The first time I ever saw a tree was in the Great Library. I snuck in once when I was a kid just to see one. A Guardian saw me, but I was too young and he was too kind to throw me through the Gates for the crime.

The impossible greenness, that’s what drew me to them. And the bursts of life in the flowers that made me feel like I lived in another world, not the grey one I was used to. In all my twenty years, I have never dared to touch a leaf. But I could smell them, and they smelled like life.

I smell them now, but these wonders are not my main reason for breaking into the Library. I hold my breath and creep to one of the dark wooden doors of the Library. Usually the Guardians are enough to keep out intruders–no one would risk getting thrown out of the Gates–but I just can’t help myself. I know the risk, and I shake with it. Still, I open the door and sneak past the threshold.

It’s not my fault I was born a Star Painter and not a Scholar.

All the signs are in Ancient English, and no one but the Scholars can read that. It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t care which of the many hallways I follow or what knowledge is housed there. I want to learn everything there is to know.

As I walk along the marble floor, I keep my ears attuned to the sounds around me. I can hear wood creaking from some far off place in the Library, but the marble is soundless. I only hope the Guardians will make a sound on the silent marble. And I hope that I can reflect its silence and remain hidden.

The polished marble shelves reach from the polished marble floor all the way to the polished marble ceiling. Everything is marble. Without the trees and flowers from the entryway, the Library seems even colder than the world of cement and skyscrapers I live in.

I open a drawer at random and pull out a chip no bigger than the tip of my finger. Pushing back my left sleeve, I slip the chip into the reader I installed in my wrist. My eyesight flickers black, and then I can see the knowledge.

There is no Void in this world. The sky is black, yes, but there are shining lights dotted around the black, brightening it and making it seem less intimidating and overwhelming. It is nothing like the great, hulking blackness above me in my own world. In the real world.

My heart beats frantically in my chest. This must be an older chip; there is nothing about the world before ours. The Scholars have made that clear. No one preserved knowledge about the world before our Great Sin. No one even knows what the Great Sin was or why it was so bad.

The rhythm in my chest swirls faster, beats harder, and I feel myself straining against the chip to see more.

Pain blooms in my wrist. The shining sky flickers into dots of red and black. Grunting, I push at my wrist until, finally, the chip falls to the ground.

And that’s when I feel it. A breeze. There is never a breeze in the Library. Cold seeps into my veins and stills my heart. I stand frozen until I recognize the sound behind the breeze. Wings beating the air.

I look down. The chip is broken. Lost. Without thinking, I sweep the broken bits of that ancient sky into the palm of my hand and run.

#

I climb the winding stairs of the Tower two at a time. I am used to them now and don’t mind the long way to my rooftop workshop, but today I am late which means the stars are late. A slap in the face greets me when I open the small wooden door at the top of the Tower, and my face burns with pain and shame.

“You’re late.”

I bow my head and resist the urge to rub my cheek. I know better than to look my Taskmaster in the eye or to show signs of weakness in the Tower.

The Taskmaster grunts, stirring his dusty red mustache, and says, “Well, get to it then. Those stars ain’t gonna paint themselves, you know.”

I let out the breath I had been holding the moment the door closes behind him. Luckily, I have a few rolls of stars already painted for emergencies. I pull them from the cupboard and set them into the hologram in the centre of the room.

Before turning on the hologram, I look out the window. The sky is beyond black; it is nothing, a lonely void spread like an unwelcome mother over its children, smothering them with darkness. I breathe in the anxiety from the village below and let it fuel my own. The Void is beautiful, but it is also threatening. Still, it is better than this false trade I perform, projecting painted stars onto the Void and pretending like this world of artifice is true. The Void is true whether we like it or not.

With a sigh, I flick the switch to open the rooftop doors and turn on the machine. The machine moves, clanking and clumsy, into the Void and projects the stars, my stars, onto the night sky. I can almost hear a collective sigh from the village as though everyone has been holding their breath, waiting for the stars to come out and fill the sky with relief. My shoulders slump. It is an artificial kind of relief.

#

I watch Evie’s yellow hair gleam beneath her golden Scholar’s headdress, and the yellow strands seem to wind around my heart and tug. A Scholar’s daughter. I must be a fool. Her hair swings behind her as she walks. Even from the distance from which I watch her, I can smell the lavender soap she uses.

I sigh and wish my breath could caress those yellow curls for me. It is something I can never do even though all the times I have watched her she has been alone. Well, except for her maidservant. Still, I can never touch her. My Star Painter’s hands are too low, too dirty, too rough. She is too pure, too superior, too perfect.

And she doesn’t even know that I exist. It would be a crime on my part to even talk to her.

I take a deep breath. It is now or never. I lurch forward into a surprisingly strong body.

“Oh, excuse me,” says Evie.

I look at her face, into her eyes, at her lips.

“You should be more careful,” she laughs, but I can tell she isn’t offended. Her gaze remains on mine, and she doesn’t look around for help.

I swallow and open my mouth. It is a few seconds before I cough out, “Pardon, miss.”

“What’s your name?”

I don’t respond. How can she wish to know my name? My name is irrelevant.

Evie’s hand covers her mouth, and I can tell she is smiling. I imagine her smile is as beautiful and innocent as a child’s. Her maidservant smiles like a fool.

“Dear me, Abigail, I do believe this man is quite dumb.” Evie moves a little closer. I can see her hand shaking a little as she steps toward me. “You can speak, can’t you?”

I close my eyes for a moment. I can smell her soap even better when she is this close. There is more than just lavender in it. There is sandalwood and vanilla. I open my eyes again and she has stepped back again, closer to Abigail.

“I am only kidding, you know,” Evie says. I am silent. “You can laugh.”

I offer a small smile to make her more comfortable. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that people have begun to stare. No Tradesperson has ever dared to enter the Scholar’s neighborhood. We, and the rest of the Tradespeople, remain in our grey, dirty Trade Village. I look out of place in this neighborhood’s clean streets and clean buildings. I drop my smile but not my eyes.

“You are a Scholar’s daughter?” I ask.

Evie looks taken aback but answers, “Yes.”

“Please, I must speak with you.”

“You are speaking with me.”

“No,” I say with force. Evie stands her ground, and I whisper, “Alone.”

“Miss,” says Abigail, grabbing Evie’s arm. Evie shakes her off and steps toward me again.

“Desist, Abigail,” she says, though her voice shakes a bit. “I will meet you at the Library. Now go.”

Abigail turns toward the Library, glancing back at us as she goes. Evie’s gaze does not waver. My mouth goes dry. Will she turn me over to the guards? She has already listened to me longer than I had thought she would. I brace myself for what she says next.

“Meet me in the Scholar’s Garden,” she whispers. “Daddy is about to make a presentation in the Library, so the garden will be empty. I will leave a gate open for you.”

Without waiting for a response, she leaves.

#

The gates twist black and foreboding under the shadows cast by the sun. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t. Even as I turn to go, I can smell the life housed in this garden. The smell reminds me of the Library. This is my only chance to find out what those shining things in the hologram were. No Star Painter could have painted them. Their existence is impossible. Right?

No other Scholar will speak to me. But what if this is a trap? Why should Evie, perfect Evie, be any different than the untouchable Scholars? Likely the Guardians will catch this stupid Star Painter who dared to think he could speak to a Scholar’s daughter, and they will throw him into the Gates, damned to fall forever in the Void.

I breathe in the scents of the garden to steady myself. It doesn’t matter if this is a trap because I need to know if there can be anything but painted stars. If there can be a real world for the Tradespeople. For me.

I push open the gate and step inside. I do not move far past the gate. Instead, I wait.

I don’t wait long before Evie approaches and gestures for me to follow. We walk along the golden paths for what seems like ages. I do not speak, but finally she does.

“What is your name? You never said.”

I hesitate, and then say, “Nico.”

“Nico what?”

“Just Nico.”

A pause, and then, “Well, I am Evie.”

“I know who you are, miss.”

Evie gives me a look that is both confused and imperious. She looks in front of her again, passing the trees and flowers without a glance or pause. I recognize roses and water lilies and daisies, but I do not know enough to identify the others.

“Are you sure I won’t be discovered here?” I say after another lengthy silence. As much as I want answers, I am enjoying walking these golden paths with Evie, breathing in the scent of life and dampness and the world. I will likely never get the chance to come here again.

Again Evie looks at me but does not respond.

“You do understand the danger, don’t you? If I am caught.”

Somehow being alone, without a crowd to stare at us, I become bolder. I would never have dreamed of questioning a Scholar before, let alone asking such selfish questions. It is not the Scholar’s place to worry about such mundane things when their minds are focused on the peculiarities and wonders of the world. And yet, I cannot help myself.

Evie stops walking. She does not look at me, but she says in a quivering voice, “Yes, of course I do. I’m not a child.”

“How can you be sure I won’t be discovered?” I say. Just because a Scholar makes a presentation, that does not guarantee that every Scholar will attend.

Evie begins walking again. “I asked my father to close it,” she says in a hesitant tone, and suddenly I am uncomfortable. Close the Scholar’s Garden? Impossible. Any man who could close such a place must have either wonderful connections or be that wonderful connection.

“Who is your father?”

Evie does not stop walking and still does not look at me.

“Who is he?”

“Ezra Hologramme.”

I stop walking and so does she.

“Do you know him?” she asks carefully, inspecting a rose by her ankle.

“Yes,” I say. “I know of him.”

Ezra Hologramme. The founder of Modern Knowledge. This is a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake.

“Excuse me, I shouldn’t–”

“What did you come here to speak with me about?”

I clear my throat as she rounds on me, advancing. She pokes my chest with her finger, her filed nail digging into my flesh.

“I know what you are, Star Painter. I have sent away my maidservant and taken the risk of inviting you into the Scholar’s Garden with me. You think the danger is only to you? If what you have to say is important, then say it now.”

The glint in her eyes terrifies me. I open my mouth to speak, but I am not sure what to say. What possible danger could she face? Her class is perfect. Isn’t it?

She raises an eyebrow, and I pull the remnants of the chip from the Library out of my pocket. I hold them in my outstretched palm for her to see. Evidence she can use to convict me.

“I found this,” I say without elaborating. “It shows a world with stars that are nothing like mine. These shine so brightly in the sky that they cannot possibly be painted. I don’t know how they were created or why they left. All I know is there are no stars like these anymore. All I know is that I want to find them. I want to bring them back.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the world I saw.”

Evie begins walking again, and I follow. “I heard about that world when I was a child, every Scholar does. But they are only legends. Stories. Or at least that’s what I thought. Who knows? They still might be only stories.”

We pass a pond with ducks floating on the sun-drenched surface. I slow down to watch as we pass. I have never seen a real pond before. I’ve never seen real ducks before either. Only what I have seen in my stolen holograms.

“You must know something,” I say, not looking at Evie. The water ripples under the ducks as they move. One bobs under the surface and comes up much farther away.

It is only when I hear Evie’s answer that I realize I have stopped walking. I turn toward her as she speaks.

“I do know what the stories say. They describe great balls of gas floating out in space. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they fall.” She shrugs. “They are described as diamonds and animals and kitchenware. There must be many species of stars.”

Evie moves beside me to watch the ducks.

“It is said that the Guardians took the stars away long ago. I don’t know why. That’s all I know.”

I shake my head. “But where did they go? How are they born? How does one travel into the Void?” And why would anyone want to, I add silently.

“I don’t know,” she says.

I spin toward her. “How can you not know? What, because I’m a Star Painter I don’t deserve to know?”

She looks at me calmly. The ducks have left by now, and the water is still.

“Scholars don’t know everything.”

#

Real stars! It is too fantastic to think about. Actual stars in the heavens, holding vigil in the night and holding back the Void. It would put me out of a job, but what does that matter in the face of something so old, discovered anew? This world can use a change, especially if even the Scholars are fallible.

I can’t help but wonder if the stars are still up there somewhere, just waiting to return. It is too brilliant, too wonderful, too fantastical. If only I could fly, I could see for myself what is in the Void.

That’s it!

I run to the window of my workshop, tripping over unfinished rolls of stars, and look out. The Smog Collectors. No wonder I never thought of them before. They are even lower than I am. I watch them now as they hover just over the Scholar’s neighborhood in their jetpacks, sucking the harmful smog into their machines. I can see a crowd forming below them. Are they thinking the same thoughts that I am? Are they contemplating the possibilities that these lowly workers present for us? For knowledge?

From this distance, the Smog Collectors are only specks against the setting sun, but I imagine flying high into the Void, smog swirling in my pack, sending me higher and higher. Who knows what I will find?

If anyone has the means to fly into the heavens and search for the stars, it is the Smog Collectors.

The thought has me racing one floor down to the Smog Collectors’ floor. Before I reach the door, I can hear footsteps racing up the stairs. I push myself faster and nearly throw myself through the door. Lucky for me, locks are too expensive to waste on the Tower. After ripping a jetpack from its hook by the door, I rush toward the small balcony at the far end of the room to launch myself into the heavens.

“Star Painter!”

I stop in my tracks. The door opens behind me, and I hear someone enter. My mind whirls, trying to come up with an excuse, but when I turn around it’s not the Taskmaster or a Smog Collector who stands in the doorway. It is a Scholar. And, I realize with creeping, freezing dread, not just any Scholar. Evie’s father. My stomach sinks so low I don’t think it’s even inside me anymore.

“Sir,” I say, bowing my head.

“There have been reports of you following and looking at my daughter,” he hisses.

“Sir,” I say again, but down comes Ezra’s hand on my shoulder. Ezra forms the other into a fist and flings it at my jaw. I fly back with a grunt, landing on my back. The wind is knocked out of my chest, and I can’t breathe. I cough and try to stand.

“Don’t talk to me, Star Painter,” Ezra growls. I hear his footsteps approaching and I pull myself backwards on my hands and knees, dragging the jetpack along the floor with me. I can hear more footsteps coming up the stairs, and half a dozen more Scholars appear in the doorway. Tall Scholars. Brawny and angry.

Ezra advances on me and so do the other men. I try to crawl away, but instead my hands find the edge of the balcony and then I am falling.

I am too surprised to scream. Instead, I fumble with the straps of the jetpack, trying to make it fly. The wind rushes past my ears, deafening me. When I find the button, I let out a breath and relief surges through me, lifting my heart. But then hands reach up to pull me down.

I twist in the air and see a crowd below me, washing up in waves around the Tower.

“Let go,” I scream at them, kicking and twisting in their grasp. But the crowd, though malnourished and weak, is strong enough to pull me down. I tumble onto the cement and roll away from the crowd. I stumble awkwardly to my feet and raise my hands.

“Please,” I say, but there is not one face in the crowd that registers that I am one of them.

I see Ezra’s face join the grimy, weary ones of the Tradespeople. His is filled with rage and contempt and hate. Moving backwards, I see a Guardian in my peripherals, his purple, oil-slick wings folded close to his pale back. I wonder if the demi-god is here to control the crowd or for his own curiosity. A sick feeling brings my chin to my chest. Of course. He is here for my Judgement.

The Gate stops my movement away from the oncoming crowd, and Ezra gestures for the Guardian to open the Gate. I feel the iron scrape against my back as it opens, and I feel my heart beat faster in my chest. As the crowd surges forward, closing over me like a wave, I close my eyes and dig my heels into the cement, trying to stop their relentless push. Hands tug at the jetpack, and I pull it tighter around me.

Just as my heels dip over the edge of the world, the pressure draws back, and I am released. I open my eyes and see Ezra standing in front of me, a sneer pulling at his face.

Before he can speak, I shout, “Please, sir. I have never been uncivil. Ask her. Please, what have I done to warrant the Gate?”

Ezra raises his hand under my nose and I see the broken bits of the chip I stole scattered on his palm. My heart sinks in my chest. I am done for. I can’t talk my way out of this.

“What happened to the stars?” I ask before I can think better of it.

Ezra turns his hand over so the shards fall to the ground, but doesn’t answer.

“What happened to the stars?” I am shouting now, and I notice a few faces in the crowd register doubt.

Ezra turns away. The crowd surges forward again, and I scream at them. Someone tugs at the straps on my arms, and I tug back, kicking off of their legs until I fall out of their grasp. My breath catches in my throat, blocking my screams as I fall into the Void.

And then I am flying higher and higher. I laugh at the impossibility and look down. The Guardian by the Gate watches me but does not move. I can hear the faint shouts of the crowd below and laugh again, ignoring the pain in my arms and torso. Soon, I am too winded to laugh. I choke on the smog that invades my throat. Fear jolts through me. No Smog Collector goes this high to clean the air, and none have ever cleaned the air that circulates the Trade Village.

I struggle to fly higher. The thick smog blinds me until I can barely make out the golden shine just above. At first, I think it is the sun, but this shine is different. Impossibly, it is more radiant.

What is this smog hiding?

Just a little farther, I tell myself. I close my eyes and try not to breathe until finally I fall onto something solid. I open my eyes to see a shining, golden kingdom. My brief relief and awe are crushed by fear. The purple wings of demi-gods are everywhere. I throw off the jetpack and lie on my back, staring into the Void. Only it is not the Void. There are stars in this sky that keep away the smog and the darkness.

Tears blur my vision. Such light and beauty. I could never paint this even if I had a thousand lifetimes to master it.

A face bends over me and strong hands lift me up. The face tilts to the side, inspecting me, and I remain silent. His wings span out behind him, and it takes all of my strength not to back away.

“Please,” I say, hoping the demi-god can understand me. “I can’t go back.”

The demi-god drops me, and I fall to my knees. Others join the first demi-god, but no children. Their faces look ageless enough that I wonder if they even have such a thing as children.

One comes forward, a woman, and stands tall above me.

“Earth Walker,” she says and her voice rings out with clarity and strength. “You have asked about stars, and you have found them. Stand and look around you.”

I do as I am told on shaking knees and with a steady face. My steadiness falters when I see what is around me. Silver rivers that shine impossibly bright. I move closer. Silver dust shimmers and surges through the rivers but does not fall off this golden city. The rivers end in pools at the edges of the kingdom.

“What is this?” I ask, leaning down at the river’s edge.

“Stardust,” says the woman.

“But that’s impossible. I paint them all.” I reach my hand into the river. The dust is icy hot but soft like a feather. I pull my hand out.

“You say you cannot return to your Earth,” she says, “but I cannot allow you to remain here. You are proof the humans are not ready.”

“What do you mean?” I try to keep my gaze on the ground, but I find myself glancing at the woman.

She looks at me with a mixture of scorn and something else. Hope?

“Your people reach too high.” She is silent so long I don’t think she will speak again, but then she says, “We took your stars and the glorious roundness of your Earth in the hopes that one day your kind will learn to be grateful for what they have. Clearly, that day has not come.”

So the legends are true. Indignation matches the realization of what the Guardians have done and what their constant presence has meant. They have been watching us and judging us for too long.

“There is nothing wrong with knowledge,” I say with heat and strength. “Is it your fault the Scholars are the only ones who can learn?”

Her silence is my answer. I square my jaw and look again at the rivulets of stardust weaving their way around this golden land. She considers me for a moment.

“The only life for you here is as a servant,” she says finally. “One day we will give humankind their stars again, but until that time, you will remain here in labour and hardship.”

I look at the unfamiliar faces of the demi-gods and the unfamiliar golden city and feel despair creep into my veins. I don’t belong here. But I can’t belong on Earth either.

“You say you cannot return,” she continues. “This is the only option I am prepared to offer you. Your life here will not be very different from the one you knew, but you are welcome to learn whatever you can from watching us.”

If I stay, my life will likely be worse in some ways than what it was on Earth. At least there I had people like me. I sigh with the realization that I can never go back to Earth. My pursuit of knowledge would never be allowed. I could never be truly myself. I know I don’t belong here. I will never be equal to anyone. I will never be given the chance to be equal. But here, I have knowledge to seek. Here, I can at least learn more about the starts and our past.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I will stay.”