her arms as high as she could and upended the jar. A million tiny stars streamed out, silver bright and scintillating. Their music might have been the haunting, elusive pitch of a bansuri, a bamboo flute. Instead of falling straight down, they swished across the room, swirling around Sheetal and Nani and wreathing them in lambent warmth before dancing down through the open floor toward the mortal world, bearing with them the prospect of hope, of dreams, of magic.