Starglass

vocation, my job—the job they had given me. And they wouldn’t even let me do it.

Finally your father intervened. He started a petition. Staged protests. Soon citizens were visiting us to speak of the animals they’d left behind. They were so lonely without little Barney, without Sampson, without Tilly, that good old mutt.

Daughter, you might scoff. It may seem like such a minor thing to you. Pets. At first the Council thought so too. Until we stormed the Council antechamber with our demands.

Only then did they give in. Of course, even then they insisted that these creatures be useful in other ways—pest control.

At long last we awoke fat calicos. Rat terriers. Dachshunds. Companions. Creatures we could care for and care about. Creatures that would depend on us and give us something to look forward to on every new, dark, stifling morning.

Daughter, heed my warning when I say this: Don’t trust the Council.

Every comfort you’ve had was one for which we had to fight—even Alfalfa, your yellow dog who curled at the foot of your bed every night until he was old and gray-muzzled. If the Council had their way, we would live a life of bread and water and nothing else. They’ll tell you that they have your best interests at heart. I’ve come to suspect that they truly believe this. They can lie to themselves. Please, daughter, don’t let them lie to you.

PART THREE ARRIVAL

DEEP WINTER, 6 WEEKS TILL LANDING 21

I slept on the floor in Mara’s daughter’s room. Her name was Artemis and she was only eight, and she talked in her sleep every single night, calling out for her mother, who never came to comfort her. Pepper was able to sleep through it, but I never could. I stared up at the ceiling, counting my breaths up through the thousands. There was no one left for me to call for.

In the morning I ate breakfast with them. Mara’s husband, Benton, was a dark-skinned man with bone- white hair, and he read books every morning at the table through a pair of tiny spectacles. Artemis was more like him than like Mara—dark and soft-spoken and polite and largely distracted. But Apollo, who had just been bar mitzvahed, was cut from the same cheap cloth as his mother. At the rare times I tried to speak to him, he’d just roll his pale eyes or let out exasperated syllables. Once his father chastised him when the boy called me “a speck-brained fool.” Mara smiled wryly at that, even as she let her husband scold him.

It was the only time I ever saw her look pleased to be a mother. After scarfing down her breakfast, she’d leave her dishes steeping in the gray water for her husband to wash, and rush off to work before I’d even finished my coffee.

That didn’t matter, though, because I’d stopped going to work when my father died. I didn’t ask to play hooky, and Mara didn’t offer. It just happened. Every day she rushed off. Benton bundled up his kids and then went to work himself. He was a fieldworker. I couldn’t believe that. The Council had paired Mara Stone with a farmer. I was left alone to consider that every morning at their kitchen table.

I developed a kind of routine. After breakfast I fed Pepper. Then I’d go up to Artemis’s room and curl up on my sleeping roll. I wouldn’t shower; I almost never changed my clothes. I’d take the ancient journal from my basket of belongings, clutch it against my body, and sleep.

I hoped to dream of Momma. I wanted her to take me by the hand, walk with me through the dome, and tell me what to do now that I was alone. I wanted her to give me answers: Why had my father taken his life? What had she been doing with the Children of Abel?

She never came. Instead I would be plunged into whiteout storms, the snow piling deep and burning cold around my bare knees. My dreams always started the same way: I’d stumble forward barefoot, lost, the wind doing a fickle dance around me. And then, just as I was sure I’d be swallowed up, a hand would reach out, grasp mine, and pull me forward. Lips would meet lips, and it was summer inside me, the smell of clover and magnolia sticky on the air. In my dreams we burned the winter away.

I woke only when Artemis stumbled into her room after school to put away her bag.

“Oh,” she’d say, giving me a polite smile as she ducked out. “Sorry.”

But there were other days. Dark days. Days when I couldn’t sleep, much less escape into dreams. I’d leave that ancient book sitting on the floor, and let Pepper sit on the pages, and wheeze out tears. There were no kisses. There was no love. There wasn’t even snow. All that was left was me, and I was alone.

On those days, on those low, dark days, Artemis would open her door, hear my sobs, and let it shut again, leaving me to my pain.

* * *

One afternoon Mara came home early.

I didn’t hear her come in. It was one of my good days, and I’d been dozing, flashes of lilac and fuchsia exploding beneath my eyelids. Mara grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. I let out a cry. The space inside my covers was warm and welcoming, while both the air outside and Mara’s grimace seemed dangerously cold.

“No,” she said, gripping my shoulders, pulling at the fabric of my shirt. “Wake up, Terra.”

I tugged the blanket over my head. But Mara just snatched it down.

“Hey!” I whined. I tried to wrestle the blanket from her clutches. But she held on tight. At last I sat up, staring at her. “What do you want, Mara?”

“It’s time for you to get up.”

“My father died.” I spat the words at her like they were made of acid. But she didn’t even flinch.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s time for you to get up and tend to your duties. It’s been two weeks. You have work to do.” When I didn’t answer, crossing my arms square across my chest, she gritted her teeth.

“What’s that term your father was so fond of, girl? Mitzvah?”

I could feel it, how my gaze flickered when she said it, how tears suddenly stung my eyes. But I didn’t want to give in. I couldn’t! I couldn’t imagine going out there and facing the light of day. “What good works can I possibly owe the people on the ship?” I asked through my scowl. “Why should I help them fix the whole damned universe? What did they do to stop my father from—”

I stopped midsentence, unable to make the words move past my mouth. For a moment, too long a moment, I sat slack-jawed. Then I found myself bringing my hand to my cheek and smearing away a long stream of tears.

“Oh, Terra,” Mara said, tipping her head to one side. I hadn’t wanted to do this in front of Mara. So far, other than that the first night, I hadn’t. But here I was now, weeping openly while she forced a smile of sympathy across her sour mouth.

“I don’t know why it happened to him,” I said at last. “And Momma. I don’t know why. No one else’s parents . . . It’s not supposed to happen here. Every other family is just perfect. A mother. A father. Two kids. Even your family. But he . . .” I sucked in a sharp breath.

“You know, Terra,” she began, speaking slowly. “The founders of our society were very careful to control for certain things. So you’re right. What you’ve faced in life is rare—in our entire history few Asherati have ever had one parent struck down before they’ve reached marrying age, much less two. But no matter how carefully the original passengers were selected for resilience, no matter how many counseling sessions I’m sure they made your father attend after your mother’s death, you can’t control for sadness, not totally. You can’t control for grief.”