Beth Wonders's Arc

Chapter 1 of 29

Beth Wonders had three silver coins left, and the star merchant wanted forty. She stood in the wet grass outside her cathedral, counting the coins again. The building rose behind her, black glass and stained windows, bluebells crowding the base like they were trying to hold it up. It was the only home she had, and it was not enough. She wanted a world of her own. A place with her own sky, her own rules, no neighbors banging on the doors about the noise or the smoke. To build one, she needed star magic. A lot of it. Star magic cost money she did not have. Her cat wound between her boots. Six toes on each paw, brown fur, cream spots. He meowed at the coins like he could count them too. "Don't judge me," Beth said. "I'm working on it." She pulled the mirror from her coat pocket. Twisted branches framed the glass. Trumpet flowers curled around the handle. Behind the reflection sat a small pocket world she used for storage: three dried moon-petals, a jar of spider silk, and one cracked star shard she had been saving for an emergency. This counted. She tipped the shard out. It landed in her palm, warm and humming. Selling it would gut her savings. Keeping it would mean another month of nothing. Beth folded her wings tight and walked to the crossroads behind the cathedral. The salesman was already there. He always was, when she had something worth taking. He wore a coat stitched from what looked like night sky, and his smile did not move when he spoke. "Show me," he said. She held out the shard. He weighed it on two fingers. "Half a star. Cracked. I'll give you thirty coins for it." "Forty." "Thirty-two." "Forty, or I walk back through the mirror and you get nothing." His smile shifted a quarter inch. "Forty. But I want the cat as collateral until you spend it here." Beth looked down. The cat was licking one enormous paw. "No," she said. "You get the shard. I get the coins. The cat stays with me. That's the deal." He studied her. She did not look away. Her wings twitched once, which she hated, because it gave her away. "Forty," he said finally, and counted them into her hand. She bought what she came for: a full star piece, wrapped in black cloth, small enough to hide in her palm. It pulsed against her skin like a second heartbeat. One down. She would need dozens more to build even a scrap of world. Beth walked back to the cathedral with the cat trotting ahead. She slipped the star into the mirror's pocket dimension for safekeeping. Then she noticed the salesman had not left the crossroads. He was still watching her. And now he was writing something down.