His radiant eyes dim a little. Not yet. Not until I know you’re okay.
I can hardly breathe. Cancrians believe those who pass on with unsettled souls become constellations in the sky and eventually return to life to complete their unfinished business. Could it be that Stan might come back?
I don’t think so, he says sadly. And yes, I can read your thoughts in here.
I shake my head in utter bewilderment. But then why haven’t you moved on yet?
I think because I can’t let go. Not until I know you’ve got this.
Well I don’t want you to go, so I’ll be a perpetual wreck if that’s what it takes—
Rho. His voice grows parental, and I miss it so much that I’m torn between smiling and crying. Do you remember the story I told you about the girl who was swept away from her planet and landed on a feathery world with a talking bird?
I nod and it doesn’t surprise me he’s brought it up, as I’ve been thinking a lot about that tale.
In the story, little Rho had a choice to be sad about the past or to exist in the present—to smile or frown. It’s the lesson of your favorite Stantonism: Don’t fear what you can’t touch.
It was a na?ve lesson, I can’t help saying.
Then you misunderstood it, he says, and his face is so close that it’s like some new form of torture to be unable to feel him. What little Rho can touch is the grass beneath her feet. What she can’t touch is her home. She’s creating a fear that doesn’t exist—her home is fine without her—and what’s worse is that fear isn’t doing her any good.
He looks so young and healthy, and he sounds so sure of himself that it seems impossible he’s really gone.
When you awoke from the Sumber, he says gently, you couldn’t get past every second of Nishi’s suffering enough to focus on the present. And now, you can’t get over Nishi’s and my passing—but I’m not gone yet, Rho. I continue to exist, but only if you do.
He reaches out with his hand, and I can almost feel his skin stroking my cheek. If you fade, you erase me, too. And Nishi. And Deke. And Dad. But if you let us in and let us become part of your light—if our memory shines through your words and your actions—then you honor us, and we’re not gone. Don’t doom us to the darkness. Bring us into the light with you.
Tears streak down my face, and I’m not sure how much more crying my eyes can take. But what if this conversation is only happening in my head?
It is, and you’re doing it again: You’re looking for reasons to frown instead of smile.
But what if I’m scripting your words even now?
So typical of you to take credit for my brilliance. You can’t let me have anything, can you? Not even this last moment to shine.
I laugh for the first time in months, and the change is startling. The reaction loosens my chest, and it’s only through this flicker of levity that I register the weight of everything I’ve been carrying.
But my relief doesn’t last long because just like when I spoke with Moira, my session in the Psy is cut short as the ground starts shaking.
Stan raises his voice over all the noise. Rho, forget the past for now, and don’t fret about the future! Remember that every second is a choice you make.
I love you so much, Stan! I cry out as his image starts flickering, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m certain I heard him say I love you, too.
? ? ?
I race to the control helm, where Hysan and Mathias are laughing about something. They both grow alert the moment they see me. “What is it?” asks Hysan.
I look from one to the other.
“I’m ready.”
38
I STAND IN THE NOSE, nerves buzzing in my stomach, as Hysan cues up the transmission. He contacted every ship in our fleet so they’ll broadcast my message.
Everyone on ’Nox has gathered around to watch, and even Ophiuchus leaves his Center to be present. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hoping I’ll see Stan behind my eyelids again. But even though he’s not there, I still feel his presence.
Rubi was right. Our brothers never leave us.
I take another moment for myself, and then I open my eyes and nod at Hysan to begin the broadcast.
“I stand before you,” I start, “not as some shining beacon of perfection, but as the most flawed among you.”
I look away from the recording device and let my gaze trail across my friends. “I’ve hurt the people I love most,” I say, gazing from Hysan to Mathias. “I’ve led an armada of Zodai right into the enemy’s hands,” I say, looking into Pandora’s amethyst eyes. “I’ve betrayed my family”—I stare at Mom and Gamba, then Gyzer and Ezra—“and my friends. I fell so far that I even became the monsters I was trying to defeat,” I say, thinking of Corinthe.
“And I broke the Taboo.” My gaze returns to Hysan’s, and he’s watching me with such fierce love in his eyes that I feel my inner flame growing to new heights.
“Yet, whether or not I deserve it, you have all found enough love in your hearts to forgive me, and I’m so grateful. But now I want you to do something infinitely harder—I want you to forgive yourselves.”
I stare into Ophiuchus’s starlit eyes.
“The past is important only insofar as it informs the present—but when memories grow so powerful that they drag us back rather than propel us forward, they’re not worth lugging with us anymore.” Looking into the device again, I speak to the whole fleet. “If you can absolve someone who’s sinned as much as I have, you can absolve yourselves.”
I can’t help pausing and looking at Mom. I think she was right: We’ll never have the mother-daughter relationship I longed for as a child. . . . But I’m no longer that child.
My nest is gone because I don’t need it anymore.
Thanks to Stan, I can fly.
“Leave your guilt and your self-doubt and your fears on these ships,” I say, my voice gathering strength, “because when we land on the Thirteenth House, we can’t carry them with us. For too long we have been leading with our fear and not our faith, because no matter how unfulfilled we feel today, we worry tomorrow could be worse. We are an army of seers, yet we’ve become so blind that none of us knows what tomorrow will bring, or if it will even dawn at all.
“This whole time it’s not the stars who have been our enemies—not even Aquarius or Ophiuchus. It’s been us. The master’s plans only worked because we let them. Our distrust broke our Unity, and then he slipped in through the cracks. And just like in the Libran alphabet story, we were too busy pointing fingers at each other—our fellow letters—to look up and notice the eraser.