. . . is damned already.
But no. She didn’t believe that, and couldn’t say it.
Instead — picking her way from word to word carefully — she said, “. . . at any rate, nothing we’ve talked of can do him any more harm. And if it’s not true — if hexation is just a force like lightning, or bodily vitality — then all that matters is how it’s used, not whether, and only the things one chooses to do with it can constitute resistance of Grace. For since all mortal men are born equally depraved, Gabe’s best hope is to be with those who can most aptly teach him . . . ’specially if he can be made safe from their unholy hungers, as well as his own.”
Cuddling him close, she watched him sleep for a moment. “So even if you are all damned,” she added, voice kept low, “this makes you the ones best suited to teach us how Gabriel might escape that same fate — and if you are not, then Gabriel need not be, either. But whichever the case, there is no profit in fleeing the tests God demands of us.”
A long silence passed, broken only by the crackling of the conjure-circle’s fire, the faint susurrus of a wind smelling of smoke, ice, and chaparral. And when Grandma finally spoke again, it was in the quietest — most human — tone Sophy had ever heard from her, as yet.
“Almost, Sophronia Love,” she said, “you persuade me to think better of bilagaana. Perhaps you can learn.”
Sophy didn’t know if she was meant to be complimented, or insulted.
“If this constitutes agreement, then let’s about it,” was all she said, in reply. And strode briskly into the circle, snapping over her shoulder, to Yancey, “Missus Kloves, you’d best oversee this procedure. Sooner it’s complete, the sooner we can send you on your seeking-journey, and see what ensues.”
“Wait, gods damn you! Wait!”
It was Songbird, chasing after Sophy now with the clumsiness of one unaccustomed to running; when she caught up, she was gasping, as though she’d never quite adjusted to no longer being able to levitate her way through life.
“If you are so set on gambling with your son’s life — his ch’i, his soul — then do not bind him to her . . . to what she is now.” She jabbed a finger angrily at Grandma, already a-trudge into the circle behind her, with Yiska and Yancey flanking. “She is a ghost with no flesh, a violation of wu hsing, an aberration of all Five Forces clinging to existence by will alone; there is nothing in her which may not come unravelled tomorrow, or the next day. And what then of any soul bound to hers?”
“Miss Yu, I really don’t have time — ”
Spasmodically quick, Songbird grabbed for Sophy’s arm, startling her still; was this really the first time Sophy could ever recall the girl voluntarily touching anyone? It seemed entirely unpremeditated — even Grandma paused mid-step, possibly exhaling, though her state made that hard to reckon.
One way or the other, they all seemed equally surprised by what Songbird had to say next.
“If you must do this, then . . . it should be with me.”
Not letting go of Sophy, she looked to Grandma, shoulders braced as if against imminent impact. But it was Yiska who answered, telling her mentor: “She is not wrong, Spinner.”
The firelight showed a certain warmth dancing in her eyes, deeper than mere congratulation over Songbird’s unselfishness; the Chinese hex flushed to see it, reaction painfully visible on her bleached skin. Behind them, Yancey coughed and covered her mouth, not quite able to hide a smirk whose implications Sophy — suddenly a bit red herself — found she did not quite wish to guess at.
“No. She is not.” There was no anger in Grandma’s reply, only a vast weariness. “And so, as Sophronia Love has said — let us begin with you, dead-speaker.”
Yancey bowed, joining Songbird and Sophy by the fire, without protest.
“Ma’am,” she said.
Taking Songbird’s hand, she laid her other palm on Sophy’s, cradling Gabe’s head, and nodded at her. “You should wake him,” she murmured. Nodding back, Sophy shifted Gabe’s weight, planning to gently jostle him out of slumber — then paused.
Probing the new connections ’tween her mind and his, she gradually increased the intensity of her focus on Gabe, in no manner she could easily describe: As if her intention were a Dietz lamp, turning its oil-soaked wick steadily up until its bright blaze cut through all shadows. In her arms, Gabe yawned and blinked his eyes open, awareness quickening in reflex echo of hers. He smiled toothlessly, love pouring back into her, leavened a moment later by hunger — it had been some hours since he’d fed, she realized. Soon, she promised.
The promise was met by an imperious impatience that, in spite of everything, made her want to laugh. Gabe answered the thought with his own jolt of pleasure, gurgling.
Abruptly, two new presences intruded on their shared perception. Yancey’s mind she recognized, its inner strength clear water over forged steel, while the other’s . .
. Sophy felt Gabe recoiling, and reached out to steady him, even as she forced herself not to retreat. The image that came fastest to mind was of a damaged locomotive, once mighty, now battered and leaking steam, limping along near the end of its fuel. Behind it dragged a carriage-train of memories, grindingly heavy for the shortness of Yu Ming-ch’in’s life — a culture older than the Saviour Himself, calcified in pride and rigidity; a role laid out one hundred generations earlier, dooming her to be bred and born to be bought and sold. A fate-path once thought immoveable, now crazed with fractures like some frost-cracked granite block, and the helpless terror of not knowing what would replace it.
The moment all these things passed through Sophy’s head, a spark of fury flared up — Songbird’s reflexive rejection of any attempt at pity, striking Sophy like a slap. Thrust back between her and Gabriel, Sophy took the blow without flinching, already feeling the strain as their separate magics roused to mutual, instinctive awareness. Now, she tried to send, a raw surge of urgency, nowhere so coherent as a word.
Must’ve been plain enough, though, for Yancey confirmed it by spinning a new thought-strand out toward Grandma, the ghost-hex only a squatting, shadowy bulk on the edge of this shared thought-space. Connection vibrated and pulsed in five directions at once, a harp-strung telegraph cable which sung high, almost painful, then broke.
There is fire between you, and it is by your choice that two fires shall become one which is both, where before, one would only have endured in the other’s ash. Though obviously prompted by Grandma (Sophy could “hear” the Indian . . . Diné . . . words, lurking under the English equivalents their minds supplied), Yancey’s part in this choir invisible wrapped them all, heavy with invocation. You choose now to share a single fire, trust and understanding, a way of life. This fire will give you heat, warmth, food, and happiness. The new fire represents a new beginning, a new life. Let the fire endure for life, until Tódilhil, the Black Water Lake, separates you.
Death do us part, Sophy thought. Lord Almighty . . . this is like marriage.
Do you choose to share your fire, and forever after forsake burning alone?