Dark Star (33 page)

“Safer,” she agreed.

But not safe. Though the barrier had been strengthened, some Harrowers would still push through. The Circle protected us, but it was not absolute.

I chewed my lip, drawing little circles in the snow with the edge of my mitten. “I’ve been thinking about something,” I began.

Mom looked at me expectantly.

“Releasing Verrick—unsealing his powers. That would have unsealed my father, too.” I’d felt that, as I stood atop Harlow Tower, watching my blood spill out. I hadn’t been able to process it then, but I thought of it now. The ritual would have brought my father back. Woken the sleeping heart, that laughing boy who had vanished so long ago. I glanced at Mom. She’d turned slightly away, facing down the road. Snowflakes caught in her pale hair. I felt the sadness she carried—a dull ache she had learned to ignore. “Do you still miss him?”

“I miss who he was. I miss who he made me.” She turned to me, and I saw the shine of tears in her eyes. “But I have you. He would have been very proud of you.”

I hesitated. “Will you tell me about him?”

She took my hand, squeezing it. A little smile crossed her face. “I can try,” she said. She laughed softly, shaking her head, and lifted one hand to wipe the moisture from her eyes. “If I can figure out where to start.”

“Tell me how you met,” I suggested.

This time, her laugh was loud. “No, you don’t want that story. I was horrible to him.”

“Horrible how?”

“I put him in the hospital.”

No wonder Esther had disapproved. I grinned at her. “Okay, now I definitely want that story.”

“Later,” she said, and refused to say more. Instead, she told me the things my father loved: Rain, she said, especially thunderstorms; wet grass and red autumn leaves, greasy popcorn, the smell of old books. He loved winter, cold soundless nights and the fall of snow. And the Kin. He’d loved being a Guardian.

“I wish I could have known him,” I said.

There was a catch in her voice, but her smile remained. “I wish he could have known you.”

I leaned back, looking up at the low, cloud-filled sky and the swirl of snow that drifted through the air. Down the street, Christmas lights blurred, colors shining and bright. I took deep breaths, filling my lungs.

I turned back to Mom.

“I want to begin training,” I said. She started to respond, but I lifted a hand to stay her. “Just to be prepared. Even if I’m never called, I’m still Kin. And …” I paused, thinking of Iris, and the light that had poured from my veins, and the connection I still felt to the Circle—the power that bound us. I didn’t know what the connection meant, but it was there, within me. “I’m ready.”

It was a long moment before my mother spoke. When she did, I heard a slight tremor in her voice. “This is what you want?”

She gazed across the darkness at me. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw both Morning Star, fierce and defiant, and the girl she’d once been, before she’d been bound by duty and shaped by her own myth.

“I’m ready,” I repeated.

Mom nodded, another soft smile touching her lips. “Okay,” she said. “But not tonight.”

I leaned against her, resting my head on her shoulder.

We sat on the steps and watched the snow fall.

The first thing I need to acknowledge is that there are far, far too many people who belong on this page to ever list them. Nevertheless, I will attempt it. Completing this book was a long process, and I will be forever grateful to the tireless efforts of a number of people. Specifically: My brilliant agent, Caitlin Blasdell, who has my deepest thanks for everything she does; without her support and guidance—and especially her hand-holding—I would be utterly lost. My awesome editor, Abby Ranger, who challenges and encourages me in equal measure, and who frequently assures me that I’m not nearly as neurotic as I think I am. Two others who helped this book along the way: Laura Schreiber, whose insights are invaluable, and Ari Lewin, whose enthusiasm I cherish.

The friends who kept me sane, and didn’t complain (at least to my face) about midnight brainstorming sessions and emails that were nearly novels in length: Sarah Bauer, Brinson Thieme, Patricia Reinwald, and Leah Raeder. The amazing individuals I’ve had the great luck to know as both teachers and writers: Bill Meissner, Mary Logue, and the wise and wonderful Sheila O’Connor, who told me to be brave.

And finally, my mother, who taught me to chase my dreams, and always believed I’d reach them. Even if she did seriously ask me, “Is this a kissing book?” (And made a face when I answered.)