Wandering Star: A Zodiac Novel

Razorbill, an Imprint of Penguin Random House

Penguin.com

Copyright © 2015 Penguin Random House LLC

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ISBN: 978-0-698-14615-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Para mi abuelo, Berek el Sabio Nunca serás olvidado
For my grandpa, Sage Berek You will never be
forgotten

THE HOUSES OF THE ZODIAC GALAXY

THE FIRST HOUSE:
ARIES,
THE RAM CONSTELLATION

Strength: Military

Guardian: General Eurek

THE SECOND HOUSE:
TAURUS,
THE BULL CONSTELLATION

Strength: Industry

Guardian: Chief Executive Purecell

THE THIRD HOUSE:
GEMINI,
THE DOUBLE CONSTELLATION

Strength: Imagination

Guardians: Twins Caaseum (deceased) and Rubidum

THE FOURTH HOUSE:
CANCER,
THE CRAB CONSTELLATION

Strength: Nurture

Guardian: Holy Mother Agatha (Interim)

THE FIFTH HOUSE:
LEO,
THE LION CONSTELLATION

Strength: Passion

Guardian: Holy Leader Aurelius

THE SIXTH HOUSE:
VIRGO,
THE TRIPLE VIRGIN CONSTELLATION

Strength: Sustenance

Guardian: Empress Moira  (in critical condition)

THE SEVENTH HOUSE:
LIBRA,
THE SCALES OF JUSTICE CONSTELLATION

Strength: Justice

Guardian: Lord Neith

THE EIGHTH HOUSE:
SCORPIO,
THE SCORPION CONSTELLATION

Strength: Innovation

Guardian: Chieftain Skiff

THE NINTH HOUSE:
SAGITTARIUS,
THE ARCHER CONSTELLATION

Strength: Curiosity

Guardian: Guardian Brynda

THE TENTH HOUSE:
CAPRICORN,
THE SEAGOAT CONSTELLATION

Strength: Wisdom

Guardian: Sage Ferez

THE ELEVENTH HOUSE: AQUARIUS,
THE WATER BEARER CONSTELLATION

Strength: Philosophy

Guardian: Supreme Guardian Gortheaux the Thirty-Third

THE TWELFTH HOUSE:
PISCES,
THE FISH CONSTELLATION

Strength: Spirituality

Guardian: Prophet Marinda

THE THIRTEENTH HOUSE: OPHIUCHUS,
THE SERPENT BEARER CONSTELLATION

Strength: Unity

Guardian: Master Ophiuchus

WHEN I THINK OF MOM,
I think of the day she abandoned us. There are dozens of memories that still haunt me, but that one always shoves its way to the surface first, submerging all other thoughts with its power.

I remember knowing something was wrong when Helios’s rays—and not Mom’s whistle—roused me. Every day, I’d awoken to the low-pitched call of the black seashell Dad had found for Mom on their first date; she kept it buried in her hair, pinning up her long locks, and plucked it out only for our daily drills.

But this morning dawned unannounced. I clambered out of bed, changed into my school uniform, and searched the bungalow for my parents.

The first person I spotted was Stanton. He was in his room across the hall, one side of his face glued to the wall. “Why are you—?”

“Shhh.”
He pointed to the crack in the sand-and-seashell wall through which he could listen into our parents’ room. “Something’s up,” he mouthed.

I dutifully froze and awaited my big brother’s next cue. Stanton was ten, so he attended school on a pod city with our neighbor, Jewel Belger. Her mom would arrive any moment to pick him up, and Stanton was still in his nightclothes.

The seconds of silence were agony, during which I imagined every possible scenario, from Mom being diagnosed with a deadly disease to Dad discovering a priceless pearl that would make us rich. When at last Stan backed away from the crack, he pulled me into the hallway with him right as Mom barreled out from her bedroom.

“Stanton, come with me, please,” she said as she strode past. Lately whenever she and Dad fought, she sought solace in my brother. He eagerly bounded behind her, and though I longed to follow, I knew she wouldn’t approve. If she wanted me there, she would have said so.

I looked out through one of the bungalow’s many windows as Mom led Stan into the crystal reading room Dad had built for her on the banks of the inner lagoon near his nar-clams; a miniature version of the crystal dome on Elara, it fit three people at most. I’d watch Mom go in there every night, her figure blurring into misty shadow behind the thick walls as she read her Ephemeris in the starlight.

A small schooner pulled up to our dock, and Jewel jumped out, her frizzy curls blowing in the salty breeze. As she ran to our front door, Dad’s footsteps slapped down the stairs to meet her. I padded softly after him and hung on the staircase landing to listen.

Dad traded the hand touch with Jewel and waved to Mrs. Belger in the distance. “Stan isn’t going in today,” he said as Mrs. Belger honked back a greeting from her schooner.

“Oh,” said Jewel, sounding supremely disappointed. “Is he sick?”

I crept out a little farther from behind the banister, and Jewel’s piercing periwinkle eyes flashed to me. Her chestnut cheeks darkened, and she looked away, either from shyness or to keep Dad from noticing I was there.

“A little,” said Dad.

I nearly gasped in shock—I’d never heard one of my parents tell a lie before. Cancrians don’t deceive.

“Can I . . . can you tell him I hope he gets better?”

I stared at the back of Dad’s prematurely balding head as he nodded. “I will. Have a good day at school, Jewel.” As he waved again to Mrs. Belger, I soundlessly slipped behind him and went out a side door.

Tracing the outer walls of our bungalow, I found Jewel waiting for me by a small pond of water lilies that Mom tended to so much, she always smelled of them.

“Is Stanton okay?” she blurted as I came closer. Her skin flushed darker in embarrassment again.

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging.

“He told me your parents are fighting a lot. . . .” She let her sentence hang gently between us, an invitation to talk to her as a friend, even though I was only seven and she was Stanton’s age. Her attention made me feel important, so I wanted to share something special—a
secret
.

“Stanton’s not really sick. He’s with my mom. She and my dad just fought.”

This seemed to mean more to Jewel than me, because her chestnut features pulled together with concern, and she said, “I don’t think it’s good for him . . . being brought into their arguments. I think it’s making him old.”

Then she ran off to her mom’s schooner, and as they sailed away, Jewel’s face pressed into the glass window, staring back longingly at our bungalow. Her words worried me, even if I didn’t fully get their meaning, and I looked toward the crystal reading room, wondering.

I found myself moving closer to the place, the thick sparkly walls reflecting me in the sunlight instead of illuminating what was going on inside. I edged around it, careful to stay low in case Mom or Stanton looked out, and then I peeked in, cupping my eyes and squinting so I could see.

Stanton had just received his first Wave at school, and he was sitting on the reading room’s floor, recording information into it. Mom had switched on her Ephemeris, and she was orbiting the space while rattling words off to Stanton, words I couldn’t hear.

I took a chance and opened the door a crack, as slowly and carefully as possible.

“After you’ve cleaned the three changelings, toss them on the griller with a sprinkling of sea salt and sweet-water honeysuckles from the garden. I think that should be plenty of recipes. Let’s move on to Rho’s morning drills.”

“Mom, but
why
are you telling me this?” Stanton spoke in the whiny tone of repetition. Even though he sounded unhappy, his fingers obediently ticked away on his Wave’s holographic screen, logging the information.

“I like to wake Rho three hours early with rapid-fire drills about the Houses,” continued Mom, as though Stanton hadn’t interrupted. “After cycling through all twelve Yarrot poses, she must Center herself and commune with the stars for at least one hour—”

Mom stopped speaking suddenly, and every molecule of my being liquefied beneath her glacial glare. Through the sliver of a gap in the doorway, she was staring straight at me.

The door swept inward, and I nearly fell inside. Scrambling upright, I snuck a quick glance at my brother, who was looking from Mom to me with bated breath. I braced myself for Mom’s fury at my eavesdropping—only she didn’t look upset.

“You should be on your way to class, Rho.” She searched behind me for a sign of Dad. I turned, too, but he was still inside the bungalow. When I looked back at Mom, she wore the same intense stare I’d seen on her face a week ago, when she warned me my fears were real.

They certainly felt real in that moment. Every fearful possibility I’d dreaded earlier swam in my head once more, and I wondered what could have made Mom decide to dictate the details of her daily life to Stanton. Something was happening—something awful. My gut churned and sizzled, like I’d eaten too much sugared seaweed at once, and I couldn’t stand the not-knowing.

Mom reached out and caressed my face, her touch more whisper than words. “Your teachers are wrong, you know.” It was one of her favorite phrases. “There aren’t twelve types of people in the universe—there are two.” She stared at the pearl necklace on my chest, which I hadn’t taken off all week. Cancer’s pearl wasn’t centered, but for the first time, she didn’t reach out to adjust it. “The ones that stand still and try to fit in . . . and the ones that go seek out where they belong.”

That’s the last thing my mother ever said to me. When Dad sailed me to school that morning on the Strider—late—neither of us knew he would return to find Mom gone.

Dad lived life mostly inside his head, so he wasn’t a big talker. But that morning he broke our usual silence by saying, “Rho . . . your mom and I love you very much. If we argue, it has nothing to do with you or your brother. You know that?”

I nodded. He was speaking softly, in the comforting tone he always adopted post-fight. So I took a chance. “Dad . . . why did you lie to Jewel? What’s really happening with Stanton and Mom?”

I could see from Dad’s face he would rather not answer, but he was always more forthcoming post-fight. With a slight sigh, he said, “I shouldn’t have lied, Rho. I’m sorry you heard that. I’m also sorry I can’t give you an answer, because I don’t have one. You know how your mom is . . . she’s having a spell. She’ll be fine when you get home.”

It was then I understood what Jewel meant about too much information making someone old. I wanted to believe Dad—to push off the doubt and worry and the queasiness in my stomach that still hadn’t gone away. But the absence of the black seashell’s song that morning felt more like an omen.

Mom was right.

(She usually was.)

Fears are real.