She’s walking quickly and I run to catch up, but my short legs won’t cooperate and she’s getting farther ahead. And then I remember that my legs aren’t short anymore, they’re long long long, and I’m not six, and this already happened, but still I can’t run, my muscles won’t cooperate, and the horizons at the edge of my vision are blurring into black, black that is swirling and eating its way toward my mother, beautiful and oblivious to the danger, and she will be swallowed, and I can’t let that happen.

The black seems to laugh at me as it curls past, making me complicit in its work, my inaction enabling its destruction. I am an accomplice and it knows it can count on me to simply watch as my mother is destroyed.

I cannot move.

2

There are as many versions of the myths as there are gods of ancient Egypt.

Amun-Re, king of the gods, had reached his limit with the impudence of humans. Pushed into rage, he called on his Eye to destroy all of humanity. Who was this Eye, capable of ending an entire race? None other than Hathor, who was also Sekhmet, vicious and bloodthirsty goddess of destruction. She killed everything in sight until Amun-Re repented of his wrath. But Hathor-as-Sekhmet could not be stopped. So Amun-Re gathered all the beer in the land and dyed it red, placing it where he knew she’d find it. She was tricked into thinking she’d sated herself on the blood of all the living and fell into a drunken, peaceful stupor.

This is much more like the Hathor I know.

However, this isn’t one of the stories I was raised on. My mother taught me the important ones. Meaning the ones she starred in.

I GROAN, THE SOOTHING FINGERS AT MY temple not soothing in the slightest at this hour. “What time is it?”

“Nearly dawn. I need you to help me with some protection amulets. Get up! Quick as a bunny, Little Heart.”

Quick as a bunny. I’d like to find the bunny that inspired my mother’s favorite saying and skin it alive. I flop over onto my back. My heart settles as I see the constellations mapped out on my ceiling. A few years ago I painted it shimmering black, with twinkle-lit crystals mapping out a chart of the stars on the night I was born. Orion has always been my favorite, right over my bed, watching and protecting me. Sometimes I try to write myself into a constellation, imagine what it would be like to be forever painted across the sky.

I’d be right next to Orion. I smile. I’ve never called him by the Egyptian name for the constellation. It’s one of my few successful rebellions—mostly because my mother doesn’t know about it.

“Isadora . . .” Her voice comes out like a song but my muscles start twitching, trying their hardest to obey her against my will. With a final sigh, I throw back my silver comforter and stumble after Isis.

“Did you have any dreams I should know about?” Her face is clouded with worry, distracted as we wind our way to her wing of the house.

A chill rushes over me as I remember my disturbing dream. I had forgotten the memory of losing that tooth. But it’s better not to feed her groundless dream paranoia. “This time the purple hippos had wings.”

“Hmmm. Were you frightened of them?”

“Only when they told me an evil woman would wake me up before dawn.”

She looks sharply at me. “Really? You saw what would happen?”

I roll my eyes. “No. It’s a joke. Sometimes people tell them to each other.”

“Dreams are not a joking matter, Isadora.”

“Absolutely. Your brain firing off random images while you sleep is dead serious.”

“As long as we are agreed.”

We enter her workshop, the pale-yellow stone walls always cool, the room flickering from candlelight. Our entire house is underground, about a mile from the remains of a temple in Abydos that tourists still visit. Luckily my parents have enough power to keep away unwanted visitors. Even the entrance is invisible unless you belong here. Most gods barely have the mojo left to stay in physical form, but my parents manage to do some small pieces of magic.

I sigh. “Which one are we doing?”

“Luring and protection.”

I heat beeswax over one of the candle flames until it’s liquid, then carefully pour it into the vulture mold. Vultures for protection.

“And the hippo,” Isis says as she lines up the ivory amulets. “I think your dreams were correct.” She places a hand absentmindedly on her stomach.

That’s right. Female hippos for Taweret, goddess of childbirth. Floods, I should have picked a different fake dream. I set the molds to the side, grabbing the jar of golden sweet honey. Isis whispers words, the true names of the gods and goddesses that I’m not allowed to know. The wax hardens quickly, and I pop out the miniature animals, setting them up next to each other on the stone table.

I carefully tip the honey onto the figurines, letting it coat them. Sweetness to lure out evil spirits, then trap them in the protective animals.

Yup. Sure. Beeswax and honey to combat bad dreams. Just some more early-morning mother-daughter bonding time in the House of Life.

Isis finishes whispering names to the ivory pendants, then drapes one around my neck. I clench my jaw, feeling the rough leather cord on my skin, the ivory warmer than it should be. “Do I need one?”

“Of course, my heart.” She drapes another over her own neck, clutching a third in her hand. The wax figures are left where they are. “This should be sufficient. Thank you, Isadora. Don’t be afraid. The baby will be a good thing. It will give us something to do together.” Her voice is odd. Almost . . . vulnerable. And she’s avoiding my eyes.