The Chaos of Stars

The kitchen has nice appliances, dark granite counters. I want neutral pale-green tiles as backsplashes on the walls between the counters and cupboards, which need to be painted either cherry or white. White, I think, once we get rid of all the rest of the white. We’ll shop for handles and put different ones on each cupboard. Pewter, or dark silver.

“Do you work a lot?” I ask Deena around a sticky-sweet mouthful. I can feel it coating my throat, clinging there, and it’s ac

tually a bit overwhelming but I soldier on, determined to enjoy eating something Mother wouldn’t approve of.

Deena nods. “Not as much as I would if I were at a firm, but I keep busy.”

I have no idea what a city attorney does, but it sounds cool. And very . . . worky. No wonder he kept her secret. My mother is all about industry but utterly and completely opposed to married women in the workforce. She’d never approve of Sirus’s choice if she knew that Deena was employed at anything other than perfect domesticity.

“Awesome. Speaking of jobs?” I jab my fork toward Sirus. Might as well find out.

“Oh, right. Mom loaned a bunch of stuff to a new exhibit at a local museum. She set you up with a job there to oversee everything.”

I snort, choking on a piece of pancake. “Oh, that’s perfect. I finally get away, so she plots to have me spend all day every day staring at pictures of her and Father?”

Sirus widens his eyes at me, and I look at Deena who, fortunately, is tapping out a message on her phone. Whew. “I mean, staring at pictures they donated? Ha. Like that’s going to happen. I wanted to talk to you about which room I can start on. Maybe this area? I love how open everything is. How do you feel about a slowly shifting palette that will incorporate movement—almost like a tide that carries the eye from the entry to the family room to the dining room? Also, how attached are you to this table? Because I’m thinking bonfire.”

Sirus shakes his head, black eyes crinkling up with a smile. “Umm, no fires. But I’m serious about the job thing.”

“And I’m serious that Mother’s crazy. She’s not here, I’m not doing it.”

“She said you’d say that. And she told me to say—and please remember that I am only passing this along because you are a minor and I don’t have legal custody—that if you don’t do the job, she’s taking everything out of your bank account.”

I play with the remaining syrup on my plate, stirring it around with my fork. “So what? I’ll get a real job. I’m not afraid to work.” I don’t care what it is. Anything’s better than what she wants me to do.

Deena looks up from her phone with an apologetic frown. “You can’t get a job, not legally anyway. You don’t have the right type of visa. And while there are a lot of jobs for illegals here, I really doubt you want to stand on a corner at Home Depot and get picked up for daily construction work.”

I frown, torn. I am pretty strong. Maybe I could. . . .

“Don’t tell her that’s an option,” Sirus whispers, doing the kill motion across his throat.

“If you violate your visa,” Deena continues hurriedly, “you risk getting kicked out of the country permanently. Plus Sirus and I would be breaking the law if we helped you work illegally, which frankly wouldn’t look good on my record.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Then how is it okay for me to work at the museum?”

Sirus shrugs. “Because they aren’t technically employing you. You’re a volunteer. With regularly scheduled hours. And mandatory attendance that will be reported directly to Mom.”

“And that’s the only way I have access to any money at all.”

“Sorry, kiddo. We’d support you, but—”

“No, I don’t want that.” I scowl and trace the grain of the wood on the table. “I don’t want to be any sort of burden on you. I’ll do the stupid job.” I stand, and I can see the mixture of relief and regret on Sirus’s face. “But seriously? I am going to burn this table. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some air.” It’s hard to breathe with my mother’s tentacles reaching out to strangle me from across the world, after all.

I stare at the mural of my parents’ creation, Grandma Nut arching across the sky. I reach up, standing on my tiptoes, to trace my finger along her length. I don’t understand why I can’t visit her, can’t see her like I can so many aunts and uncles.

I turn to go back to my room when I run into a pair of legs and look up to see Set. I freeze, terrified as always.

“Hello, child,” he says, and his voice is soft and calm as he bends down to be eye level with me. He looks so much like my father, except Set’s skin is healthy brown, not corpse black like Osiris’s.

I swallow and stammer hello, which embarrasses me because I’m nearly nine and I don’t stutter now.

“Why are you sad?” he asks.

I’m not sad, not anymore. Now I’m scared. But I answer, “Because Grandma Nut isn’t here and I can’t see her. I don’t understand why.” I scowl, try to stand taller in defiance. It’s not fair. “Why are you still here, but she isn’t?”

Set’s smile is in his eyes. “Do you understand that only the gods who are remembered or worshipped—even inadvertently—are strong enough to remain in physical form?”

I nod, but I don’t know what inadvertently means.