Page 155 of The Mortal Trials

All we have of her now are the things she left behind. Her bedroom has become a mausoleum filled with memories and moments. Like the quilt Abuela made from scraps of her clothing, and the horrible drawings she displayed of the places in Olympus she loved most. There are her scribbled notes and the pens she wrote them with, as well as the cherished, secret things she kept in her top drawer.

My brother’s stare flicks to her chair for only a second before he turns his attention back to his breakfast. He never lets himself remember her for long. He says I dwell on her enough for us all.

Abuela pours his tea as he takes a bite of egg.

He croaks a thanks, then takes the last sugar cube and drops it into the steaming cup with a plunk.

My patience with him frays.

His spoon hits the sides of his cup as he stirs.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

I seethe. When did he become such a skilled liar? How can he act like he’s not about to ruin his life? What about his apprenticeship? All the hours he’s dedicated to it? And now he’s just going to throw it all away?

He sees me watching him. Notices the tight grip on my cup.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks with a scowl.

What’s wrong with me?

The thread tempering my anger snaps. I’ll tell him what’s wrong with me. Better yet, I’ll show him.

I scoot my chair back and brace a hand against the table to stand, my metal knee joint grating.

Abuela stiffens and says my name in a tone that, once again, asks if I’m alright.

No.

I’m not!

“I saved some oil for you. I can get it,” she tells me, twisting in her seat, desperately glancing toward the counter. But this isn’t about oil. Or my pitiful prosthesis.

It’s not about me. Or Carina. Or her ever-present absence.

It’s about Cillian and the trouble he’s gotten himself into, and whether I’ll be able to pull him out of the mire. This time, it’s not a trio of troublemaking boys I’ll be extricating him from, but the hands of the gods themselves.

I put my hand on her shoulder as I limp around the table and start down the hall. My joint screeches with every other step, drowning the trilling birdsong.

I want my brother to look me in the eye and tell me where he’s going and why before he leaves and never comes back.

I fight the ache in my chest and the urge to scream as I veer into his bedroom and grab the three sets of silver pleated robes I found last night – hidden beneath a gods damned mirror, of all things.

As I turn to leave his room, my knee’s hinge threatens to lock, thirsty for the thicker grease I can’t afford. Abuela’s watery cooking oil only helps so much. I push forward, metal grating on metal, and limp back through the arched doorway.

The second Cillian sees what I’m carrying, he mutters a curse and slumps back into his seat.

Abuela swats him for his language before realizing what I’m holding. “Cillian,” she breathes, her eyes wide. “No.”

He cranes his head to the ceiling.

The dam of betrayal, fear, and anger breaks inside me. “You want to be like her? Her footsteps aren’t worth walking in!”