by Bree Barton
“I don’t understand,” Angelyne said.
“One of you lives. One of you dies.”
Mia’s skin was on fire. The heat of Zaga’s gaze felt like being flayed alive. So this was what hatred felt like. She’d been wrong about that, too. Hatred wasn’t cold. It was immolation.
She’d been wrong about everything.
Hate, love, anger—they intermingled in a person’s blood, twining together, a symphony of fire and smoke and ashes. Why did it hurt so much, being human? It was astonishing anyone survived a life at all.
A sob rose in Mia’s throat. She thought of her sister lying still, blue eyes gone blank forever. She saw Angie’s pale face, trapped in this moment of death. No matter what Angelyne had done or what sins she had committed, the world without her was a world bled of its color. There was no music. No laughter. A piece of Mia’s heart had died with her mother, and if she had to give up Angie, she knew she would lose the rest.
Hatred will only lead you astray. Love is the stronger choice.
Love is a lodestone, a force so powerful nothing can stop it. Not even death.
A chill perched on Mia’s shoulder, birdlike. It nipped at her neck. Her father’s words hummed beneath her skin, with one subtle but significant substitution.
Magic is a force so powerful nothing can stop it.
Not even death.
“Perhaps,” Zaga said, “it will help you make your decision if I show you just how powerful magic can be.”
She moved slowly toward Wynna’s tomb, her injured leg hissing across the floor. She unclenched her fist, and the moonstone glinted in the palm of her hand.
“I gave this stone to your mother twenty years ago. One more way I tried to keep her: to shower her with gifts. Back then, the lloira was not strong enough to heal me.”
She stroked the moonstone. “But it is much stronger now. Every time your mother healed someone, she grew stronger, as did the magic stored inside her stone. But a stone divorced from its owner is dangerous. If you take a lloira from the Dujia who owned it, the magic can become warped into something unrecognizable, promising only illness and suffering, even death.”
Mia stole a glance at Angelyne, whose face was inscrutable.
An unnatural light gleamed in Zaga’s eyes. “If the two are reunited, however, it will rekindle the magic in the stone.”
She leaned forward, putting one hand on Wynna’s name. With the other she held the lloira to the tomb. Her shadow fell over the carving so that Mia could no longer see the bird or the moon or the snow plum tree.
When Zaga stepped back, the moonstone was no longer in her hand.
Mia blinked. The stone was clinging to the tomb. She took a step closer and saw why: Zaga had placed the moonstone into the depression of the moon.
A perfect fit.
“The dust and bones of a Dujia can be powerful,” Zaga said, a smile curling her lips. “Especially one as powerful as your mother.” When she closed her eyes, she looked almost serene.
Suddenly Mia saw everything clearly. Zaga wanted to be healed. This was what she had always wanted: to reunite Wynna’s stone with Wynna’s body in the hopes that she could activate the healing magic of the stone. It made a kind of morbid sense: having the moonstone wasn’t enough. Zaga had to steal into the Kaer herself and press the stone into Wynna’s tomb, so she could finally watch her black clotted veins fade to a healthy eggshell blue, a gossamer river of life flowing from wrist to heart. Precious bones. Precious dust.
Mia was flooded with a compassion so searing it took her breath away. Zaga wanted what anyone wanted. To be whole.
There was only one hitch.
It wasn’t working.
Zaga’s eyes flew open. She was as gaunt as ever, her emaciated arm still hanging lifeless by her side. “I do not understand,” she murmured. “I have brought them back together. Wynna lies in this very tomb.” She closed her eyes, lips thin as she pressed them together, willing all her hopes into this one desire.
Mia shivered as another memory snaked through her. The night before the wedding, she’d found her father in the crypt. Your mother isn’t here, he’d said.
Mia’s thoughts moved quickly, an arrow arcing from one target to the next. Her eyes flew to the bird carved into her mother’s tomb. It was a ruby wren. Of course it was. Mia scrolled through all the facts she’d memorized: The ruby wren lived in the snow kingdom; it was the only bird that hibernated in winter; it had four chambers in its heart, like a human being; unlike a human being, it could still its heart for months on end to survive the bitter winter. And of course, it was her mother’s favorite bird.
Still its heart.
Months on end.
Mia nearly choked.
The ruby wren stopped its own heart to survive.
Instinctively she dropped to her knees in front of her mother’s tomb.
She traced the carving of the snow plum tree, letting her fingers flutter down the deep grooves, the way she had done a dozen times since arriving at the Kaer. But this time she let her fingertips linger in the hollow of the little bird.
She rested her forehead against the stone, mere inches away from where Zaga was leaning heavily. Quietly, Mia dipped her fingers into her pocket, and closed her hand around the ruby wren.
Fojuen was a special stone. Vitreous, with brittle tenacity, and—as her mother had taught her—deadly sharp. But it was more than its mineral properties. Fojuen was born in the violent, unruly heart of a volqano. It made a Dujia’s heart pump faster and the blood flow quicker, heightening her magic. A talisman carved from fojuen would make it far easier for a Dujia to stop a fellow Dujia’s heart.
Or her own.
But what if fojuen were paired with another stone? A stone with healing properties? A stone that drew its power from the moon, storing up magic that might mend a broken body, heal a hurting mind . . . or revive a stilled heart?
Fojuen to stop your heart, and lloira to restore it. Perhaps, with these two stones, a Dujia might give the appearance of ending her own life, when in truth she was merely hibernating.
“That is enough.” Zaga was angry her plan had not worked, that her body was still broken. “Get up off the floor. Make your choice. Only one of you will leave this crypt.”
Mia hardly heard the words. Her heart thrummed against her ribs. The hypothesis ballooning in her chest was wild, forged of instinct and desperation, which in the end made it not much of a hypothesis. It was scientifically suspect, flawed, irrational—and simmering with hope.
“Very well,” she said. “Good-bye, Mother.” She touched the cold stone one last time, discreetly fitting the ruby wren into the depression of the bird, just long enough for her to prove her theory.
The bird was a perfect fit.
Mia let the wren drop back into her palm and closed her fist. As she did, she scooped the moonstone out of its nook and palmed it as well. Zaga failed to notice the two stones clenched in Mia’s hand as she stood and turned her back on her mother.
But her mother wasn’t there. She had stilled her own heart—but not to kill herself. She had stilled it to save herself. She had stopped her heart from beating . . . but only until it was safe for it to beat again.
Mia felt the truth in the core of her being. Her father had known. He had commissioned a mason to carve the clues on her mother’s tombstone: a bird, a moon, a snow plum tree. No, not clues—ingredients.
A murderous wren.
A healing moonstone.
And a map.
Under the plums, if it’s meant to be. You’ll come to me, under the snow plum tree.
Wynna was alive. And she was hiding in the snow kingdom, waiting.
“Time is not infinite,” Zaga snapped. “Will your sister die, or will you?”
Mia turned to Angie. “You have to stop my heart.”
Her sister’s eyes went wide. “Mi.”
“You were willing to sacrifice me before, weren’t you?”
“That was different. I wasn
’t the one holding the bow.”
“This won’t end unless we end it. We have to choose. And I have chosen.”
Angelyne shook her head. “Please, Mi. Don’t make me do this.”
“You have to,” Mia said. “It has to be me.”
Only days had passed since she tried to flee the Kaer, but it felt like half a lifetime. That seemed another Mia Rose, the girl who filched the pouch of boar’s blood from the kitchens, faking her own death to save her sister and herself. She had been ready to break whatever laws she had to. Now she would break another.
Magic shall never be used by Dujia to consciously inflict pain, suffering, or death on herself.
Not a law, per se. More of a suggestion.
But who would take her body out of the crypt? Who would carry her to safety in the snow kingdom, where the Dujia could help make her heart beat again? She imagined it was her father who had transported her mother, but now he sat in the Grand Gallery, unable to come to her aid.
She didn’t have the answers. Mia Morwynna Rose, Knower of All Things, had to trust the not knowing. It was time she trusted the quiet pull of her gut over the blinding whir of her mind.
Mia took Angie’s hands in hers. “You won’t have to do anything,” she whispered. “I’ll do it for you.” With the ruby wren and the moonstone tucked into her left fist, she dug her right thumb into the soft, translucent skin of her wrist. With Angie’s trembling hands cupped around hers, Mia brought them to her chest and held them steady. She pressed her thumb tip into her antecubital vein, the blue river of life running from wrist to heart.
“I love you, Ange.”
Veins made beautiful vessels for rage, but they also made beautiful vessels for love.
She let her blood drink up every morsel. As she did, she saw a tumble of shapes and colors. She saw her mother standing on a snow-kissed balcony, wind tousling her chestnut hair as she sketched a wild plum tree. She saw Angie in a green gown with a baby cradled in her arms. She saw Karri riding fiercely into battle, sweat satiny against her bare, sunburnt arms. She saw the Hall of Hands, empty. And she saw Quin, sitting at the edge of the river, pouring his heart out like a song.
How could she love the prince? She hardly knew him. But she wanted to. Her heart wanted what it wanted, and she could feel it swimming toward him: a swatch of gold on a distant shore.
She found Quin’s gaze and held it, his eyes blazing green. She would come back for him. There was a map etched inside her she had only now discovered, and he was there, too, waiting where the sea poured into the stars.
Angelyne’s fingers were cold, but Mia’s hands were warm. She was feverish with hope.
And then something impossible happened. She felt a flutter in her palm.
In the warm nest of her hand, the bird twitched and shivered. Mia sucked in her breath and loosened her fingers, just enough to peek into the dark cave of her palms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the wren spread one tiny wing.
The bird was no longer made of stone. It was made of bone and feathers, blood and breath. Her mother’s ruby wren had come to life.
Filaments of light threaded through her fingers, and Mia’s heart felt like it might burst. Her head understood nothing. Her heart knew everything.
Even as it stopped.
Epilogue
THE BIRD FLEW QUIETLY, slipping unseen through the girl’s still fingers. It knew how to move through spaces undetected, silent as a stone. It glided above a boy with golden curls and a girl with wavy red hair as they knelt over the body. The eyes were open, a calm, thirsty gray.
The fissure in the stone was slender, but the bird was small: it winged its way through the rift and out into a grove of plum trees, where it stopped to eat a spider. It would need nourishment for the long journey ahead.
For twenty days and nights the bird beat its wings, stopping only to sup on insects and the occasional small frog. It flew above the watery veins of the river kingdom, over the ice caves and the red salt mines in the south, past Dead Man’s Strait and the White Lagoon, steam curling off the surface, the dark sky inked by green lights and a buried sun, until the bird arrived on a balcony where a woman in a snow fox cloak was waiting.
“My clever little raven,” the woman murmured, the ax slung over her shoulder twinkling in the sunlight. “She has found me at last.”
She cupped her hands, and the ruby wren came home.
Acknowledgments
THEY SAY BREVITY IS the soul of wit, but it is not the soul of acknowledgments—or at least not mine. A book is a journey of a thousand thanks. I will aim to keep mine under a hundred.
Sometimes, when two people love each other, they create a beautiful little bundle called a book. There would be no bundle without Melissa Miller, who, after helping me coax Mia Rose into the world, birthed an actual human child. She’s prolific! Huge thanks to my publisher Katherine Tegen, our gracious matriarch, for championing this story, and to Kate Jackson and Suzanne Murphy for being the best surrogate moms. Alex Arnold, my brilliant editor: the heart of this tale bloomed during our epic phone calls. Thank you for helping me nurture HoT into the bouncing baby book it is today.
Have I used up all the midwife metaphors? Alas.
Thanks to Kirby Kim for opening the door to a world I’ve always dreamed of. Kelsey Horton, I owe you a drink—for all the hours you spent editing, but also for helping coordinate the Singing Shark Attack of 2016. Thank you to Rebecca Aronson for being excellent at everything, Emily Rader and Jill Amack for buffing out all my mistakes, and the whole artistic team for designing a cover that made me understand the expression “love at first sight.” Everyone at KT and HarperCollins: you are exceptional. Please don’t quit your day jobs!
To my early readers: each of you made this book staggeringly better by lending me your eyeballs and your brains. Thank you Hannah, Josh, and Shari for reading the first draft aloud, and Hannah for reading the fourth draft quietly. Sara Sligar gave me tough love when I needed it the most. Kosoko Jackson sent funny GIFs and then pointed to all the places he knew I could do better. Dhonielle Clayton threw open the windows in my mind and showed me what this story could be. Brianne Johnson shined a light on the future—Other Bri, I look forward to all the books dappling the road ahead. Morgan, what can I say? Your real-time reactions were Everything. I will never get sick of reading “YASSSSSSSS THIS GETS BETTER AND BETTER CGCTRWFUVUV.”
Thanks are due to Dana L. Davis for gracing my life daily, even when her messages delete themselves; Rachel Hyde for flooding my life with magic; Emily Bain Murphy for sending otters—and writing the book that saved me; Anna Priemaza for brightening dark days with flowers; Tara Carter for pouring her lovely heart out in email form; Melissa Albert for her genius and generosity; Rachael Gross for saving the day so splendidly she must be a witch; and Stephanie Garber for sharing exactly the right words at exactly the right time.
I am fortunate to have a host of supportive artist friends: Anna Frazier, Aruni Futuronsky, Ashley Rideaux, Brianne Kohl, Bridget Morrissey, Cori Nelson, Denise Long, Elana K. Arnold, Elise Winn, Emma Jaster, Farrah Penn, Hillary Fields, Jeff Giles, Jenna Moreci, Jilly Gagnon, Kim Chance, Kyle Boatwright, Lauren Spieller, Leah Henderson, Lorna Partington, Martha Brockenbrough, Maura Milan, Michele Moss, Rebecca Gray, Rebecca Nison, Rob Walz, Shawn Ashley, Shruti Swamy, Terry J. Benton, Windy Lynn Harris, the Sassy Djerassis, and countless members of both the 2017 and 2018 debut groups. Thanks for reading my too-long emails, guys.
Tremendous gratitude to all my teachers and mentors who knew I could do this, even when I didn’t. Nova Ren Suma, I am indescribably grateful for your generous and loving heart. Michael Levin taught me how to make a living with words. Nicola Yoon, Francesca Lia Block, Kevin Brockmeier, and Kelly Link modeled not just how to write the best kind of books, but how to live the best kind of life. And if we pan back twenty years or so, we’ll find my third-grade teacher Winifred Mundinger helping me bind “The Snog-Pig-Mouse”—my first work of fantasy—in brightly color
ed cardboard. That, folks, was where it all began.
I am indebted to Sara Fraser for handing me my first young adult novel; Joy Malek for stoking the flames of my creative soul; and Chris DeRosa and Evangelene Strauss for cheering me on through so many long and difficult years. I finally made it!
Bill Posley, thanks for knowing I had one more take inside me. Honora Talbott, what is life without our lunches, your sketches, or four-hour pedicures? I want to be you when I grow up. Teresa Spencer, our text thread has sustained me for over a decade. From COGnates to Kauai, you are a gift in my life. Not just because you called this book a page-turner. #WeAreHankSorros.
To my brother: from the minute you tumbled into the world on that blustery April night, my life changed forever. Thanks for being my baby bro.
To my sister: I never imagined the raven-haired beauty I held in my arms would grow into my fierce, funny, courageous friend. You are the reason I write YA. I truly can’t imagine my life without you in it!
To my mom: all those nights of Narnia at bedtime paid off. I wouldn’t love words if you hadn’t loved them first. I wouldn’t know how to dream, fight, or persevere without you. Thank you for giving me life.
To Chris: you have cradled my delicate artsy heart in ways only you could do. Your love, patience, and compassion are not slight in the slightest. Finley Fergus is lucky to have you, but I am luckier. I love you.
And to all the book bloggers and reviewers and readers (yes, you!): this book ceases to be mine the minute the words are inked and stitched to a spine. Now it lives and breathes inside your hearts and minds. You are the real magicians. Thank you for sharing your magic with me.
About the Author
Photo by Anna Cecilia
BREE BARTON is a writer in Los Angeles. When she’s not lost in whimsy, she works as a ghostwriter and a dance teacher to teen girls. She is on Instagram and YouTube, where she posts funny videos with her melancholy dog. Bree is not a fan of corsets.