Rosario had a limited frame of reference for aunts, especially goddess aunts. She'd wondered whether Clio would be anything like Thalia, who'd come bounding up to them on Lyra's birthday in an eager tumble of rainbow skirts and dinosaur jewellery and had refused to let them pay for drinks the rest of the night. She'd wondered whether Clio would be anything like Patrick, who called her his best friend, or like Apollo, who was, after all, her brother. She hadn't expected to be reminded, of all people, of her grandmother.
But what Clio was saying, Rosario realised, it carried a familiar echo. How would you like it, Abuela was always saying, if someone decided you were too much work? Abuela knew what that felt like. She'd lost her husband because the emergency room had decided he was an inconvenience. She'd survived, a widowed mother with barely any English and even less money in her pocket, because of the kindness of friends and neighbours. She knew what it was like to be saved by love, too. Abuela's philosophy was simple but impossible to budge: if you can do something, you do.
Rosario's brow creases as the thought sank in, and she finally sank her fork into the cake. "Must be frustrating," she said after a moment. "Watching all of us make the same stupid mistakes over and over again. Not learning from history."