The Chaos of Stars

“The night I was born, Orion was the most prominent in the sky, and it’s always been my favorite constellation. I can’t wait for this winter. Orion’s like the one constant in my life, the one thing I could always find when I needed comfort.” It spills out; I shouldn’t tell him anything, but I’m so relieved I’m giddy.

He laughs again. “Well, that’s weird.”

I turn and stick my tongue out at him. “Sure, Epic Poetry Boy.”

“No, no, I don’t mean the stars. I mean, what you were saying about names and how important they are.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, Isadora-not-Issy-or-Dora, I’m Ry—as in Orion.” His smile shines in the dark like a beacon. Like my stars.

Chaos take me.

Who are you remembering today?” Mother asks, beaming at me as I kneel in front of the small stone altar in my room.

“I’m remembering Thoth.” He’s my favorite. I love it when he visits.

Mother nods her approval. “Thoth is the reason I was born. And he helped me when your brother Horus was poisoned by Set.”

I know these stories, but this is part of the worship, part of the remembering. In my head and my heart I list the things that Thoth is god of, and then I remember the stories I’ve been taught about him. Finally, I repeat his name to myself, and then trace it onto the altar.

Of course, I always do Isis and Osiris first. I think Mother would like me to do Horus more often than I do, but he ignores me and I’d always rather remember Thoth. Once a month I do a quick one of the rest of the

m—Nephthys, Hathor, Anubis, Set, Ammit, Grandma Nut, Grandpa Mun, and of course Amun-Re. I always shiver when I have to remember everything Set has done, though.

“You started a bit late this morning,” my mother says.

I whisper Thoth’s name, tracing it without looking up at her. My stomach twists guiltily. I slept in five minutes past dawn. “I’m sorry.”

“We must always have order in this house. Everything has a time and a purpose. If we maintain order . . .”

“We never leave chaos an opening to creep in,” I finish, and look up at her.

But she’s gone. I look toward the door, but beyond it the hall is dark. Darker than dark, swirling and alive with blackness. The darkness has my mother.

I crawl backward, away from it, crunching across shards of broken glass I know shouldn’t be there. I freeze. If I move, if I make a noise, the darkness will come for me, too.

Chapter 7

Isis knew that, with Osiris already in the underworld, she needed another claim to the god-king throne of Egypt. She presented Horus to the other gods, magically conceived after Osiris’s death, young but strong and ready to take his father’s place. And at his side, his mother, who was willing to do anything to support him.

Nephthys wanted a son, too. But Set would not oblige her. So, dressed and made up to look like Isis, she approached a drunken Osiris. Anubis was born. And Nephthys slunk back into the shadows, begging her sister to shield them from Osiris’s wrath and take Anubis as Isis’s own son.

That’s how Anubis is both my half brother and my cousin. Soap operas got nothing on my family history.

I WAVE AT SIRUS, AND THEN WAVE AGAIN, and then stop and put my hands on my hips until he slowly drives through the roundabout and away. He’s been overprotective lately, of both Deena and me, and while I appreciate the sentiment, I hardly think he needs to worry about me at work. I even caught him yesterday, hanging out nearby. He claimed it was because he had nothing else to do and the day was beautiful, but finally admitted it was because Deena kicked him out of her office because he was making her feel claustrophobic.

I’m tired and my head aches and it’s a relief that today, at least, I have something to do here. First the break-in, and now the ridiculous coincidence about Orion’s—Ry’s—name. My brain has been set on overdrive, and I can’t get it to calm down. The fact that all of my mother’s junk for the new exhibit finally showed up actually makes me excited. A day spent supervising the unpacking of a bunch of cracking, chipped depictions of my mother replacing my father’s missing manhood with one made of clay, or nursing miniature pharaohs, or poisoning the sun god?

It’s oddly comforting.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I hurry out from under the enclosed walkway to the front of the museum . . . which is surrounded by police cars with their lights on. Four of them are pulled up on the sidewalk surrounding the stairs.

Floods, what is going on? I slide through a small gap between two of the cars and take the stairs three at a time in my stilettos. As soon as I go through the blue door, a police officer walks up to me, blocking my way.

“It’s okay,” Michelle says, sounding like it’s anything but. She’s flanked by two other officers, both of whom are writing on pads. “Isadora works here.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, eyeing the congregation of uniformed men suspiciously. Why would they be here, too?