Upon a frosted star, p.1
Upon a Frosted Star, page 1
M.A. KUZNIAR spent six years living in Spain, teaching English and travelling the world, which inspired her children’s series The Ship of Shadows. Her adult debut, Midnight in Everwood, was a bestseller and a love letter to ballet and fairy tales. When she is not planning her next adventure, she can be found at her cosy home in Nottingham, where she lives with her husband, and spends her days reading and writing.
Visit her online at mariakuzniar.co.uk or @cosyreads on Instagram.
Also by M.A. Kuzniar
Midnight in Everwood
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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HarperCollinsPublishers
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This edition 2023
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2023
Copyright © M.A. Kuzniar 2023
M.A. Kuzniar asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008450717
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2023 ISBN: 9780008450748
Version 2023-08-17
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008450717
For my husband, Michael Brothwood, whom I will love until the
moon falls from the sky and the stars no longer glitter.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue
Part One: 1922
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Part Two: 1923–1924
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Part Three: 1925
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Part Four: 1926
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Part Five: 1927
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Prologue
The parties always started the same way.
When the nights deepened, swallowing daylight by the hour. When winter whispered its frozen song across the land. When the promise of snow could be tasted in the air.
Then, and only then, would the grand doors to the manor house on the cliff be flung open to the night.
The invitations bore no address. No notice was given in the nearby sleepy town. The date changed each year. And yet the glamorous and rich and curious would wander through those doors.
It began with a murmur of delicious excitement, a champagne-fizz of anticipation, a tickle of imagination. It took mere hours to spread to the city, ensnaring all who heard the rumours of a night like none other with a compulsion to witness it for themselves. It ended with dawn staining the sky like wine, leaving the revellers stunned at the realm of decadence into which they had stumbled.
And the very next day? Not a minute eclipsed between the last reveller dragging their feet through the doors before they shut, locking out the world once more.
The parties were a thing of legend. An extravagance borne out of lavish dreams and wondrous delight.
And sometimes, an obsession.
Part One
1922
‘The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.’
—J. M. BARRIE, Peter Pan
Chapter One
It was a late November night when the wind was blowing like Father Frost and the Thames was near frozen solid that Forster wondered if he had been cursed.
He had begun the day sitting in his kitchen sink. His sketchpad propped awkwardly upon one knee, he’d been attempting to capture the mellow sunshine seeping down into their basement window and setting the whisky glasses from last night aglow. Like melted butter. Only, halfway through committing ink to paper, the light had shifted, leading Forster to abandon his efforts. He’d started and grown bored of another five sketches until the late afternoon ushered in a deep darkness that suited his sense of ennui. Not long after, the little mantel clock had chimed six, reminding him of his longstanding evening walk with his flatmate, and he had hurried out into the bracing temperature.
November had whirled into London like a storm, frosting the spires and domes, and leaving Forster with a childlike longing for snow. This was heightened by the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting along the Embankment. He set off in search of the cart and parted with a few coins for a bag. The paper warmed his hands as he made his way to a bench overlooking the river. Beside him, the light from a solitary streetlamp puddled on the cobblestones as he stared out at the boats drifting past like his thoughts. They set the river aglow with their cosy lanternlight and he wished one would anchor. Perhaps he ought to learn how to sail? Then he could purchase a small boat that was in some disarray and spend time learning how to fix it, polishing it until it gleamed on the water like a pearl, and sleeping out on deck, watching the stars spattered over the roof of the world. But – what of his decision to dedicate his life to art? He’d spent the better part of this year attempting to search out a lone spark of inspiration, but the muses had turned their faces from him and his sketchbooks were filled with half-formed pictures. Perhaps he had been cursed by some hidden malevolence, leaving him destined never to finish them. Sometimes they became flesh and slipped into his nightmares. A woman that had no face, a city never finished, and a man that was not whole. These nightmares had intensified now he had entered the final year of his twenties last month. Twenty-nine. Another decade near completed without him making his mark on the world.
‘If you think any harder, your brain will catch fire,’ came a familiar voice.
Forster was lifted from his musings to find his flatmate, Marvin, standing beside him. ‘Do you ever feel dissatisfied with your life?’ Forster asked.
Marvin regarded him through murky blue eyes, the tip of his long nose turning a delicate pink as he exhaled a plume of frozen air. ‘What is it now? Penning the next great novel? Becoming a chef? Or—’ Marvin pinched a roast chestnut from the paper, twirling it in his fingers as if searching for inspiration. His gaze alighted on the river with a lick of mischief. ‘Or running away on a boat?’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ Forster lied, filling his mou th with another butter-soft chestnut that tasted like Christmas. He ignored the sudden whisper of temptation that echoed Marvin’s words, picturing himself painting with ingredients and writing recipes like poems. ‘I just seem to be suffering from a lack of inspiration lately, that’s all.’
Marvin’s sigh was deep, filled with the same bone-ache of tiredness Forster felt. ‘You and me both, old chap. Arthur dismissed every idea I proposed to him today. I need something brilliant to cover, something that will make him wish he hadn’t overlooked me. But every idea that comes to me, someone else has already thought of, written it better, had a closer source. I’m tired of chasing after scraps.’
Forster commiserated with him. The two men had first made each other’s acquaintance when Forster had relocated to London from his native Northampton and was in search of decent rooms with a flatmate that might stretch his stipend enough to live comfortably while he decided what he wished to do with his life. When he was younger, his dreams had been stuffed with a hundred possibilities, from wearing freshly starched uniforms with polished boots and marching into war fearlessly, to living amongst bohemians in Paris, painting scenes that would hang in gallery walls, to buying a grand manor and filling it with family who would smile each time he walked into a room. Now he had reached the final years of his twenties with a fresh sense of horror of what war truly entailed, though he had not been permitted to fight, and dozens of abandoned pastimes. With Forster being estranged from his flesh and blood relatives, Marvin was the closest thing to family he had. An old friend from Forster’s schooldays had made the necessary introductions between the pair last January. Almost two years ago, now. Marvin shared Forster’s deep-seated desire to make a name for himself and it hadn’t taken long for the would-be reporter and aspiring artist to strike up a firm friendship.
Now, as per their evening custom, the pair wandered down Embankment together. A thick fog had descended along the river and was slithering through the streets, winding around streetlamps and blotting out their flicker.
‘How frightfully gothic.’ Marvin pulled his thick woollen collar up, shivering under his pork pie hat that he fancied made him look like Buster Keaton, a regular man about town.
The Houses of Parliament loomed before them, imposing in their perpendicular Gothic style and decaying stonework. The pair were careful to maintain a little distance, lest another large stone crashed down from its walls, like one had a couple of years earlier from Victoria Tower. When Forster glanced up at the illuminated clock face, something white whispered past his ear. Too small and soft and light to be stone, he exclaimed, ‘Why, it’s snowing.’
Yet, like so many other times this year, Forster was wrong.
He took his hat off and squinted through the fog. Hundreds of paper twists were twirling through the air. Each one elegant as a swan. ‘They’re scrolls,’ he realised aloud. ‘Tied with ribbon.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there staring at them…catch one.’ Marvin held onto his hat and attempted to jump and take one but they fluttered away into the night, much to his frustration.
Forster laughed, reaching up and grasping one with very little effort. Marvin scowled, and gestured impatiently for him to read the contents. But Forster enjoyed curating little pockets of contentment within his days. He took his time untying the black ribbon, noting the softness of the velvet, before unrolling the parchment. The paper was thick, luxurious, his interest piqued. He read its contents aloud:
Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning.
‘How curious,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I wonder if they all bear the same quote.’ He began hunting down scrolls and untying them faster, ceasing when he’d read another four. They were all of a likeness. ‘What can this mean?’ he asked, turning to his flatmate. ‘Is it an advertisement for the play? Or novel? It’s been some time since I read Peter Pan…’ he trailed off.
Marvin was staring at a scroll, deep in thought and uncharacteristically silent. ‘Oh, I know exactly what this means.’
Chapter Two
‘I told you this would be good, old chap,’ Marvin crowed like the Lost Boy he was costumed as. Passing through the doors of the manor house, they were at once swept along in the tidal path of the crowd.
Forster craned his neck to take in the vaulted ceilings, where aerial artists glittered and dazzled in five-pointed star costumes, dancing high above. Now and then, one swung across a trapeze like a shooting star. ‘I still don’t understand how you found this. The scrolls didn’t have an address nor any other clue on them.’
Marvin leant closer. ‘Two years ago, I heard rumours of a party in a mysterious manor on a cliff. That the invitations had been painted onto shells that were discovered floating in all the fountains in London. They simply said, “Come to the Sea Queen’s Ball” but those were accompanied by an address. To this very manor.’
Forster was fascinated. ‘And people came?’
‘There were so many in attendance that last November, when the clue was stamped onto paper bags filled with gingerbread, given out from carts on Regent Street, there was no accompanying address. That was the first party I attended. Now, everybody who’s anybody will be seen here tonight.’ Marvin paused as a waiter painted in olive-green with a crocodile mask protruding from his face offered them a tray of cocktails. Marvin took two with a nod of thanks, presenting Forster with one of them. He accepted it, frowning. ‘Where was I when you came last year then?’
Marvin hesitated, and in a low whisper explained. ‘It was during all that business with your family.’
‘Ah.’ That familiar pain and regret surged up Forster’s throat, a visceral reaction he suffered each time that particular memory resurfaced. Diverting himself, Forster sipped from his glass. A palm leaf was secured around it with gold thread and a scrap of parchment dangling from the stem proclaimed that the golden confection was ‘fairy dust’. ‘But we only found the clue earlier this evening. How did everyone here learn this event is taking place tonight?’ As he raked his gaze through the crowds, he saw few faces he recognised despite Marvin having dragged him along to as many of the fashionable restaurants and clubs in London as he could wrangle an invitation to in the name of his career. The City Star was an up-and-coming tabloid that hungered to make a name for itself. As did half of London, it seemed. The war was over and fortunes were to be made. And celebrations wanted to dazzle. Perhaps if they shone bright enough, hard enough, they’d drown the shadowed trenches of their collective memory in light.
‘Whoever stumbles upon one of the clues ensures that the relevant people are told. Word spreads fast.’
‘Indeed,’ Forster commented, the crowds pressing tighter against them as people grew impatient to gain entry. ‘And who is responsible for these parties?’
One of Marvin’s shoulders rose in a half-hearted shrug, his attention already wandering onto a cluster of fairies nearby, their wings shimmering as an arctic breeze rippled through the hall. ‘Nobody knows. I heard that the first few parties were smaller gatherings that started sometime during the war but you know what it’s like, half the people claim one thing, others spin another story altogether. The whole affair is bound up in too much rumour to unravel. Anyhow, it’s high time you lose that serious countenance you’ve been sporting lately. Lighten up. Drink, dance, live. Tonight’s a night in a million, Forster.’ Marvin held his arms up high, spreading them with a battle cry as they entered the ballroom.
The crowds parted and Forster set eyes on the beating heart of the party. A large recreation of the Jolly Roger pirate ship sat in a champagne lagoon, drums beat wildly, jungle ferns clustered around the edges of the ballroom, hiding little huts where people congregated, and more stars swung across the ceiling. The sight rendered him speechless for a moment. In the space of a single, solitary night, Forster had been plucked from unrelenting boredom and dropped into a world that fizzed with magic. His heart beat harder, sending electricity coursing through his veins. He had been sleepwalking through his own life, a life that was a canvas devoid of colour, and at last, he had awoken to a dazzling reality.
‘A night in a million!’ Marvin downed the rest of his fairy dust and reached out for a fresh glass in one swoop, passing Forster a second glass, too.
