Ah Hai was there, too, happily scrubbing Cynna and Lily’s cell. She had no duties other than tending to Lily, and apparently no life outside of her duties. She’d been helping with the cleaning as much as the guards allowed—out of boredom, maybe, as much as a passion for cleanliness. Lily had suggested that she might like to do something else in her leisure time, something just for pleasure. Ah Hai had assured her that clean floors gave her much pleasure.
How long would Alice keep them waiting? Must be a busy day for her, too, though Lily had never determined what Alice’s duties might be. Would she even come? Dammit, she hated all this waiting. She’d be better if she had something to do, but there was nothing.
Lily had been part of so many failed attempts at translating the spell by now, and she’d had to pay attention to do the translating, so she understood what kind of obstacles Cynna had had to overcome. The biggest had been the worldview problem. The spell language Cynna used included the four elements—Earth, Air, Fire, Water. But Ah Li’s understanding of magic was based on five elements: Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water. The five elements were deeply embedded in Ah Li’s worldview. She couldn’t believe a spell would work unless it balanced the five elements. They were part of feng shui. Part of the martial arts disciplines. Part of her medical understanding. People here believed that all spells must reference the five elements. That these elements must be balanced.
According to Cullen, the big difference between magic and science was that science worked entirely objectively. You didn’t have to believe that pouring vinegar on baking soda would make it bubble as it released carbon dioxide; it happened whether or not that made sense to you. Magic combined the objective with the subjective. There were rules about magic that could be studied and learned. But to cast a spell, you had to grasp the working of the spell on a deep, intuitive level. You had to believe it.
Belief, Lily thought, wasn’t the same as faith, was it? Faith was more like a decision you made to believe certain things, things you couldn’t prove . . . which was one reason Lily had never trusted it. But belief wasn’t a decision. You couldn’t decide to believe that your cat was really a dog. Even if you said it over and over and insisted to everyone that you believed your cat was a dog, deep down you knew it was a cat.
How could you tell what was objectively true about magic, then? If it worked based on what you believed, based on subjective reality . . . no, wait. Spells worked that way. Gifts didn’t, though, did they? Lily had been able to feel magic when she touched it when she was too little to know what magic was. And lupi didn’t have to believe they could turn furry. That happened to them at puberty whether they expected it or not, which was why they kept such careful track of their children.
But her mindsense didn’t act like a Gift. She’d had to learn how to use it. Was still learning how to use it. How much of what she could or couldn’t do was based on what she believed was possible? Had it been hard to reach Rule when he was far away simply because she believed it would be? She had trouble using subvocalizing instead of moving her lips to organize her mindspeech, but Rule’s words came through clearly when he subvocalized. Was that because, for him, subvocalization was easy to hear, so he believed he was speaking clearly when he did that?
What if some of what she believed was true about magic . . . wasn’t? How much of it was subjective reality, not objectively true? She knew she couldn’t throw fire the way Cullen did. Or fly like Sam. Or cast spells. What if—
“Lily?” Cynna sounded puzzled. Or worried. “I said your name twice.”
Lily blinked. “Sorry. I was thinking.”
“Deep thoughts?”
“About magic and spells and Gifts and reality. Subjective reality versus objective. How do you know? How can you tell what is really real?”
Cynna’s face eased in a grin. “Oh, you fell down the reality wormhole! Everyone does. Everyone who starts grappling with magic theory, I mean.”
Lily felt a bit miffed. It had felt like she was on the edge of a big, new understanding. “Has everyone come up with an answer, then?”
“Sure. There is no such thing as objective reality. All reality is habit. Magic is anti-habit.”
“Is that supposed to make sense?”
“Habit is something that persists without needing our attention. It persists whether we want it to or not, and it’s really hard to change. Subjective reality is mental habits that go all the way down, deeper than we can reach or change through intention.”
“I can’t just call my cat a dog and believe it,” Lily murmured.
“Weird example, but yeah. A step out from subjective reality is communal reality—what everyone we know believes is true. Some theorists believe that is an actual force, not just a collection of subjective realities. Might be true, but I don’t see how we could find out. Cummunal reality is really sticky, but it can and does change. Then we get to external reality, which you called objective reality. That’s the habits of the whole universe. Matter has really, really firm habits. The only thing that can change those habits is magic. It’s anti-habit.”
“Oka-a-ay. I’m following you. I think. But—oh. Company.” People were on the stairs. Three of them—a mind Lily didn’t recognize, Fist Second Fang, and Alice Báitóu. Alice’s slick, shielded mind was impossible to mistake, and Fang’s mind had grown familiar to Lily through repeated contact.
“You have succeeded with the spell, I am told,” Alice said, calm as ever, as she moved away from the stairs. A few steps behind her was the unfamiliar mind, coupled with an unfamiliar face—a tiny white-haired woman wearing dusty black trousers and a pale blue tunic. Not the poorest of cloth, but not expensive, either. “I have brought a patient so you may demonstrate. Wang An Li has been examined by the Zhu Shēngwù. Let us see if you find what he did.”
Ah Li spoke. “Shall I perform the spell from the beginning, or demonstrate using the ash I’ve already prepared?”
The original spell had been purely spoken and drew on the element of Air—which the Chinese system didn’t include. In translating it, Cynna had decided the only way to integrate the five elements without disrupting the spell was to add physical components in the right balance. Ah Li wrote two key words in water on paper while she chanted; the paper was then burned in a brass bowl. Water and Fire were literally present; the brush was Wood, the paper was Earth, and the bowl was Metal. The chanting brought in Air. Ah Li didn’t consider it an element, but Cynna believed it was necessary.
There was that word again. Cynna believed it was necessary. Was she objectively right, or was it all subjective? Anyway, the resulting ash was the output of the spell, which held both the magic and the intent. And the belief?
“It would be good to see the spell performed,” Alice said.
Before Ah Li could begin the chanting and drawing, a shrill voice came from the stairs. The voice of a thoroughly aggravated old woman. “. . . treat an elder with such disrespect! Never, never did I think I would experience such disrespect. You snatch me off the street and—slow down! Do you think I can bound up these stairs on my old knees?”
A murmur from someone male.