“So will your children, and you won’t be able to afford them without an extra three coppers a week.”
“No, no—we can’t. It’s very nice of you, but—”
“Ma! Ma! Come quick! It’s Wery!” Finis, the Barkers’ eldest son, raced down the street, shouting as he came. He looked frightened, his eyes filled with tears.
Lynnette lifted her skirt and ran, Arista chasing after her. They rushed to Coswall Avenue, where a crowd formed outside the bakery. Pushing past the crowd, they saw a boy lying unconscious on the cobblestone.
“Oh sweet Maribor!” Lynnette cried, falling to her knees beside her son.
Brice knelt on the stone, holding Wery in his arms. Blood soaked his hands and tunic. The boy’s eyes were closed, his matted hair slick as if dipped in red ink.
“He fell from the baker’s loft.” Finis answered their unasked question, his voice quavering. “He was pulling one of them heavy flour bags down ’cause the baker said he’d sell us two cups for the price of one if he did. Pa and I told him to wait fer us, but he ran up, like he’s always doing. He was pulling real hard. As hard as he could, and then his hands slipped. He stumbled backward and …” Finis was talking fast, his voice rising as he did until it cracked and he stopped.
“Hit his head on the cobblestones,” declared a stranger who wore a white apron and held a lantern. Arista thought he might be the baker. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t think the boy would hurt himself like this.”
Lynnette ignored the man and pried her child from her husband, pulling Wery to her breast. She rocked him as if he were a newborn. “Wake up, honey,” she whispered softly. Tears fell on Wery’s blood-soaked cheeks. “Please, baby, oh for the love of Maribor, please wake up! Please, oh please …”
“Lynn, honey …” Brice started.
“No!” she shouted at him, and tightened her grip on the boy.
Arista stared at the scene. Her throat was tight, and her eyes were filling so quickly that she could not see clearly. Wery was a wonderful boy, playful, friendly. He reminded her of Fanen Pickering, which only made matters worse. But Fanen had died with a sword in his hand, and Wery was only eight and likely had never touched a weapon in his short life. She could not understand why such things happened to good people. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she watched the small figure of the boy dying in his mother’s arms.
Arista closed her eyes, wiping the tears. When she opened them again, she noticed several people in the crowd backing away.
Her robe was glowing.
Giving off a pale light, the shimmering material illuminated those around her with an eerie white radiance. Lynnette saw the glow, and hope flooded her face. She looked up at Arista, her eyes pleading. “Ella, can …can you save him?” she asked with trembling lips and desperate eyes. Arista began to form the word no, but Lynnette quickly spoke again. “You can!” she insisted. “I know you can! I’ve always known there was something different about you. The way you talk, the way you act. The way you forget your own name, and that—that robe! You can save him. I know you can. Oh please, Ella.” She paused and swallowed, shaking so hard it made Wery’s head rock. “Oh, Ella, I know—I know it’s so much more than three coppers, but he’s my baby! You’ll help him, won’t you? Please, oh please, Ella.”
Arista could not breathe. She felt her heart pounding in her ears and her body trembled. Everyone silently watched her. Even Lynnette stopped her pleading. Arista found herself saying through quivering lips, “Lay him down.”
Lynnette gently lowered Wery’s body, his limbs lifeless, his head tilted awkwardly to one side. Blood continued to seep from the boy’s wound.
Arista knelt beside him and placed a hand on the boy’s chest. He was still breathing, but it was so shallow, so weak. Closing her eyes, she began to hum. She heard the concerned mutterings of those in the crowd, and one by one, she tuned them out. Arista could sense the heartbeats of the men and women surrounding her, and she forced them out as well. She focused on the sound of the wind. Soft and gentle it blew, swirling between the buildings, across the street, skipping over stones. Above her she felt the twinkle of the stars and the smile of the moon. Her hand was on the body of the boy, but her fingers felt the strings of the instrument she longed to play.
The gentle wind grew stronger. The swirl became an eddy; the eddy, a whirlwind; and the whirlwind, a vortex. Her hair whipped madly, but she hardly noticed. Before her lay a void, and beyond that was a distant light. She could see him in the darkness, a dull silhouette before the brilliance, growing smaller as he traveled away. She shouted to him. He paused. She strummed the chords and the silhouette turned. Then, with all her strength, she clapped her hands together and the sound was thunder.
When she opened her eyes, the light from the robe had faded and the crowd was cheering.
CHAPTER 10
FALLEN STAR