I take my time sizing Dorian up, not moving my sight off him as the silence stretches between us. He’s fidgety. Surely unsure what I’m thinking, worried I’ll take off any minute—and, I won’t lie, I’m enjoying it. He avoids my eyes. Picks at the wool sprigs of the mat beneath us as he fails at stealing glances.
When he finally looks right up at me, it catches me by surprise because it’s like a switch has been flipped. Anxiety wiped clean. Now, brow strong, eyes set on mine, shoulders squared, he looks like he’s ready to accept my answer, whatever it is.
What I give is a curt nod. I still don’t trust him, but I also don’t think he’d hurt me. Not to get me down here and not now. “So, you being in the tunnel when I was running from those soldiers this morning … Planned?”
Dorian’s shoulders soften as if he’s relieved to be moving on, and I wonder how long the guilt’s been eating at him. “My being in the tunnel earlier was one hundred percent accidental. I was spying on Imperi soldiers for information.” He scoots forward. “As if it was meant to be, just as I was getting desperate to get you down here, you literally fell into my lap.”
“Ah … The legend.” I raise a sarcastic eyebrow.
“Fate,” he throws back at me, voice low, confidence unwavering.
It’s then I realize I’ve still got a fistful of cookies. When I open my hand to set them on the ground, only part of one of the stars remains, the rest a pile of crumbs. And as I stare at the one star, something hits me. “Dorian—”
“Yes?”
“If your finding me was one hundred percent accidental and these cookies are such a rarity, how did they know to make them for today?” He cocks his head like he’s not following. “How in the world was the celebration and that mural, all those cookies, ready to go if no one knew for sure I’d be here?”
“I … They were alerted this morning. Tomorrow’s your birthday, the day you’re said to return. They obviously had more faith in me getting you here than I had in myself.”
I’m not so sure I’m buying it. Plus, “What do you mean, return? That’s the second time I’ve heard that. The Sindaco said I’d come home. But I’ve never been here.”
He sighs.
Is he actually annoyed by me? Are all these questions of mine so terribly aggravating? I cross my arms over my chest.
“Listen, you’re the Lunalette. One of us. Even if this is your first time here physically, you’ve always lived here in these caves, a part of the Night.” I shake my head, trying to comprehend it all. Dorian pushes the tea toward me. “Have a sip? It’s Bronwyn’s special concoction. Please, it’ll calm your nerves, help you think more clearly.” This sets me off.
“I am thinking clearly,” I say through clenched teeth, “but how in the Sun can I possibly wrap my mind around this?” I throw my arm toward the mural when, at the same time, Dorian shoves the mug closer. “I don’t need tea—” And I slam my palm into the cup, sending it flying and spilling all over Dorian’s neck and shirt, the ceramic mug shattering against the stone floor.
He swears under his breath and stands, not bothering to clean up himself or the broken cup. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Veda. It’s the truth—I swear on the Moon.”
I look away.
“No one’s going to force you to stay. All we wanted was to give you the truth. Everyone deserves to know the truth.” Dorian sort of nods to himself, then turns to leave, but stops short, glancing over his shoulder. “If you want to go, say the word.” He pauses as if waiting, expecting me to ask him to take me home.
When I don’t (which even surprises me), he walks out.
Still, I don’t run after him but stay in the cave, stare at the painting. I pick up the kettle, open the lid, and sip the tea.
I stand, walk up to the mural. The moon is mostly blues and grays with soft gold highlights where it touches the bright star connecting it to the Sun.
I place my hand over my scar, and it jabs me with a quick burn. Phantom pains, Poppy calls them. He claims injuries like that make a memory just like your mind does when something traumatic happens, but instead of an image, it’s a feeling.
Or maybe it’s more. A sign. A push. I’m not even sure if I believe in that … Dorian had said it was fate we were at the entrance to the tunnel at the exact same moment earlier.
Or was it simply coincidence?
Is there much of a difference?
I look toward the top of the mural. One side is blue sky, the other nighttime, hundreds of golden stars dotting the background. It occurs to me I’ve never really taken the time to gaze up at the night sky while out after the Sun’s set.
Because I’m always glancing over my shoulder on guard, on the run, fearful of being caught or worse.
Between the Sun and moon’s battle is the star, my star, the one I’ve always known and never really thought twice about. So familiar that when I was small and saw other children shirtless on hot summer days along the beach, I always thought their chests looked strange without the small, jagged scar.
But I was different, not them.
And maybe I still am.
There’s a bit of crimson bleeding into the golds and yellows of the star, right down the middle as if the Sun and moon are tearing it in two. A sensation I know well. The pain of being pulled apart, cut down the middle, tugged in opposite directions … My feelings for Nico, being left parentless at such a young age, having the desire to fight for what’s right but fearing the consequences too much to try, to even consider it. Knowing I shouldn’t be out after vesper bells and doing it anyway because we needed food.
Sure, it’s a story. Maybe it’s fate, maybe coincidence. Likely complete horseshit. Truth or fable, who knows, but does it matter if I could finally make a difference for others like me? Those who know too well the torture of being pulled in two?
My scar gives another phantom pain.
Or maybe it’s real.
* * *
AT SOME POINT, teapot nearly dry and amid thoughts of becoming a member of the Night, how things might go (good, bad, ugly…), the lies of the Imperi, what Poppy and Nico must be thinking, and that haunting image of the battle mural, I fall into restless sleep.
I awaken to Dorian gently shaking my shoulder, saying my name. “Veda, the Sindaco will see you.”
“What?” I sit up, disoriented. I look at Dorian, my surroundings, everything from the past few hours barreling down on me all over again.
“The Sindaco. I spoke with him and he’s agreed to see you.”
I slowly nod my head. “Okay.”
Dorian lifts the teakettle. “How much of this did you drink?”
“… approximately one kettle minus two cups’ worth … I think.”
“That explains it…”
“What?” Now he’s mad I drank it?
“You … Here.” He walks up to me and brushes my chin, the corner of my mouth. “Powdered sugar.”
Instantly, I glance toward the place where I’d left the pile of broken cookies. It’s mostly gone. “Oh yeah … I ate those. So strange, it feels like a dream.”
“Bronwyn made the tea extra strong. I’d have warned you, but I didn’t think you were going to drink it. Actually.” He meets my eyes. “I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.”