by Stina Leicht
“Would you like to put your mommy’s flowers in the vase?” Angel asked.
Achebe looked at the stems in her hand. Then she arranged them in with the others.
Luckily, the care center had explained to Achebe that her mother was dead. They’d also told her that Angel was to be her new guardian. Angel wasn’t entirely sure how well Achebe would deal with it. Angel supposed there would be more questions later when Achebe felt more secure. But for now, the burden of discussing death with a seven-year-old had been lifted.
“That looks lovely,” Angel said. “Your mother would be pleased.”
“Would she?” Achebe asked.
“Of course,” Angel said. With that, she finished arranging the round bright red twillow fruits in the stone bowl. Lastly, she lit the incense. Sukyi hadn’t made arrangements for a monk to preside over the ceremony. Whether that’d been because she didn’t think anyone would attend or for some other reason, Angel didn’t know.
She got up off her knees and dusted off her new white slacks. A wisp of incense smoke drifted upward. The scent was musky with a hint of floral. It was made from a local plant that grew wild in the mountains outside Amai-Oka. It reminded her of school and her mother.
She gathered Achebe’s hand once again. Several rows over, another funeral had ended. The attendees were leaving.
“God, Sukyi,” Angel whispered. “I miss you so much. I don’t know how I’m going to do this without you. I don’t know if I can.” She meant Achebe, but Angel didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings. So she’d kept it vague.
Someone drifted closer. She assumed it was one of the other mourners trying to find their way out of the cemetery.
“I should say something profound and thoughtful,” Angel said. “But I’m all out of words.”
“Life is a journey,” the woman standing nearby said. She also was dressed in white. “As the leaf drifts on the breeze. Death is the touch to earth.”
Angel looked up from the grave and blinked in shock. “Mom?”
It’d been years. She’d changed, but in a moment, those changes—the grey in her hair and the odd wrinkle—so strange when Angel had first seen them, became the familiar.
“It’s good to see you, Brina.” Her mother gave her a sad smile. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What are you doing here?” Angel asked, controlling an urge to grab her in a big hug. She didn’t want her mother to get into trouble.
“I thought I’d go for a walk in the cemetery,” her mother said. “There are no rules against that.”
“How did you know I would be here?” Angel asked.
“Niko and I received an invitation to something called an ‘Ikwa ozu.’ The implication was that if we didn’t attend, there would be dire consequences for the deceased. Neither of us can have that on our consciences,” her mother said.
It’s just like Sukyi to pull something like this, Angel thought. The formerly absent tears began to well up in her eyes.
“The message also said something about how I could meet my granddaughter while I was at it.” Her mother stooped and placed both hands on her knees. “Hello, Achebe. I’m your new grandmother. You can call me Nne Nne.”
“Hello,” Achebe said. She scratched her nose.
“I brought you a surprise,” Angel’s mother said. “I thought you could use a friend. Although, you might be too old for it.” She reached inside the bag she was holding and produced a stuffed bear. “It used to belong to my daughter. Now, it’s yours.”
Achebe said, “I’m not too old.”
“You brought Bear-Bear?” Angel asked.
“Don’t worry,” her mother said. “I had her cleaned. And I did some minor repairs. She should hold up for another round of love.”
When Achebe looked to Angel for permission to collect Bear-Bear, she nodded encouragement. Achebe accepted the bear, and for the first time in days, Angel spotted a smile on the child’s face.
“Thanks, Mom,” Angel said.
“Are you free for lunch?” her mother asked.
“We are,” Angel said. “But—”
“I know a great place for curry,” her mother said. “It’s on Gray Street.”
“Same one?” Angel asked.
“Same one,” her mother said.
“What about the school?”
“What about it?”
“I’m not supposed to have any contact with anyone,” Angel said.
“Did the agreement expressly state that?” her mother asked. “I don’t recall.”
“Mother,” Angel said. “You don’t do devious very well.”
“I suppose I’m out of practice,” her mother said. “In that case, let’s go get something to eat before someone notices.” She grabbed her in a tight hug.
When her mother released her, Angel picked up her empty net bag and took Achebe by the hand. She sniffed and wiped the blurriness from her eyes. “All right. But I’m buying.”
“Oh no you’re not.”
“Mother—”
“Don’t you dare take away my chance to spoil my new grandchild,” her mother said.
“Oh, I see how this is,” Angel said.
“You better believe there will be dessert first,” her mother said. “Achebe, how do you feel about chocolate cake?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s true even if it’s a cliché—it takes a small town populated with kind people who possess unique and valuable skills to produce a novel. This one is no different. I’d also like to add that it only takes one person to make the mistakes published in a novel, and that person is definitely me. So I take all the responsibility for those. I did my best, but sometimes your best involves screwing up, because: human. If I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry. I mean it.
Not the part about being human, of course. I like being human. For one thing, it’d be tough to write if I were a cat. They don’t make keyboards for cats, and lacking an opposable thumb would be a bitch when it comes to carrying a laptop into a coffee shop, let alone opening one, much less paying for the coffee.
Right.
First, I’d like to thank Dane Caruthers. I quite honestly would be dead on a street corner if it weren’t for him. I certainly wouldn’t be a published author. They say sense of humor is important in a marriage. For me, I’ve found the full answer to be “… a cute butt, a magical talent for juggling spreadsheets, a shit ton of patience, and a sense of humor.” But hey, your mileage may vary.
Second, I want to thank my agent, Hannah Bowman. She, too, has a great sense of humor and tons of patience. In her case, our relationship is purely platonic, which is a good thing for everyone. Also, she’s a wonderful agent. I can’t say that enough. WONDERFUL AGENT. There. I said it again. I’m terrifically lucky to have her.
As always, a huge thank-you to Joe Monti—editor, friend, and occasional Stina-wrangler. Joe has been in my professional-author life since day one. He’s taught me so much about myself as a writer. He’s a great editor. He gets me even when I don’t get me. He’s a Jedi Master at figuring out the thing I meant to write as opposed to the thing I did write. Great editors are magical. They have faith in you when you need it most and apply liberal quantities of fairy dust to help you fly as a writer. (No. That is not a euphemism for drugs, people. Sheesh.) As you can probably guess, patience and a sense of humor feature in our relationship, too.
Come to think of it, that pretty much counts for anyone who knows me. What can I say? I live in a humor-filled village. Not only does it keep everyone from unraveling like an old sweater, it prevents bodily harm—particularly during a quarantine.
Other fabulous people I’d like to thank are my writing group, aka MANW—Tempest Bradford, Monica Valentinelli, Shveta Thakrar, Alethea Kontis, and Nivair H. Gabriel. (Trust me, patience and humor are definitely involved there.) Ken Liu made me encouraged me to write this book. Thank goodness, because it didn’t kill me was a lot of fun, particularly the parts I don’t hate am proud of. Thanks go out to Dr. Wade Wa
lker, physicist extraordinaire, who loaned me his eyeballs on the science-y parts. (I promise I gave them back—unlike the soul that Robin Todd gave me in exchange for a shot of Irish whiskey. That sucker is still in that Band-Aid tin on my desk, Robin. You’re so never getting that back.) S. L. Huang helped with some mathematical equations, and I may have even (mostly) understood what she said. Charlie Stross also assisted with science questions and gave great advice. Holly Black, thank you for all the encouragement. Jeff Vandermeer, Rebecca Roanhorse, Catherynne Valente, Tobias Buckell, Ian McDonald, and Adrian McKinty for same. Dominick D’aunno let me consult with him about space medicine or medical stuff in space. Either way, thank you so very much. I’m also grateful for Jeremy Brett. He knows why. And an extra special thank-you goes out to Ehigbor Schultz for sensitivity reading. Sukyi wouldn’t be anywhere near as interesting and cool a character without her input. Seriously. THANK YOU.
Some folks who I love and therefore will mention just because: my mom (HI, MOM!); my sister, Cathie; Kari Sperring (spiritual twin); Melissa Tyler (bestie); Mandy Lancaster; and one more shout-out for Carrie Richerson, who told me I should write short stories even though I didn’t want to. May you and Jeep be happy together forever, wherever you both are.
I’m dead certain I’ve forgotten someone. Gods, I hope not.
The Writing the Other workshop was especially helpful. I highly recommend it. Better yet, buy the book (appropriately titled Writing the Other) by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward and take the workshop. Also? Cat Rambo’s mini workshops. Look into them, if writing is your thing.
Lastly, some nonfiction books that were useful: A Crack in Creation by Jennifer A. Doudna and Samuel H. Sternberg, The Age of Living Machines by Susan Hockfield, Neural Networks: An Essential Beginners Guide to Artificial Neural Networks and Their Role in Machine Learning and Artificial Intelligence by Herbert Jones, and Life 3.0 by Max Tegmark.
More from the Author
Blackthorne
Cold Iron
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STINA LEICHT writes science fiction, horror, and fantasy. She was a finalist for the Crawford Award and the Astounding Award for Best New Writer. She has written four fantasy novels: Cold Iron, Blackthorne, Of Blood and Honey, and And Blue Skies from Pain. She also has essays in Women Destroy Science Fiction! and short fiction in Ann and Jeff VanderMeer’s surreal anthology Last Drink Bird Head. Her website is csleicht.com and she can be found on Twitter @StinaLeicht and Facebook.com/Stina.Leicht.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Stina-Leicht
SimonandSchuster.com
SAGAPRESS.COM
Facebook.com/SagaPressBooks
@SagaSFF
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Christina Leicht
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First Saga Press hardcover edition January 2021
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-1-5344-1458-7
ISBN 978-1-5344-1460-0 (ebook)