Second paragraph of third chapter:

My sister cried. My sister rarely cried; I was the one who sat and screamed over every scraped knee and torn skirt, the one who our father fluttered to and swept up in his arms and kissed on the head and called mia Gracino and mia trezoro and mia karulino in the Malisintian tongue of our ancestor, taking little notice of the fact that despite all my howling, my eyes were always dry. But on the day we left for Ceiao my sister had wept at the runway in the harbor as the ship heat curled up around our feet, face red and silent, her mouth a fiat line and her eyes so hot on me that I was afraid my hair would burn.

Yet another space operatic tale of dynastic politics witha same-sex romance twist. Maybe I was just in a bad mood, but I stopped after a hundred pages with the feeling that nothing new was going to happen. You can get it here.