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She still held my face, and I latched onto her wrists, wanting to feel her touch always.
“I am so proud.”
“Proud? I have done nothing to earn your pride.”
“Know who you came from,” my mother said, and her voice was stern.
“But I don’t know who I came from,” I said. “I know nothing of our people—”
She dropped her hands from my face and took mine into hers. “You are a strong woman from a strong line. Your roots go deep in this earth, and from them, you draw your magic.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“You are the daughter of witches, as all women are,” she said, and she brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Magic is in our blood and bone; it is in the earth at our feet; it is in the very air we breathe.”
“But I have barely been able to use magic at all.” It seemed the only time I managed to do anything well was by chance.
“Words are spells, daughter, no matter how simple they may seem.” She paused and then looked away from me and around.
Her expression was so peaceful, so happy. And she was so beautiful. She looked like me but also different—her nose was wider, her lips fuller, her cheekbones higher, her hair thicker, darker. I wanted to look more like her and less like my father.
“You brought yourself to this place,” my mother said, and I blinked. I had been so focused on her, memorizing every part of her, I had not taken the time to observe where exactly we were.
The only thing I had noted when I had opened my eyes—other than my mother—was that we were surrounded by bright light. Now I realized it was only the sun beating down upon us, striking the surface of the fairest sand and the clearest water. Behind us was a curtain of dense forest, the greenery blazing against a blue sky.
“What is this place?”
“This is my home,” she said. “Nalani.”
Once again, tears blurred my eyes. “It is beautiful,” I said, breathless.
“I always dreamed of bringing you here,” my mother said. “And look, it has happened. Dreams are wonderful, are they not, my daughter?”
I met her gaze again and my heart sank, giving away to a profound and painful disappointment. “So this is a dream,” I whispered.
Her smile was warm, but she shook her head. I was not certain if that was an answer to my question.
“Magic is not so serious,” she said. “It is many things—an essence that gives everything on earth life and an energy. You can harness that energy if you remain aware enough, but you have become so caught up in spells, in words, in shapes. You need none of that to call upon your power.”
“But…that is what I have always done,” I said.
“No,” she said. “You—no matter what incarnation—have always drawn upon the world with no effort. You only made spells to help women understand their potential when they could notfeelit themselves.”
I wanted to tell her I had no idea how to do what she was telling me, but she spoke, as if she heard me.
“Trust yourself, Isolde,” she said. “Your soul has been speaking and you have not been listening.”
I felt almost as if I were being reprimanded, but she squeezed my hands and I focused on her touch—soft and warm and real.
“It is no fault of your own,” she said. “This world is afraid of powerful women.”
There was no greater example than the Burning. Our trauma had crossed lifetimes. It was in our blood; it lived in the air and earth; it whispered in the dark.
It had silenced us for too long.
“Trust yourself,” my mother said. “As I do.”
I studied her dark eyes, wishing I’d had her forever.
