“Yes.”

There really is something off about her voice, though. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. Things feel different with this baby. Off. I wish you could come home and help me. But the dreams haven’t stopped, and I won’t place you back in harm’s way.”

I want to be annoyed at her for calling to make me feel guilty, but I really never have heard her sound like this. “What about Osiris? He needs to do more for you. And you should call your sister.” Nephthys helped me out, and I think she knows most of the spells and charms my mother does.

“She’s already here. She’s been a great comfort and help, unlike Hathor, who won’t even let Horus visit. She has been acting very strange lately.”

“Well, I’m glad Nephthys is there. You’re going to be fine. Right?”

“Oh, I am sure I will be. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

She’s a goddess. How could I worry about her? I don’t like hearing her sound so . . . normal, though. And I can’t help but remember the twisted memories I’ve been dreaming, what happens to her in them. But no. She’s immortal.

I’ve never seen her pregnant, is all. This must be business as usual. “Have Nephthys make you some of that honey tea. We still have all of the stuff in the pantry. I’ll email you tonight, okay?”

“Okay. Good-bye, Little Heart.”

“Bye.” I slide the phone shut and sigh. I don’t need to worry about her. She’s a goddess. Her goddess sister is there helping her out.

“Everything okay?” Ry asks.

“It’s fine.”

He gives me this look that says he knows it’s not and he wishes I’d tell him why. Then it relaxes and he leans back, a cocky smile on his face. “I know what you need. Come on.” He takes my trash and throws it away, then we walk back along the harbor, lined on one side by old, slimy-green overgrown concrete holding back the water, and on the other by old, not-slimy people selling all manner of nonsense, mostly revolving around the idea that tie-dye is an acceptable vacation purchase. A massive aircraft carrier looms above us like a floating skyscraper. A few other ships bob gently just out of reach, all museums now, and then we come to a dark, weathered-wood restaurant built into the pier out over the water. It is positively crawling with people.

“Good food? I’m pretty full.”

“Wait right here,” Ry cautions solemnly.

Folding my arms and giving him a pointed look meant to let him know that I am nothing if not impatient, I turn and watch as bike taxis pedal by, their drivers chatting to each other in Eastern languages, mostly complaining about the heat that day and the customers who don’t tip.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I hold back a sigh as I pull it out, expecting my mother again. Instead it’s a text from Tyler, asking if we’re still on for a movie night tonight. I even manage to punctuate everything correctly as I tell her yes, and I’m excited to see her. We’re still waiting on approval for the museum room, and our shifts haven’t been matching up as often. I finish the text right when Ry comes out holding two cups.

“So,” he says, beaming, “which flavor do you want? Bright-blue sugar, or bright-orange sugar? They had pink-sugar flavor, too, but it didn’t strike me as your style.”

I reach for the cup full of blue stuff. My fingers brush his and it makes me feel so strange I almost spill the cup yanking it back. “What are these?”

“You’ve never had a slushie?”

“Nope.”

“Pretty much the best thing in creation. Take a sip. Go on.”

I do, and tiny pieces of flavored ice run along my tongue and coat my throat with freezing sweetness until they settle in my stomach with an odd, burning sort of cold. I laugh, delighted. It was all I could do to persuade Isis to let me get a fridge and freezer for the kitchen when I redid it. She’s still convinced that eating things colder than room temperature makes you sick. Ice was always out of the question. “This is my mother’s worst nightmare! I’m drinking freezing-cold sugar and I’m with a Greek boy!”

Ry’s face lights up, and we walk in companionable brain freeze along the harbor toward where he parked a few blocks away.

“Oh, hey!” He stops and pulls out his phone, then stands next to me and holds it away from us. “Stick out your tongue.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking our picture!”

“Why?”

“Clearly you are not on Facebook. This is what teenagers are supposed to do. We take pictures of ourselves.”

“That’s . . . fun?”

He laughs. “Just stick out your tongue.”

Raising an eyebrow suspiciously at him, I do as I’m told, to see that my tongue is an unnatural shade of blue. He leans into me holding the camera out at arm’s length and takes a picture of us sticking out our flavored-sugar tongues. He brings it back and shows me the picture and . . .

I look so happy. It’s almost startling; I haven’t seen many pictures of myself recently, but in the ones I have seen, I look . . . ah, floods, Tyler’s right. I usually look angry. And if I look happy in this pictures, Ry looks like a constellation of joy.

“Want me to send it to you?” he asks, and I nod. He taps fluidly on his phone and I take the opportunity to walk a couple steps away from where our shoulders were brushing. “Oh, hey, that’s right. Tyler wants to do movies tonight.” He looks up expectantly, and his face is so open and happy that it hurts.