An illness cursing the land forces a teen girl astronomer to venture across the wilderness in search of the stars’ message that will, hopefully, save them all.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Shea Ernshaw’s A Wilderness of Stars, which is out November 29th 2022.
If magic lives anywhere, it’s in the stars…
Vega has lived in the valley her whole life—forbidden by her mother to leave the safety of its borders because of the unknown threats waiting for her in the wilds beyond. But after her mother dies, and Vega sees the fabled twin stars in the sky, it’s an omen she can no longer ignore, forcing her to leave the protective boundaries of the valley. But the outside world turns out to be much more terrifying than Vega could have imagined. People are gravely sick—they lose their eyesight and their hearing, just before they lose their lives.
What Vega keeps to herself is that she is the Last Astronomer—a title carried from generation to generation—and she is the only one who carries the knowledge of the stars. Knowledge that could hold the key to the cure. And so when locals spot the tattoo on Vega’s neck in the shape of a constellation—the mark of an astronomer—chaos erupts as the threats her mother warned her about become all too real.
Fearing for her life, Vega is rescued by a girl named Cricket who leads her to Noah, a boy marked by his own mysterious tattoos. On the run from the men who are hunting her, Vega, Cricket, and Noah set out across the plains in search of the cure the stars speak of. But as the lines between friend and protector begin to blur, Vega must decide whether to safeguard the sacred knowledge of the astronomer. Or if she will risk everything to try to save them all.
The saloon is dark, lit by candles burned down to stubs.
I skim the shadowed features of the men seated at the dozen or so tables, some playing cards, some sloshing back the amber drinks in their hands, and I suspect most of them are either traders here for the market or scavengers. And if any of them bear the starburst brand, I can’t tell in the dim candlelight.
The saloon is filled with those unafraid to stay up well after the sun has set, and I tell myself that I’m one of them. That I belong. But the uneasy patter of my heart in my ears reminds me that I’m definitely not.
In the back corner, a man is seated in a chair, playing a banjo— some slow, wandering song about losing his love in a river and chas- ing her for miles and miles, with a broken heart.
I half hope the round woman will take me by the hand and pull me through the smoky room to a seat in the corner, where she’ll explain to me the workings of a saloon, and I can ask her if she knows the Architect, but she saunters off to a series of stairs where she kisses a man full on the lips, and he slides his hands around her broad waist.
I’m on my own, and the beating of my heart in my ears only grows louder.
Most of the seats are taken, except for a few open stools at the bar, built in the center of the room. I feel the eyes pass over me, men lowering their cards to watch me with bloodshot eyes, men with stained teeth who I’m certain can sense that I am not accustomed to places like this. I’m easy prey. I try not to look at them directly, sensing it’s best to keep my gaze forward and jaw stiff as I cross the space between the door and the bar.
Mom used to tell me stories about the towns—about taverns and schoolhouses and dentist offices. But to walk through a smoky, candlelit room, with the savage glint of eyes on you, is a different experience entirely.
I reach the bar and slide onto one of the open stools, my heart now stuck in my throat, my jaw aching from clenching it too tightly. But I keep my eyes level, expression unfaltering, as if I frequent places like this in every town I visit. A girl who’s seen her fair share of gritty saloons and gritty faces and unwelcome stares.
“Little young, aren’t ya?” the man behind the bar asks, voice hoarse and layered in years of smoke, coming to stand in front of me. He squares his gaze on me, his skin pockmarked, muddy-brown hair slicked to one side, with a black mustache trimmed just above his upper lip, while both ears are pierced with silver rings. But no silver signet on either hand.
“No,” I reply flatly. Although I have no idea at what age I’m allowed in here—perhaps seventeen is too young, and the man will swiftly kick me out.
He raises a thin, pale eyebrow—spots of black rimming his eyes, signs of illness—then rests a palm against the top of the bar. “All right then,” he says, chewing over a wad of tobacco. “What do you want?”
I rub my palms together beneath the bar. I have no idea how to answer this.
“We have white liquor and dark. That’s it.” His voice is deep, sensing my hesitation.
I glance down the bar, at the two men nearest me, hands wrapped around glasses filled with an amber-hued alcohol, same as most oth- ers in the saloon. The two men watch me from the corners of their eyes. “Dark,” I say.
The barman tugs his mouth down at the corner. “You have coin?” Crap. I touch my coat and feel the bottle of aspirin still in my pocket. Beneath the edge of the bar, I pull it out and open the lid—keeping it out of sight—then pluck a single pill from inside. I lift my palm, holding the white pill up for the man to see. He leans forward and snatches it from me, turning it in his calloused fingers, before quickly clamping his hand closed—like he, too, doesn’t want anyone else to see. “Where’d you get this?” he asks, eyelids flattened on me. “Found it.”
He leans over the counter. He smells like tobacco smoke and something sharp, bitter, like vinegar. “You have any more?”
I shake my head, eyes unblinking. “Just the one.” He tilts his gaze, cracking his neck. “You sure?”
“I’d know if I had more, wouldn’t I?” I’m surprised at my tone, the unflinching quality of my voice, as if I’ve dealt with men like him before.
He straightens back up, an eyebrow still raised, then moves down the counter, retrieving something from beneath it. When he returns, he sets a whole bottle of dark liquor on the bar in front of me, then pockets the pill I gave him.
Apparently, a single aspirin buys me a whole bottle of alcohol. I wonder if Pa knows this, knows how much a whole pill is worth?
The two men seated down the bar glance over at me, at the full bottle, sizing me up, probably trying to guess what I paid the man to get me the bottle, and if I might have more. If I’m worth robbing. “I’m looking for someone,” I say to the barman before he walks away.
He gives me a curious look, like he’s still trying to figure out who I am and where I came from. And why the hell I’m in here. “Who’s that?” I touch the bottle, tapping a finger against the glass, then lift my eyes. “A man—” My voice breaks off, unsure if this is a good idea, but if anyone knows the men who come and go into this saloon, who hears the far-off stories from traders who have traveled to the ends of this land and come back to the market to tell their tales, it’s this barman. I have to risk it. I have to ask. “An Architect,” I continue.
“Have you heard of him?”
The barman tips forward and spits into a foul-smelling metal canister resting on the bar top. His eyes narrow to that of a bird’s, dark and intent. It makes me uneasy, but I meet his gaze dead-on, refusing to look away.
“Never heard of anyone by that name,” he says, squinting, roll- ing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. But I can’t tell if he’s lying, if this is a game, and he’s waiting to see what I’ll say next.
“You’re sure?”
His chin lowers, watching me, like he might reach across the bar and take me by the throat for even saying the word aloud in his saloon, for daring to speak such a name, but then he swallows and says simply, “Yep.”
We stare at each other a moment more, both of us untrusting, before he turns away and walks back up to the far end of the bar, where he refills the empty glasses in front of the two men who had been eyeing me. Then begins talking to them out of earshot.
Shit, I think.
I need to get out of here.
Excerpted from A WILDERNESS OF STARS by Shea Ernshaw © November 2022 used with permission of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing
