“Hey, I am an actual rider.”
He ignores me. “Most of the views are from Furia, obviously, but we’ve got people from every corner of the Empire watching. Someone even interviewed Martial this morning.”
Farian pulls the video onto his screen. The old Dividian victor stands with some self-styled Ashlord princess of a reporter. She’s got the dark eyes and those impossible collarbones, skin as rusty as a sunset. I was born knowing my place in the world was beneath people like her. It’s easier to convince myself that’s the truth when all of them look like timeless beauties.
“So tell us about the Alchemist. Is she the real deal, or was this video a fluke?”
Martial grins, and for a second it’s like he’s looking directly through the camera at me.
“Fluke? Only fluke is how long it took the world to notice her,” he says. “There’s no one with her arsenal of rebirths. She knows more mixes than I ever did when I won the Races. And that video shows she can ride. If she’d grown up with her own phoenix, she’d be the favorite to win this year. But now she’s gotta hope she gets picked out of thousands just to get a shot? You want to talk about flukes, that’s the fluke.”
The reporter signs off, smiling one of those classic Ashlord smiles, and I’m left shifting uncomfortably in my chair. Farian glances over, but he knows better than to say what’s on his mind. He and Martial want to build me up, tell me I’ve got a chance. The views are a good thing, the money even better. But I’m not going to jump off a cliff just because they say I can fly.
“Let’s take another look at the auction,” I suggest quietly.
For the next few hours, it’s all business. I read through comments and articles, trying to ignore the growing dread I have over being so centered in the spotlight. Farian’s wrong. This video isn’t going away. Our auction adds another three thousand legions to our account, and now we’re looking at enough money to cover a year at a tech university for Farian, not to mention new saddles for me. It’s more money than we’ve seen in our entire lives.
The sky is almost dark as we pack up to leave. Farian stops me at the back door.
“Amaya wanted us to lock it,” he says. “Go out the front.”
I nod absently. “She did?”
He bolts the back door, shoulders his bag, and leads me past the hubs. I’m still caught up in thoughts of fame, in the words of Martial’s interview, when Farian shoulders our way into the bar area. The lights are all on and overly bright, but it’s the explosion of sound that ends me.
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.
“I know,” my mother starts in. “You hate birthdays, but not having a party wasn’t an option, Imelda. Look how happy everyone is. Look how loved you are. Why not try some cake?”
Smiling, my father offers me a plate. I wink at him before taking a bite. My mother has her faults, but cooking isn’t one of them. Her rendition of the traditional three-fires cake has my feet lifting off the ground. The smoked caramel, the roasted chocolate, the burned creams. She powders her version with enough fire dust to have me sweating.
“Why is it so good?” I say, taking an even bigger bite.
“Glad you like it,” she says. “And I’m glad you’re alive to taste it. I’m still having nightmares about that horrendous video. I’m not sure how many more birthdays I’ll get to celebrate with you. Makes me glad we’ve thrown a proper party to celebrate you before you go off and try another stunt like that.”
Father sees an opening. “Can’t believe you stuck the landing.”
We share a grin before Mother can swat away the fun.
“Don’t encourage her.” She uses her glass to gesture at the swirl of bodies all around. “Say hello to everyone, please. Especially the mountain Berus. Their crew traveled through the night to get here. Poor Ismay. And don’t forget to give your great-aunt a kiss.”
Father glances in my aunt’s direction. “Just remember to check a mirror if she decides to kiss back. What shade of lipstick is that anyway? Turquoise?”
“Just thank her,” Mother repeats. “Go on. And do make sure you say hello to the gentlemen at that last table, in the corner. We saw them on our way over and couldn’t resist inviting them. You know them from school, don’t you?”