Stardust by Neil Gaiman Page A

nothing about being hungry. Then again, she had done nothing at all but look at him, first reproachfully, and then with undisguised hatred.
    He pulled the bark tight, then looped it under itself and tugged on it once more. “This is honestly nothing personal,” he said, to the woman and to the grove .With the full sunlight shining down she scarcely glittered at all, save for where the darkest shadows touched her.
    The star ran one pale forefinger up and down the silver chain that went between them, tracing the line of it about her slim wrist, and made no reply.
    “I did it for love,” he continued. “And you really are my only hope. Her name—that is, the name of my love—is Victoria. Victoria Forester. And she is the prettiest, wisest, sweetest girl in the whole wide world.” The girl broke her silence with a snort of derision. “And this wise, sweet creature sent you here to torture me?” she said.
    “Well, not exactly. You see, she promised me anything I desired—be it her hand in marriage or her lips to kiss—were I to bring her the star that we saw fall the night before last. I had thought,” he confessed, “that a fallen star would probably look like a diamond or a rock. I certainly wasn’t expecting a lady.”
    “So, having found a lady, could you not have come to her aid, or left her alone? Why drag her into your foolishness?”
    “Love,” he explained.
    She looked at him with eyes the blue of the sky. “I hope you choke on it,” she said, flatly.
    “I won’t,” said Tristran, with more confidence and good cheer than he actually felt. “Here. Try this.” He passed her the crutch and, reaching down, tried to help her to her feet. His hands tingled, not unpleasantly, where his skin touched hers. She sat on the ground like a tree stump, making no effort to get up.
    “I told you,” she said, “that I would do everything in my power to frustrate your plans and devices.” She looked around the grove. “How very bland this world does look by day. And how dull.”
    “Just put your weight on me, and the rest on the crutch,” he said. “You’ll have to move sometime.” He tugged on the chain and, reluctantly, the star began to get to her feet, leaning first against Tristran, and then, as if proximity to him disgusted her, on the crutch.
    She gasped, then, in a hard intake of breath, and tumbled to the grass, where she lay with her face contorted, making small noises of pain. Tristran knelt down beside her. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    Her blue eyes flashed, but they were swimming with tears. “My leg. I can’t stand on it. It must really be broken.” Her skin had gone as white as a cloud, and she was shivering.
    “I’m sorry,” said Tristran, uselessly. “I can make you a splint. I’ve done it for sheep. It’ll be all right.” He squeezed her hand, and then he went to the brook and dipped his handkerchief in it and gave it to the star to wipe her forehead.
    He split more fallen wood with his knife. Then he removed his jerkin, and took off his shirt, which he proceeded to tear into strips which he used to bind the sticks, as firmly as he could, about her injured leg. The star made no sounds while he did this, although, when he pulled the last knot tight, he thought he heard her whimper to herself.
    “Really,” he told her, “we ought to get you to a proper doctor. I’m not a surgeon or anything.”
    “No?” she said dryly. “You astonish me.”
    He let her rest for a little, in the sun. And then he said, “Better try again, I suppose,” and he raised her to her feet.
    They left the glade at a hobble, the star leaning heavily on her crutch and on Tristran’s arm, wincing at every step. And every time she winced or flinched Tristran felt guilty and awkward, but he calmed himself by thinking of Victoria Forester’s grey eyes. They followed a deer path through the hazel-wood, while Tristran—who had decided that the right thing to do was to make conversation with the