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"How do I look?" My mother gives me a small twirl, showing off the tunic I'd carefully mended to look brand new.
I smile, stepping back to take her in. "Beautiful as ever."
With her short brown hair and warm hazel eyes, my mother radiates a quiet resilience, even with lines of worry faintly etched around her eyes. Tonight, though, those shadows seem softer, her face bright with the kind of happiness I rarely see.
She catches my gaze, a spark of youth flickering in her eyes. "You really think so?" she asks, smoothing the tunic self-consciously.
I give her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "Mr. Ambrose won't know what hit him."
A blush blooms on her cheeks as she swats my arm, laughing softly. "Enough of that—you're going to give me away."
Her voice softens, turning both serious and tender. "I'm truly sorry that your brother and I won't be here to celebrate your birthday tonight, but I promise, tomorrow I'll make you a batch of my special raspberry sweetrolls."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Mother, it's really no big deal, I promise. Besides, you know we don't have enough butter for the sweetrolls anyway."
"Alright, Mother, we really should get going—the Starfall's about to start," Theodore says, adjusting his worn cap over his neat dark hair.
I give my mom a gentle nudge toward the door. "He's right; go on. Don't let me keep you—I'd hate for you to miss the beginning because of me."
She glances back, her face softening as she cups my cheek. "I love you, Violet. And I promise, one day, we'll celebrate your birthday together—all of us, here, on the night itself."
Her words make my smile falter. We both know that's a promise she can't keep, not while things are the way they are.
"I love you too, but really—go! You don't want to keep Mr. Ambrose or the others waiting, now, do you?" I let out a small laugh, giving her one last playful shove toward the door.
Theodore steps forward, pulling me into a quick, tight hug. "Stay inside, alright?" His gaze is intense, filled with the same worry that's become routine.
I roll my eyes with a smirk. "Don't worry, Theo. It's not like I have anywhere else to go."
They exchange one last look with me before stepping out, the door creaking softly as it closes behind them.
With a sigh, I return to my small corner of the cottage, the cozy nook where I spend hours reading, writing, or sewing by the dim light. I reach for a piece of paper—one Theodore managed to barter from a traveling merchant—and, taking up my well-worn quill, I carefully write the date:
December 2nd.
As with every Night of Stars, I plan to spend the evening tucked away, writing and maybe reading The Iliad again. I've only read it six times—what's one more?
