Page 6 of Firefly Nights

"Mm-hmm." He points upward. "Sailors used them to navigate. Farmers planned their crops by them. But people also wished on them, told stories about them, imagined whole worlds in them." He turns his head to look at me. "Remind you of anyone?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Sure you don't, Book Whisperer." But his voice is warm, almost fond. "See that bright one there? That's Vega. Part of the constellation Lyra—the harp. But the Chinese called it the Weaving Girl star."

I lie back, surprising myself. The sky spreads out above us like pages of an endless story. "I know that one. The Weaving Girl falls in love with the Cowherd star, but they're separated bythe Milky Way. They can only meet once a year, when magpies form a bridge between them."

"Look who knows her star lore."

"It's literature," I protest. "Folk tales and mythology are important cultural?—"

"Grace." His quiet laugh interrupts my defensive spiral. "I'm agreeing with you. Stories matter. Even the ones written in stars."

Something in his tone makes me turn my head to study his profile. The starlight softens his usual grin into something more contemplative.

"Why are you really out here?" I ask.

He's quiet for a long moment. "My dad and I used to do this. Every time we moved to a new place we'd find a spot to watch the stars. He'd say no matter where we went, the sky was always familiar." His voice turns wistful. "Guess some habits stick with you."

"That's actually kind of beautiful."

"Don't sound so surprised." He shifts slightly, and his arm brushes mine. Neither of us moves away. "I contain multitudes."

"Did you just quote Walt Whitman?"

"See? I pay attention in your library." His shoulder nudges mine gently. "Though I prefer Frost. 'The best way out is always through.'"

I prop myself up on one elbow to stare at him. "Who are you and what have you done with the man who spent twenty minutes this morning making hammer puns?"

"Can't a guy enjoy wordplayandpoetry?" His eyes meet mine, starlight catching in them. "Not everything has to fit in neat categories, Grace."

The night air suddenly feels too warm, too close. I lie back down, hyper-aware of every point where our bodies almost touch.

"That cluster there," Nathan says softly, pointing again. "Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. Greeks said they were daughters of Atlas, turned into stars to escape a hunter. But to the Japanese, they're Subaru—'gathering together.' Same stars, different stories."

"Different perspectives," I murmur.

"Exactly." He turns toward me, and I can feel his gaze like a physical thing. "Sometimes you have to look at something from a new angle to see what's really there."

I swallow hard, knowing we're not talking about stars anymore. "And what if you're afraid of what you might see?"

"Then you find someone to watch the stars with." His hand finds mine in the darkness, just his pinky finger hooking around mine. "Someone who understands both the practical and the magical."

Chapter Four

Nathan

"That box isn't going to sprout legs and walk itself upstairs."

Grace jumps at my voice, nearly dropping the clearly too-heavy box of books she's attempting to lift. She's been staring at it for the past five minutes, probably trying to calculate the exact angle of attack.

"I've got it," she says, but her arms are already trembling from the test lift.

"Sure you do." I cross the room and ease the box from her grip. "Where're we headed?"

"Wearen't headed anywhere. I can manage."

"Humor me. Consider it my good deed for the day." I adjust my hold on the box—these books weigh a ton. "Unless you'd rather explain to the board how the contractor let their librarian pull a muscle during heavy lifting?"

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