She tucked a stray curl behind Mia’s ear.
“We Dujia have concealed our magic since the beginning of time, passed it down as a secret from one generation to the next, ever since the Four Great Goddesses were born in the heart of a volqano. The four sisters blessed us with the gift of touch, a gift that lives in our flesh, blood, breath, and bones.”
Mia thought for a moment. “If Sach’a has magic, why can’t she use her magic to heal her legs? Or why can’t you?”
Lauriel smiled. “Not everything can be healed, darling. And not everything needs to be.”
“Do all women have magic?”
“Not all. Many, but not all. Some have magic but fight against it. They are ashamed of who they are. They think Dujia are dirty creatures, a stain upon the earth, and that the world is better run by the men who have sworn to keep us safe.”
“Veraktu,” Mia said.
“Yes. In Fojuen it means ‘to silence the truth.’” Lauriel sighed. “You were always a truth-seeker, even as a child. Your mother hated lying to you. But she knew telling you the truth would put you at grave risk. Especially with your father.”
“I thought he was a hero. That he was abolishing magic so science and reason would win.” Mia thought of his never-ending drills and lessons and rebukes, the rewards he meted out for knowing the right answer. He had urged her to privilege her mind above all things, certainly over the insensible yearnings of the heart.
The irony stung. Science was about exploring new terrain, pushing boundaries, and above all else, asking questions. But in the river kingdom, questions could get you killed.
“Did your mother ever tell you about Queen Bronwynis?”
“She said she and Father were there for her coronation.”
“That’s all she told you? Bronwynis was the real hero. She was a symbol of the times, a shimmering beacon for the rest of us. In all four kingdoms, women were shedding their gowns and stepping into positions of power. Ship captains, merchants . . . even politicians.”
“Like you selling copper pots.”
Lauriel laughed her deep belly laugh, tight black curls bouncing mirthfully over her shoulders. “Yes, darling. I suppose my copper pots were a small part of the revolution. Your mother liked to say that progress is one little bird, pecking at a kernel. One bird will bring another, and another after that, until there’s a whole flock. A flock of birds can be dangerous. Ask any farmer.”
Lauriel reclined on the sand. “Bronwynis broke all the rules. Under her reign, five women sat on the Council of the Kaer, and only three men. She even offered a seat to a peasant woman. She said, ‘If we do not invite the peasants to sit at the table, how will we learn what they eat?’”
Mia thought of Princess Karri. This sounded like something she might say.
“The Dujia didn’t kill Bronwynis, did they?”
Lauriel shook her head. “Of course they didn’t. She was murdered by King Ronan in her sleep.”
“Her own brother.” She felt a starburst of anger. “If not for Ronan’s policies, we could have learned how to use our magic for good. Instead we all go around with fear in our hearts and gloves on our hands.”
Lauriel howled with laughter. “That is the biggest lie of all! Gloves cannot dampen our magic. They can briefly weaken our powers of touch, perhaps. But they cannot disarm it. Do you really think the Four Great Goddesses would be thwarted by a scrap of cloth?”
Now Mia understood why she’d been able to enthrall Quin in the castle library.
Lauriel spoke to the sky. “Ronan is an evil man, I will not deny it. He has ensured that suspicion trumps curiosity and hate trumps love. But those are simply new melodies to an ancient song.”
Mia drew her knees to her chest. The history of magic was so different from the one she’d been spoon-fed by her father. Mia had accepted that Gwyrach were evil, men were strong, and women were weak—she wasn’t, of course, but she was the exception to the rule, the courageous warrior girl who would bring her mother’s killer to justice, then beat back magic and free all the poor damsels in Glas Ddir. She had internalized the idea that women needed to be protected.
She had done something else, too. She had confused women who were nurturing—those who privileged gentleness and compassion—for those who were weak.
She had called her mother weak the day she died.
“Why do Dujia turn against each other, Lauriel?”
“Why do humans turn against each other? Dujia are human, after all. Divine but also human. This is why hatred is the most dangerous of poisons: it turns us against the other, yes, but in the end, it turns us against ourselves.”
Her voice softened. “Refúj is a sacred place where our sisters can seek refuge. We are not on any map. The balloon is the only way in or out, and no one from Glas Ddir has ever found it. But I will not lie to you. Our limited resources are a constant strain. In Luumia the Dujia do not live in exile. In the snow kingdom they are treated as queens.”
“Then why don’t you go to Luumia?”
“I was waiting for you, darling. Before she died, she told me you would come here. She left you her journal to make sure of it.”
The journal. Mia had nearly forgotten. She saw it now, tucked loosely under the dimpled flesh of Lauriel’s arm. How much longer until she could read it?
“Your mother talked often of going to Luumia. She had a troubled past here on this island.” Lauriel’s brown eyes had a faraway glimmer. “The Luumi have flourished where we have not, in part because they do not have to expend all their energy fighting their oppressors. They have made many advancements in alchemy and mechanics. The Luumi are interested in the ways magic and science interweave. So they study magic extensively—the effects, the advantages, the risks. They have learned how to bewitch metals and breathe life into stones. They have even found a way to still the heart inside a bird and bring it back to life.”
Mia cocked her head. “If you mean the ruby wren, those birds still their own hearts. That’s how they hibernate.”
“I don’t know what kind of bird, darling. Your mother was the one who loved birds.” She stretched, lifted herself to an easy seat, and nodded at the cobalt moon. “In Fojo, we have a saying. Lloira vuqateu: ‘Come to the moon.’ The moon can mend a broken body and heal a broken mind. The lloira stone draws its power from the moon’s pull on the Earth. This is why it is a healing stone.”
“Is that why my mother wore the moonstone?”
“Yes. She was a gifted healer without it, but the lloira stored up her gifts and made her stronger. I’ve never told you this, you or anyone, but I saw your mother the day she died.”
Mia sat up straighter. Lauriel looked down at her hands.
“I was in a dark place after losing my husband. I knew I should stay alive for my daughters, but I didn’t want to. I came to see your mother, begged her to heal my mind, to take away the darkness. And she did. I would have given up if not for her.” She wiped the wetness from her eyes. “By that night, she was gone.”
Sorrow fell like a mantle over Mia’s shoulders.
“That’s just like her, to save your life on the day she lost hers.”
Mia thought of her sister. Angie had worn the moonstone for the past three years never knowing it had magic. But she had only grown sicker since the day she clasped the pendant around her neck. Whatever healing powers the lloira stone once stored up for their mother, those powers had died the moment she did.
“The Hunters were right about one thing,” Lauriel said. “Our sisters bloom in moments of intense emotions, flashes of fear and anger and love. The same emotions that coax out the ink of the sangflur blossom.”
She laid the journal gently on Mia’s knees. “Sangflur is the ink your mother used. Visible only to a fellow Dujia.”