Right on cue, the sound of approaching footsteps reaches my ears: a slow and deliberate tapping, not heavy enough to be the twins and not rapid enough to be Lyre. I wipe my eyes again, willing myself to get my emotions under control before she gets here. I can’t let Momma know I viewed that transmission before she restricted access to it. She’s going to be pissed off enough about the rough landing, and I have no idea what viewing the message from Corvus will do to her mood.

Preoccupied with that, I almost forget the bottle of whiskey I was sipping in orbit. I glance around, hoping to hide it in the last seconds before Momma arrives, and curse as I see its shards scattered all over the cockpit floor. No wonder the smell is so intense in here—and that was my last bottle of my favorite Devan corn whiskey. I scramble to slide the glass into a corner with one boot but freeze as the metal door screeches open.

My mother’s lined face is suited to scowling. Her hair and clothing are mussed, and there’s a red mark on the olive skin of her forehead from one of the safety straps, but none of it softens her severity. If she was affected by Corvus’s transmission, she doesn’t show it.

She stands in the doorway, arms folded over her chest, and gives a loud, distinct sniff. I glance again at the whiskey and glass coating the floor and bite the inside of my cheek. Momma suspecting I peeked at that transmission is the least of my concerns right now.

“What the hell kind of landing was that?” Momma asks after a long silence, her sharp brown eyes shifting to me. “You trying to break my ship? Or just the cargo? You know those plants are delicate.” I bite my tongue to keep from spewing something that’ll earn me a slap. My mother steps closer and sniffs again. “You been drinking behind the wheel?”

“Of course not,” I say, rising to meet her. “Captain,” I amend, and stumble across the slanted floor. The world lurches around me, and I grab onto my chair for support, well aware that this isn’t helping my argument. “I had the bottle waiting, was gonna celebrate when we landed,” I lie once I steady myself. “But it broke when things got rough.”

My mother’s expression doesn’t change. I release the chair once I’m confident I can keep my feet. I’m a head taller than her, long and lanky while she’s short and solid, but my shoulders slump as if in desire to make myself smaller than her. I fold my arms across my chest, realize I’m mirroring her posture, and uncross them again.