Prologue

At thirteen-years old, Audrey Wildes should have felt lucky to be burying her mother.

Thirteen years was far more than they were supposed to get together. Her mother, Astrid, had always told her daughter that every day they shared was a day of borrowed time. As it was, Astrid's bad heart should have killed her long before Audrey came into the picture. But it hadn't; not when Astrid hit — then surpassed — the maximum age her doctors had predicted for her. And not when she'd become pregnant either. Astrid's bad heart had even let her survive her daughter's birth — something no one truly believed would be possible — and all thirteen birthdays after it.

Maybe it was because her mother kept defying the odds that Audrey never really believed this day would come.

And so, as she helped lower her mother's shrouded body into a grave she'd also helped dig, Audrey felt anything but lucky.

Her grandmother said participating in their burial rites was an honor — that they helped to provide closure. So, Audrey participated. She helped wash her mother's body, and sewed the shroud, and dug the grave by hand. She picked wildflowers and herbs and scattered them on top of what remained of her mother's wrapped corpse. She did all of this, and waited to feel better. Instead, Audrey felt unmoored; like she was making a terrible mistake she could never come back from. Once the shroud was pinned, once the hold was dug, once the grave was filled, there would be no turning back. Panic rose in her throat as she and her fellow mourners began the terrible business of shoveling the displaced earth back into place. Why, she wondered helplessly, didn't anyone else seem to realize just how wrong this whole thing was? They were burying her mother — her beautiful, joyful, immortal mother.

But that was the problem: her mother wasn't immortal. She'd only seemed that way: ethereal and impossible in the eyes of her only child. And now, she was gone, and Audrey was alone.

Well, almost alone.

Stepping back from the edge of her mother's grave, Audrey looked over her shoulder. A breeze caught her hair, and between the dancing chestnut strands, she caught a glimpse of them. They stood, motionless, just within the thicket of trees that surrounded the graveyard. Unbeknownst to everyone except Audrey, they'd been there all along, watching the strange and earthly procession. Even from a distance, Audrey could feel the overwhelming grief that emanated from them. Still, she knew they wouldn't join them. They would wait until the other mourners were gone. Audrey just needed to be patient.

And so, she finished burying her mother, whispering a desperate apology under her breath with every shovelful of earth she tipped into the grave. Her arms ached from the effort, and beads of sweat slid down between her shoulder blades despite the autumn chill. As her mother's shrouded body disappeared beneath the dirt and the hole grew shallow, Audrey's panic and pain slowly gave way to nothing at all. No sadness, no fear: just a staticky numbness and a desire to be done, until finally, mercifully, they were.

The grave was covered, and Audrey's mother was gone for real. Some of the mourners spoke their final goodbyes, while others paid their respects silently. Then, like a bunch of balloons with severed strings, the crowd drifted away back into the world of the living. Audrey barely noticed them leave.

"Sweetheart?" Her grandmother's voice sounded as if she was speaking through water. Audrey didn't even register that the question was directed at her until she felt a warm hand lay softly atop her shoulder. "Are you ready?"

Audrey wrapped her arms around herself and stared down at the fresh dirt at her feet. "Can I stay a little longer?"

Her grandmother rubbed gentle circles into Audrey's damp back, just like her mother used to. The familiarity of it broke Audrey's heart all over again. "Of course, love. Do you want us to wait in the car for you?"

"No." Audrey replied with a shake of her head. "I can walk back. I just want to be alone with her for a little while." Even with her eyes still locked on the grave, Audrey could sense the uneasy glance that passed between her grandparents.

"Okay, sweetheart," her grandfather said at last, though judging by the timber of his voice, Audrey knew he wasn't keen on the idea of leaving his only grandchild alone in a cemetery. "But if you're not home in half an hour, I'm coming back to check on you."

With the deal made, Audrey watched her grandparents retreat down the path that led out of the cemetery. Her grandfather wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders, and he held her close as they left their daughter behind in the cold, lonely ground.

For a few minutes, Audrey waited alone. She crouched down and let her bare knees sink into the loose soil. She was about to lay down in it — about to simply give herself over to despair — when she noticed a subtle shift in the air. Her stomach fluttered with the tell-tale lightness she always felt whenever they were close by. She glanced back to find them emerging from the trees at last and drifting silently toward her. Audrey got to her feet and dusted the dirt from her legs and the front of her now-filthy white shift dress.

When she looked up again, she was no longer alone. There, weeping quietly at her side, was her other parent. Or, at least that's what Astrid had always called them. Sure, they were the reason Audrey existed in the first place; they were the other half that helped bring her into the world. But to Audrey, a parent is what her mother had been: present, engaged, committed. But the golden, impossibly beautiful creature that stood beside her now had never been any of those things. Even when they came to visit Audrey was certain it was only to see her mother. She knew they didn't know what to do with a child, especially a half-human one like her.

And yet, for all of the fraught uncertainty that existed between child and parent, Audrey was glad to see them. For some reason, she felt like no one — not even her sweet and doting grandparents — could understand how she was feeling quite like Welkin could.

If anyone could be as broken by Astrid Wilde's death as her daughter, it would be the Star who loved her.

Out of the corner of her golden eyes — the only physical trait she shared with them — Audrey watched Welkin grieve. It was strange and unnerving to see a Star cry.

She knew very little about how her mother had fallen in love with a Star. Her grandparents, who were the only other humans who knew about Welkin, knew some of the story. But Audrey doubted that even they knew all of it. Only two creatures had ever known the whole truth, and now one of them was dead.

But she did know some of it.

The fact that Welkin had fallen in love with Audrey's mother defied all logic. Welkin was a Star: an ancient, celestial creature of immense power and ethereal beauty. Like all Stars, their job was to help maintain order in the universe. The Stars kept watch, making sure everything went according to plan — the Plan. Nothing was supposed to be more important to a Star than the Plan — the story that wove together the destinies of every living creature across every era of existence.

For Welkin, the Plan had been all that mattered for as long as they existed.

That is, until the day they fell in love with Astrid Wildes.

As far as young Audrey knew, Stars weren't supposed to fall in love with the life they watched over. But, she reasoned, if a Star was going to fall in love with anyone, it made sense that that person would be her mother. Astrid may have been human, but she had an inner light that rivaled the very Star she loved. Maybe it was on account of her sick and traitorous heart, but Astrid had loved life like nobody else Audrey had ever known. She had been curious and insatiable, passionate and kind. To Audrey, it had never been a question of whether her mother was worthy enough to be loved by a Star, but whether a Star could ever be worthy of her.

Regardless, Welkin's love for Astrid was never in doubt. After all, what else but love could inspire someone to risk everything the way Welkin had for her? Love was the only explanation for why Welkin—with all their years and every reason to know better—said yes when their human lover wished for the one thing she wasn't supposed to be healthy enough to have: a child of her own.

For Astrid Wildes, a Star had strayed from their purpose — from the Plan itself.

And now, as Audrey watched that same Star buckle at the knees under the enormity of their grief, she wondered if they still thought it was worth it.

She watched Welkin sob for a long time, wrestling with the cognitive dissonance that came from seeing a mighty celestial being fall apart so spectacularly. Then, after their tears ebbed, Welkin rose to their feet. Parent and daughter stood side by side, neither speaking or acknowledging the other's presence. But even out of the corner of her eyes, Audrey could see the slump in Welkin's usually proud posture. They were like a flower, once stunning, now wilted. Audrey wondered if they'd ever be the same again. She wondered the same thing about herself.

Because that was the thing that haunted Audrey the most: the understanding that, from this point on, nothing would ever be the same again. Yes, Astrid Wildes had been worthy of a Star's love, but Audrey wasn't sure the same could be said for herself. The uncertainty of her new life terrified her, and without thinking, she reached for comfort and took Welkin's hand. Her dirty fingers gripped the Star's pristine, slender hand and held on for dear life.

The gesture seemed to snap Welkin back to their senses. Their lovely, tear-soaked face turned to her, and she could see surprise in their glossy golden eyes and knitted brow.

When was the last time she'd held their hand? She honestly couldn't remember. All she knew at that moment was that she needed them now.

Perhaps, she thought, they needed each other.

Meeting Welkin's golden gaze with her own, Audrey finally found her voice.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

Welkin blinked at the question, then looked away. For a heartbeat, Audrey was stung by their silence. And then, quite unexpectedly, Welkin squeezed her hand.

"I don't know, child," they admitted quietly. "For the first time in my existence, I do not know."

***

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