The Chaos of Stars
Page 47

I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, and it’s driving me crazy. Grinning, Tyler runs out past us, leaving us alone. In the room. Alone.
“I was thinking last night,” Ry says.
Yeah, I was, too. So much I thought my brain would pop. But I have no conclusions, and I don’t want to know what he was thinking about. But I really, really do. Chaos take me, I kind of hate him. “Oh?”
“You know the story of Persephone, right?”
Ooookay, not what I was thinking he’d be thinking about. It wasn’t Greek mythology keeping me awake. “Um, yeah.”
“I was thinking about framing, and how so much of what we think about our lives and our personal histories revolves around how we frame it. The lens we see it through, or the way we tell our own stories. We mythologize ourselves. So I was thinking about Persephone’s story, and how different it would be if you told it only from the perspective of Demeter versus only from the perspective of Hades. Same story, but it would probably be unrecognizable. Demeter’s would be about loss and devastation. Hades’s would be about love.”
I frown. “Yeah, I guess I see what you’re saying.” I just don’t get why you’re saying it, you psychotic, maddening boy.
“It’s all a matter of perspective. And maybe we thought we were living one story, when if we look at it a little different, we can reframe everything—all our memories and attributes and experiences—and see that we’re actually living a different story.”
I cross my arms and shrug out from under his hand. “Are you lecturing me again, Orion? Is that what this is?”
He grins, white teeth blinking their innocence. “I would never dream of lecturing you. I just thought it was interesting to think about.”
“Mmm-hmm. And how many times did you practice how you’d phrase this little gem of wisdom when you told me?”
He runs a hand through his thick, dark curls. “Ah, umm . . . who says I practiced it?”
I raise a single eyebrow at him.
“Two. Maybe three. Five. Not more than five.”
My phone rings, and Ry looks relieved. “I’ve got to go before they start unloading the stuff. Plus I am so far behind on my poetry it’s not even funny.”
“It’s kind of funny, actually,” I say, before answering my phone. I wave to Ry as he leaves, my heart doing a funny, not entirely unpleasant flippy thing as he smiles, then say, “Hello, Mother.”
I don’t know how to feel about talking to her, not after my dreams last night and my conversations with Ry and Sirus. Maybe I really have been framing my entire life wrong. Maybe she isn’t a villain. Maybe I’ve been too hard on her.
“Isadora, you’re coming home. Right this instant.”
Then again . . .
I wave frantically at the short, stocky man with a bushy mustache wheeling in a box. “There! No, not there. There! Under the large light. Yes. And the narrower pedestal goes immediately opposite.”
“Stop ignoring me, young lady!”
“I’m not ignoring you, Mother.” I step aside as they use a dolly to maneuver another huge crate in. “I am, in fact, doing the job you made me take.”
“No. Go back to Sirus’s house right now; he’ll book a flight for you. Today. Immediately.”
I roll my eyes, then shake my head at the poor mover who thought I was annoyed with him. “I’m not coming home today. Why are you freaking out?”
“The dreams changed last night. You were in them again. Something happened, something changed to make the darkness focus on you, too.”
I shudder involuntarily, remembering my own dreams. She is right. Ever since I came here, my dreams have been about her in danger, not me. What changed?
Oh. I’d actually cared this time. I changed. I didn’t stand by and watch my mother get eaten by darkness. But if I admitted to her that I had the same dream, I was admitting that they were real. And I wouldn’t put it past her to get the embassy involved. Send someone to kidnap me and forcibly bring me back. Come here herself. . . .
And there’s another shudder. My mother, here. Talk about a nightmare. “No, Mother, listen.” I weave through the wooden crates and men coming in and out of the room until I get out into the hall to a quiet corner. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About a lot of things. And . . . it’s good for me to be here. I’m not ready to come home yet.”
“I thought you said you were never coming home again,” she says, her voice edged with both anger and sorrow.
“I know. And to be honest, I meant it. But now . . . I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out, and I need time. Plus I have worked my freaking butt off on your exhibit and I am not leaving before I finish. Besides which, no one from Egypt knows where I am—only Sirus does, and you know I’m safe with him. I think I’d be in more of this mysterious danger if we were together. So”—I take a deep breath—“I’m asking you. Please. Let me stay.”
She’s quiet on the other end for a long time. Too long. “I think that’s the first time you’ve sincerely asked me for anything in years.” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, and suddenly it hits me how much the last few years must have hurt her, too.
This is stupid, and hard, and I hate it. I hate Sirus and I hate Ry and I hate having to change and realize that I was wrong. Being wrong sucks. “I know, Mom.”