Farian’s quick to move aside, and quick to laugh obnoxiously, as my entire family shouts “Surprise!” at me. Uncles are crowding the back walls and cousins are darting between legs. My mother’s smiling at the center of the group like she’s done something wonderful. I consider running, but Farian’s planted himself across my escape route, and he laughs again when he realizes my first instinct was to bolt.

“They planned this for you,” he says, nudging me forward.

“You’re a dead man,” I whisper back.

But I turn a blushing smile on my family so they know their surprise worked. The chaos spins back to life as half the uncles take my entrance as a sign the drinking can commence. I watch them race across the room to Amaya, elbowing each other out of the way, ordering their favorite whiskies. Dividian music dances from the far end of the room. I grin wildly at the sight of my cousin Luca, strumming his guitar and nodding along with the notes. His family lives all the way out in the Gravitas Mountains. It probably took them a few days to get here.

The first person to come vaulting in my direction is my little brother, Prosper. He barrels into my legs, wrapping his arms around me and smiling up. We’ve got the same round face, the same slight brows, but Prosper’s eyes are a deeper, darker shade of green. He’s only eight, but it seems like he shoots up an inch or two every few weeks. I sweep the hair from his forehead and lean down, planting a little kiss there.

“Prosper, did you get another haircut?”

He’s glad I noticed. “It’s the new style, Imelda! I used my money for it.”

“Such a fashion icon,” I reply. “Come on, let’s thank Mother for this lovely surprise.”

He grins even wider. “You’re totally mad, aren’t you? I told her you would be. You hate surprises, and birthdays, and parties. But wait until you see the three-fires cake she made for you. And someone from the mountains brought actual dreamnots, Imelda! Oh, and you’ll get presents, too, you know? So it can’t be that bad!”

“I know, I know,” I say, messing with his hair. “Come on.”

Mother and Father are waiting for us. He sits, wearing the day on his shoulders, both elbows planted on the table like they’ve been hammered down for good. She stands unbent at his side. As we cross the room, and as I kiss their cheeks, I realize this is the only image I’ve ever known of them. My mother like the moon, bright and beautiful. My father like the stars, scattered in the dark backdrop of her radiance. Always so different, always inseparable.