The Tyrant's Tomb

rose petals in her wake as she twirled and pirouetted. Truth be told,
Terpsichore had never been my favorite of the Nine Muses. She tended to
take the spotlight off me, where it rightly belonged.
“She had your color hair,” I ventured.
“Pink?”
“No, I mean…dark. Lots of nervous energy, I suppose, like you. She was
never happy unless she was moving, but…”
My voice died. What could I say that wouldn’t sound mean? Terpsichore
was graceful and poised and didn’t look like a wobbly giraffe? Was Lavinia
sure there hadn’t been some mistake about her parentage? Because I couldn’t
believe they were related.
“But what?” she pressed.
“Nothing. Hard to remember.”
Down at the rostrum, Reyna was calling the meeting to order. “Everyone,
if you’ll please take your seats! We need to get started. Dakota, can you
scoot in a little to make room for—Thanks.”
Lavinia regarded me skeptically. “That’s the lamest dirt ever. If you can’t
tell me about my mom, at least tell me what’s going on with you and Ms.
Praetor down there.”
I squirmed. The bench suddenly felt a great deal harder under my clunis.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Oh, please. The way you’ve been sneaking glances at Reyna since you
got here? I noticed it. Meg noticed.”
“I noticed,” Meg confirmed.
“Even Frank Zhang noticed.” Lavinia turned up her palms as if she’d just
provided the ultimate proof of complete obviousness.
Reyna began to address the crowd: “Senators, guests, we have called this
emergency meeting to discuss—”
“Honestly,” I whispered to Lavinia, “it’s awkward. You wouldn’t
understand.”
She snorted. “Awkward is telling your rabbi that Daniella Bernstein is
going to be your date for your bat mitzvah party. Or telling your dad that the
only dancing you want to do is tap, so you’re not going to carry on the
Asimov family tradition. I know all about awkward.”
Reyna continued, “In light of Jason Grace’s ultimate sacrifice, and our
own recent battle against the undead, we have to take very seriously the
threat—”