A Sliver of Stardust by Marissa Burt Page B

Next to her a woman in a white lab coat, who looked like she could be in a commercial for a prescription drug, took notes in a thick book.
    â€œAnd yet you have found no new apprentices in the wild, Elsa,” a tall man with white hair said, running his too-long and very pale fingers through his matching beard. “Whereas Mary here brings us three.”
    The last Fiddler on the Council sat silently wrapped up in a rumpled knit sweater, his dark hair an uncombed mass on the top of his head. He hunched in his seat as though the thick black frames on his glasses weighed his whole head down. A falcon perched on his right shoulder, swiveling its gray-spackled head to glare at Mary and her apprentices in turn.
    â€œMary.” Elsa’s voice echoed in the space. She wore a long hooded cape that billowed as she moved toward Mary, raising an incriminating pointing finger. “You found the Fiddler who betrayed us all. Boggen was your apprentice”—Wren could feel Mary stiffen next to her—“and yet you still gather other apprentices. You would dare to train them despite Cole’s expresscommand?” She flung a hand back at the man with the falcon. “You overreach yourself.”
    Wren’s eyes widened. He was Cole? She looked questioningly at Simon, who must have been thinking the same thing, because he gave her the slightest shrug. Simon was standing with his hands clenched in fists, probably to keep from scribbling in his notebook. Jack for once was dumbstruck, the smile gone from his face, as though the awe of being in the presence of so many Fiddlers finally made him speechless.
    â€œGirl, are you deaf? Answer me,” Elsa was saying, and it took Wren a minute to realize that Elsa was actually speaking to her. Wren pointed a thumb to her chest and gaped.
    â€œYes, you. Apprentice. Has Fiddler Mary been teaching you?” The way she asked the question made it sound like Wren had committed a crime.
    Wren licked her lips. “Um,” Wren began, and then remembered Mary’s warning. “I just met Fiddler Mary yesterday, Fiddler.” Wren sketched a bow and then immediately felt stupid. The Fiddler Council might seem to be royalty sitting on stone thrones, but they didn’t act like it.
    â€œIs it all right?” the man with the white beard asked,peering at Wren, as if she were a fascinating kind of insect. “Is it convulsing? I hope you didn’t bring a faulty apprentice to us, Mary. We have no time for extra work.”
    â€œWild apprentices or not,” the woman with the book said, and the words didn’t sound pleasant, “I’d never thought to see Mary in the Council Chamber again.”
    â€œI have not come to fan into flame old feuds,” Mary said, her face stoic. “Nor have I come to beg pardon”—she looked directly at Cole then—“from any of you. I can assure you that I am here with good reason.”
    â€œWe have heard your reasons before,” Elsa snorted, as if she had made a big joke. “And lived with the results for hundreds of years. You were nothing more than Boggen’s pawn.” She cackled. “Don’t tell me you’ve come with more stories about how brilliant that traitor’s research was. Or is it simply to bribe your way back on to the Council with three apprentices?” She sneered at Jack. “That one looks sickly. So pale and skinny.” Her eyes skimmed over Wren and then on to Simon. “Hmph. Too cheap a payment by far.”
    Wren glanced at Mary, whose gaze was fixed straight ahead as though she no more noticed Wren and the others than the stone beneath her feet.
    â€œI’ve come with the apprentices, yes, but also with an urgent need to seek audience with the Council.” Mary’s face held an indifferent, almost bored expression. “Though much has changed since Cole and I began it, the Council still governs the Fiddlers, does it not?”