There is a girl who collects stars, but she keeps her feet planted on the ground. She swipes at them in the water and collects them in her purple bag, wading through the sea with the moon as her only companion. She scrapes the light; the water rushing through her fingers and leaving only a hard stone behind. She twists the stone between her fingers and drops it into her back with a gentle plunck.
Another star shivers against the water’s reflection, wading out until the water grabs her ribs with its icy fingers. She pulls the bright spot from the water, leaving behind the reflection of Baylorn in the water. The brightest stars produce the best gemstones, but the water is far too cold to evaluate her findings now.
The sky has begun to turn from an inky black to hints of gray across the sea. The sun will be rising soon, and the guards will begin their patrol. Unregistered star-harvesting is prohibited by the Empire unless the discovered riches are promptly turned over to local authorities.
Alya can’t afford to turn over these gems, and neither can her family. She begins to make her way back to the shore, keeping a stern eye out for the city guard’s torches. A part of Alya is convinced that the guards know about her monthly adventure and don’t disturb her. Even they must know distributing the gems amongst the dilapidated neighborhood is better for the city than wasting away in the coffers of Lord and Lady Voda. It’s her generosity with the gems that has granted her anonymity. The guards know their families’ businesses are often patrons of her gems.
Surely, the Vodas must be aware there is a star harvester on the island. It’s the only way to explain the high amount of gems being traded. Alya knows this, but with every new moon, she can’t escape the thrill of going out into the sea and letting the stars guide her. On a clear night, she can reap over a hundred stones from the bay, and tonight was exceptional.
On the shore, she strips off her wet clothes and changes into more inconspicuous attire. As she walks back to town, she wrings out her wet clothes, squeezing out the last remnants of the sea and the last evidence of her crime—well, the last evidence besides the large bag bouncing on her hip. The weight of the bag feels so much heavier when she enters town.
The large trading port is no place for a young girl during this hour. The only people who dare to roam around are the inebriated, the desperate, and the nefarious. The first few treks she would return home around midnight, but with each passing month, she stayed out later and later. Now that the sun has begun to peek above the horizon, she can move swiftly through the streets without fear of the lumbering, drunken sailors.
The further she walks, the worse the roads become. They turn from refined stone to cobblestone to dirt and finally, after sloping down a hill, to mud. Her feet sink into the road, and it takes a ridiculous amount of force to remove her foot. Her street is right on the edge of the southern coast, and when the tide is high during the flood seasons, it pushes the sea to their door.
She brushes through the front door, and the humidity and smell slam into her. The building is originally intended for one family, but hers is one of ten crammed into the townhouse. They were lucky enough to get a room to themselves on the second floor. It was through her generosity with the stones—and her grandfather’s willingness to educate all the children in the building—that bargained their way to a private room.
She steps over sleeping children as she shimmies through the hallway. The stairs are almost completely covered with crisscrossing clotheslines, drying out pants, shirts, and undergarments. At the top of the stairs, Alya tosses her harvesting outfit onto a free space. The smell of the salt contrasts the lard that Madame Helen uses for the laundry.
The floorboards creak under her feet no matter how quietly she tries to move. That’s the greatest downside of living upstairs, but it’s better than the potential flooding risk of staying on the main level.
When Alya enters her family’s room, she is not surprised to see her grandfather awake. He usually stays up to count her findings, and if he was in better shape, he swears he would escort her to the bay himself.
It takes him a minute to turn to the door. When his eyes land on her, they glow with delight. The sole candle in the room leaves deep shadows across his face, causing his wrinkles to darken and age him worse than the Queen’s Plague.
“How did you do?” He asks eagerly. “I was tracking the constellations, and Baylorn should have been in the bay.”
“Yes, I got him.”
“My grandmother always said he produced the most precious of gemstones.” Star harvesting runs in their family. It may have skipped a few generations, but Alya was lucky enough to be the next gatherer. Her grandfather rises to his feet using his two canes. “Get the bowls so we can sort them.”
She navigates around her sleeping cousins and siblings to the shelf above their fireplace—another luxury that others in the building aren’t privy to—and grabs the five bowls designated for her gems. Last month was so cloudy she only got ten gems, but she knows she made up for it tonight.
Her grandfather rests at the head of the table, and she scrambles to his left. Preciously setting out each bowl in the order he insists: emerald, garnet, sapphire, diamonds, and ruby. His eyes trace each of her movements as she pulls the bag onto the table and unties the strings.
“I think it’s time for us to buy a nice house.” He licks his lips hungrily. Alya averts her eyes and slowly begins pouring out the contents of the bag. The gems click and clatter across the wooden table as they keep pouring. He takes a sharp breath as they realize this is her biggest haul yet. “Alya, you’ve truly outdone yourself now!”
“Papa, lower your voice,” Alya whispers. “Don’t wake the others.”
He scoffs and begins running his fingers through the pile on the table. “There must be five hundred. This is triple your normal harvest.” His eyes are transfixed on the pile.
Every collection day, he gets like this. Once he sleeps, he’ll come to his senses and agree to distribute the gems. Still, it’s hardly a comfort as she begins sorting the stones into their respective bowls.
“We could get a house in the wealthiest district,” he coos. “When I worked at the Ardulan College, I lived in a fine townhouse just like this one, but it was mine. I don’t plan on dying in squalor like some bum.”
“Yes, Papa.” She’s heard this lecture a hundred times. “But Mama did want to give some of them to the McCalahan’s downstairs. Their youngest boy is ill, and their father was recently lost at sea.”
“Your mother is the reason we’re still living like pigs,” he spits out.
Alya glances at her mother who is sleeping on a thin mattress on the ground with her head resting on her father’s shoulder. They’re the only ones not in a proper bed. Even the other families have proper beds.
“We can discuss this after we sort,” she mumbles.
He grumbles under his breath, but she gets a general understanding of what he thinks. It
took Alya three years to learn his attitude and how to handle him. Her mother would take Alya on walks through the city, her herbal healing basket tucked beneath her arm, and try to explain away her father’s grievances. Now, Alya can’t help but pity the old man. Almost everyone who contracts the Queen’s Plague succumbs within a week, but he didn’t die. Rather, it crippled him. He lost his job, his house, and he even abandoned his city.
They sort the gems in silence, and each bowl is overflowing with the stones. He was right. This is the largest haul she ever gathered, and the crown jewel is the diamond that is five times the size of the next largest stone. It’s carved perfectly and in incredible shape. Baylorn produced that one. It’s large enough to get three families out of this townhouse, or they could send the McCalahan boy to Ardulan to get treated properly.
“Get some sleep, my dear,” her grandfather mutters. “You’ve done good.”
Alya follows his command. She goes to her bed and collapses on the mattress. The second her head hits her pillow, her eyes flutter shut.
It feels like only a moment before her parents are frantically shaking her awake. The whole room is in a frenzy. Her siblings, cousins, and aunt all scrambling around the room and out the door. It takes her a moment to focus on anything that is happening.
“Was he here when you came back?” Her father demands.
She looks past her father around the room, and her heart sinks. Her eyes glaze over, but she blinks away the tears and looks past her parents to the kitchen table. A wave of nausea crashes into her as the five bowls lay strewn across the table, completely empty.
“He couldn’t have.” She whispers.
“Please, Alya, if you have any idea where he could be,” her mother’s voice cracks.
She springs from her bed and joins the scramble of her relatives. The sun is high in the sky, but he couldn’t have gotten too far. She rushes down the stairs. The clothes swatting her in the face. The hallway is lined with the concerned faces of people who were relying on her and her harvest.
As she pushes out of the front door, she is met by a swamp of people. All of them crowd around an ornate carriage that is slowly sinking into the muddy street. It shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t fit into this bleak and mundane street.
The carriage door swings open, and the crowd parts away from her. Whispers rise from the crowd as a well-known face emerges from its shadows. She’s only seen him from a distance and only in the Golden District. He shouldn’t be here, but nonetheless, Lord Voda is gracing her doorstep.
His eyes level on her, fire blazing in his glare. “Star harvester.” The circle around her widens at the accusing word, and two guards seize her.
