Star Mother (Star Mother #1)(19)

I slid the ring onto the middle finger of my left hand. “Thank You.”

Sun reached out, placed His searing hand on my shoulder— And I was home.





CHAPTER 7

I appeared at the altar in the eye of the cathedral, the spring air crisp around me. It had been summer when I left. The grass was young and green underfoot, speckled with a few clover flowers. The altar stood resolute. Reaching out a hand, I ran my palm over its cool stone. This place had been hot as an oven when last I traversed it.

My dress was the same I’d worn when I volunteered to be star mother: a simple gray linen with the embroidery of green leaves running down the skirt in two rows, remarkably undamaged. Leaves I’d stitched myself. I had nothing else with me, not even my embroidery—but that was my star’s now.

I peered up toward heaven, seeing for the first time in ten months blue sky and wispy clouds looking back at me. Daylight.

Dawn. I marveled at it for a full minute before turning back to the cathedral, to the archway that led into the main vestibule.

A smile split my face. What would the others say, to see me alive and well? What would my parents and sisters think? Perhaps we would be able to recapture the closeness I had glimpsed before stepping into the Sunlit cathedral. My stories and the honor Sun had promised me would bridge the gulf between us.

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.