“Dujia is what you call Gwyrach?”
“Shh!” Sach’a lowered her voice. “You can’t say that word. We’re not demons. Not here.”
Mia made a mental note. “But what does that mean for Quin? He’s not strictly my husband, and . . .” She turned and blinked at the empty space beside her. She’d lost him again.
“Quin?”
She pivoted and saw him peering into the Blue Phoenix, transfixed, holding a forgotten bird leg in each hand. When he saw her, he straightened.
“Sorry,” he said, rushing to catch up. For a boy surrounded by a village of Gwyrach, he was remarkably unruffled. Before she could ask what he’d been so mesmerized by in the tavern, he said to Sach’a, “This meat is delicious. I think it’s the best I’ve ever had.”
She smiled with pleasure. “It ought to be. When you kill an animal with violence, the fear toughens and spoils the flesh. A terrified beast will always produce inferior meat. A creature killed with magic dies a peaceable death. It never feels fear.”
Mia had trouble parsing her words. Magic as an act of mercy? Yet another lie debunked: her books had failed to mention a Gwyrach could use magic as a way to make death less painful.
“Here. You should eat.” Quin tried again to give her the second roasted leg, and this time she accepted. She took a small bite and had to agree; the meat was succulent and sweet.
“I didn’t know turkey could taste this good.”
“Actually,” Sach’a said, “it’s swan.”
Mia choked. All she could see was her sister’s angelic face as their mother braided her strawberry hair. Angie, my little swan.
“You know, I’m not actually that hungry,” she said. Quin happily swooped in to take the bird.
And then, for the first time since arriving in Refúj, Mia saw something that scared her.
A girl was throwing a tantrum. She was no older than four, with flaxen pigtails, porcelain rose skin, and cherry-pout lips. She stood behind a stall stacked high with iced loaves and teacakes, tugging at her mother’s skirts and screaming so loudly flecks of spit flew from her mouth. The woman shouted something in a language Mia didn’t understand. Then she snatched her daughter up by the wrist. Instantly the girl went quiet.
Uneasy, Mia turned to Sach’a. “What did that woman just do?”
“What woman? I didn’t see.”
“She took that little girl’s wrist and . . .” Mia stopped. “I don’t know. She got very quiet.”
“Probably just unblooded her,” Sach’a said breezily. “It’s not strictly forbidden—it doesn’t quite break any of the Three Laws, though you could make a case for it. My mother does it to my sister sometimes. It’s the only way to calm her down when she goes feral.”
“You said that word earlier: unblood. What does it mean?”
“Exactly what you think.” She wheeled her chair a little faster. “Mam?e will explain everything far better than I can, I promise.”
Despite the buttery sunshine on her arms and shoulders, Mia shivered. She shot a glance at Quin and felt a chill growing beneath her skin. Despite his apparent nonchalance, maybe he was afraid. He was, after all, gifted in the art of pretending.
She dropped a short distance behind Sach’a and said to Quin, “Everything all right?”
“The swan is excellent. Very toothsome.”
“Are you frightened?”
He shrugged. “No.”
She heard a strange sound, almost like a whoosh of water. She’d heard that sound before. Quin’s blood was pressing against his arterial walls with greater force. This time she could intuit what it meant.
“You’re lying,” she said.
He reddened. “I’m not.”
“You are.” She heard the slosh again. “I can hear you.”
“That’s impressive,” Sach’a said over her shoulder. “It takes most Dujia years to be able to hear a lie. I can’t do it myself. I wish I could.”
Pride flashed in Mia’s chest. She could do advanced magic. She had talent. But no sooner had she thought it than she felt a tremor of shame. Being in this strange, beautiful place—it was eroding her logic. She forced herself to remember what the mother had done to her little girl. A Gwyrach could silence and subdue another human being. That kind of power was not something to be proud of.
“Here we are,” Sach’a said. “Home at last.”
She had led them to a row of cottages dotting the edge of the lake. Mia could see the red island in the middle of the water, humpbacked like a living creature, pulsing with energy. She felt drawn to it in a way she couldn’t explain. But it felt forbidden, too, a ripe red apple lacquered with poison.
“That one’s us.” Sach’a nodded toward a cottage the exact color of the lake, as if the water had sloshed over the sides of the crater and slathered the walls blue.
And there, in the doorway, stood Lauriel du Zol. Her mother’s best friend.
Lauriel had always had a tremendous presence, large in both voice and stature, a boundless fount of energy as big as her glorious crown of black corkscrew curls that danced every time she laughed. It hurt Mia to see her. The du Zols had been a fixture of her childhood in Ilwysion, their cozy kitchen and warm, easy jokes. Seeing Lauriel brought back a happier time, before everything went wrong. Just days after Mia’s mother had vanished from her life, Lauriel had vanished, too.
“Mia. Darling one.” Mia felt comforted by the way Lauriel said her name, the soft-mouthed M and honeyed vowels. The big woman bundled her into a crushing hug and kissed first one cheek, then the other.
“Bhenvenj. You are most welcome here. Vuqa. Come, come.” When she finally released her, Mia saw her eyes were shining. Lauriel wiped a tear off her glistening brown cheek. “Your mother would be so happy. She used to dream you would come to Fojo Kara??o someday and see the world she had fallen in love with. I only wish she could be here to see it.”
The truth coiling through Mia for days finally settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew the answer before she even asked the question, but only now did it materialize in clear strokes, like ink drying on a page.
She took a breath. “Did my mother have magic?”
“Oh, darling. Your mother had mountains of magic. In our sisterhood, she was a powerful Dujia, a gifted Dujia.” Lauriel touched her cheek. “As are you.”
Chapter 35
Murderous Angels
MIA SAT AT A small wood table with Lauriel, Quin, and the twins, devouring a savory breakfast. She ached for the journal—she wanted to wrap her arms around it, squeeze out every last drop of truth her mother had concealed for so many years. She understood nothing: about her mother, about magic, about the world.
But the kitchen was warm. Days of fear and exhaustion melted from her pores. In spite of everything, she could feel her heart opening like a flower to the sun. If she closed her eyes, gave herself over to the clank of forks and aromas of fire-cooked food, she could pretend she was at home, sitting around their kitchen table, her father stealing kisses from her mother while the bread dough rose. The one benefit of her raging headache was that it obliterated all possibility of scientific conjecture. She was forced to live in her body, to let the morning wash over her, a medley of simple pleasures, not least among them: eating real food again.
“How’s the minha zopa?” Lauriel asked.
Mia nudged her bowl forward, and Lauriel smiled and spooned out another generous helping. “A Fojuen classic. Pork chouri?o, grilled onions, roasted tomatoes, and straw-fried potatoes seasoned with garlic and wine.”