Faces lift when we enter, people gathered in groups along the walls of the barn, huddled around small fires—flames kept low so the light won’t be seen from outside—their hands open toward the heat, trying to keep warm.
“Don’t worry,” Cricket says softly, so close to my ear, I can feel her warm breath. “They’re friends.”
We walk down the center of the barn, and I eye those gathered against the walls, trying to gauge if I’m truly safe here, or if I need to be ready to run. But nearly everyone inside the barn is younger than me. Just kids really, banded together.
Still, my breathing grows quick in my throat.
We follow Noah to the far back wall of the barn, where another fire has been lit inside a metal barrel, as if to keep the flames hidden. I feel beckoned by its warmth, wanting to sink down to the floor beside it. I crave so many things—shelter, water, sleep—that it’s hard to pinpoint what I need most. I’m so focused on the flames, the growing heat, that when we reach it, I almost don’t notice the chair positioned beside it—the upholstered back woven with a pattern of yellow daisies, the fabric torn and mice-eaten at the bottom seam. Perhaps it was taken from a nearby house and brought here, the only thing that didn’t burn.
As I inch closer, eyes dripping rainwater, I see that there is a man seated in it, waves of snow-gray hair reflecting the firelight.
“You’re back early,” he says, voice thick with age, a damp rattle in his chest, and he turns in the chair to face us.
“We brought someone with us,” Noah answers, eyes clicking over at me.Eyes that are too green, too wild, too unsettling.
The old man tightens his hands around the wooden, sculpted arms of the chair, and pivots so he can see me more clearly. His face is marred by wrinkles, deep caverns in his gray, sun-spotted flesh, his mouth thin as a sheet of paper. Yet his eyes are a deep, sad blue, and there is still light in them. The shivering memory of the man he used to be. “Hello,” he says warmly, squinting, puckering his eyebrows together. “My eyes don’t see as clearly as they used to. You’ll need to come closer.”
Unsteadily I cross the space to the chair, while Noah turns his gaze to the small fire, warming his hands—like he’s no longer interested in me. His job is done, he’s brought me here; now he couldn’t care less what happens next.
“What’s your name?” the old man asks, pale hands folded in his lap, veins raised and distinct like old tree roots. But there is no ring on his hand, no constellation.
“Vega.”
I think I see Noah’s shoulders twitch slightly.
But the craggy lines of the old man’s face lift. “Named after a star,” he observes, one side of his mouth trembling in what is either delight or hesitation. I can’t be sure.
“Yes,” I confirm. But I’m surprised he would know this—Mom always said we were the only ones who carried the names of the stars, who remembered their stories. Hope squeezes my heart….
“I’m looking for someone,” I say.
The old man lets out a long, shaky breath, a rasp and clatter, and there is something in his face that tells me he knows more than he’s saying, and he’s waiting to see what else I offer up. What truth I might reveal.
My eyes flash to those seated around the barn, soft firelight licking up the walls, and I lower my voice so only the man will hear. “He’s known as the Architect, and I need to find him,” I whisper. “I’m running out of time.”
Hearing this, the old man flashes a quick look to Noah, and Noah stuffs the silver thing he had been turning in his fingertips back into his pocket. “She has marks on her neck,” Noah says, nodding at me.
“Oh?” The old man’s mouth cuts into a strange shape.
I feel the warmth of the fire against my cheeks, my lips, drying the moisture on my skin.I’ve come this far,I think. I’ve let Noah and Cricket and everyone at the water tower see the tattoo, and ifthis man can help me, then there’s no point wasting any more time by resisting. I hold a breath tight in my lungs, and turn, wrapping my hair over my shoulder, and let the firelight dance across my bared skin.
I hear the creak of the chair as the old man leans forward to inspect the mark—the dark lines dotted with black stars. My ears roar, the sound of the rain against the roof echoing through the barn, and when I drop my hair and turn to look back at the man, I can see the recognition in his eyes. “Do you know what the marks mean?” he asks, his tone changed—serious, deliberate.
My gaze flicks to Noah without intending to, but he looks away, offering no comfort in his eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t say, maybe I should keep some things to myself, but I sense that I’ve landed myself at a place of no return. I either trust this man, and hope he can help me, or I turn and run for the barn doors, heading out into the storm. I run deeper into this forest, away from those men hunting me, and hope I can survive on my own. I decide to give him the truth, and hope I’m not wrong. “Yes,” I tell him. “I do.”
He leans forward in his chair, old bones creaking, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazes up at me. “Who are you?”
The lump in my throat hardens, air leaving my nostrils in quick bursts. I’ve never said these words aloud, to anyone. It feels wrong, like walking through the scrubby, overgrown blackberry bushes beside the river, letting the thorns tear at my skin, expose the truth of who I really am. I clear my throat and lift my watery eyes. “My mother was the last Astronomer,” I say, clear and sharp, and I swear the entire barn falls silent, a deafening echo of quiet. “But she’s dead,” I continue, the word barbed and needle-sharp, the hurt tryingto resurface. I swallow. “Now—” My eyes fall to my hands, then back to the old man, steadying my focus before I let the words fall from my lips. “Now…Iam the last Astronomer. The last one who can read the stars.” I breathe through my nostrils—the words feeling like a spell, an alchemy never spoken before. And from the corner of my eye, I see Noah watching me, intent, an unsettled curve to his mouth. Even Cricket lifts her gaze.
The old man cranes his head to one side, observing me, unblinking, trying to see if there are lies in my words. “And why have you come?”
I understand: He wants me to prove it. He needs to know I’m telling the truth.
“The twin stars appeared in the sky eight days ago,” I tell him, my voice strong, swinging over the words like a riddle that was born into my bones. “Tova and Llitha rose above the eastern horizon, and now I need to find the Architect. I have to get to the sea, at the edge of everything, while the sister stars are still visible.” I pause, blow out a breath. “I’m running out of time.”
The old man is quiet, and then he nods, eyes fluttering as if he’s waited a long time to hear these words. A lifetime. His hands shake in his lap, and he curls them into fists to steady them. “You came from the valley?”
I nod, a dizziness sweeping through me, the gravity of everything I’ve just said, just revealed, to this man. “I’ve come a long way,” I say. “But the days are moving too quickly. If you know where the Architect is, please, I need to find him.”
