Before anyone can notice my consternation, I stand and gather as many dirty plates as I can to bring to the sink. Scorpia jumps up from her seat and accompanies me, bumping a shoulder against mine.

“Cheer up before Drom throws another potato at you,” she murmurs. When I give no response, she asks more loudly, “Who’s ready for some dice?”

“Hell yeah,” Drom cheers from the table. I grimace. As eager as I was to have some family time earlier, at this point I’m feeling drained enough. I forgot how it gets here—too loud to think. And I have a lot to think about before we arrive on Nibiru.

“Maybe not tonight,” I say. “I’m tired.”

“Corvus!” I don’t notice Lyre beside me until she speaks, frowning as she lets her plate clatter into the sink. “You promised.”

I sigh. I never have been able to say no to her pouting face.

“Fine. As long as I don’t have to do the dishes.”

Lyre rushes to help, enlisting a grumbling Drom, while Scorpia darts off to find the dice bag. I move around to the other side of the counter and lean against it, trying to work up the energy for the game. After a moment, Shey comes to my side.

“Dice?” she asks.

“Gambling.” I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone her, so I keep my answer crisp.

“Ah. That’s illegal on Gaia.”

“Of course it is.”

Silence falls. Shey laces her fingers in front of her, looking as uncomfortable as I feel. But there’s no easy way to disengage from a conversation when we’re both waiting for Scorpia’s return. Shey hesitates, glancing up at me.

“Corvus,” she says, and I grimace at her serious tone. This is exactly what I’ve been wanting to avoid with her. I don’t want empty apologies from a woman who contributed to the destruction of my home-planet, the daughter of our enemy, who very well may be our enemy herself. “I wanted to say—”

“Don’t bother,” I say flatly, and she pauses, face reddening. I expect her to shut up, but instead she continues, more firmly.

“I hope you know that I had no idea what my mother was doing, and I never would have made the same choice. Regardless, I’m sorry about what happened on your home-planet.” When I say nothing, she frowns. “If guilt is hereditary, then I suppose we both share the blame.”

I turn to face her then, holding her gaze, my grip on the counter tightening enough that my knuckles turn white. Regardless, she lifts her chin and doesn’t look away.

“At least I don’t pretend otherwise,” I say, my voice soft despite my anger. I don’t want the others overhearing this, but it needs to be said. “I’m trying to make up for her mistakes.”