We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire

by Joy McCullough

  I’ve no idea

  what you mean.

  Come now.

  I need

  distraction.

  She tells me

  the things they have

  in common, though

  he’s something like royalty

  and she of lowly traders.

  Perhaps, the battle over

  he would take Zahra

  to a land not ravaged by

  one hundred years of war.

  Or build a life with her

  in France, where she would be

  an officer’s wife and no one’s servant.

  Either way

  I cannot bear the thought

  and yet it’s all I want.

  You must not come,

  I tell her

  as I hoist myself

  into the saddle.

  Loyal Minuit.

  Where would you

  have me go?

  Return to Isabella.

  Wait for your officer.

  See to my sister.

  Be safe.

  Zahra ignores me,

  hoists herself

  onto her steed.

  Do not ask me to do

  what you cannot.

  A sharp whistle, and then:

  De Bressieux!

  Summoned to join

  de Gaucourt

  at the front

  of our procession,

  I scowl at Zahra.

  This isn’t over.

  Miles later

  I muster

  the courage

  to ask the question

  that fuels me.

  Will we

  meet Chalon

  on the battlefield?

  De Gaucourt laughs.

  The man himself?

  Not likely.

  He is the sort of general

  who sends his soldiers

  into battle, then holds back

  until the battle’s won.

  He hasn’t stayed alive

  this long by skill.

  Perhaps Zahra and I

  should both turn back.

  I’ve put her life

  in danger

  every moment

  since I pulled her

  from that closet.

  If her handsome officer

  could be convinced

  to take her as a bride—

  but then I’m treating her

  as though she’s mine to give.

  I cannot compel her stay or go.

  I lag behind de Gaucourt

  until Zahra catches up.

  Her only words:

  I’m staying.

  We make camp

  across the river

  from Chalon’s troops.

  We’ll attack at early light.

  De Gaucourt has no further time

  for the novelty of his lady knight;

  he spends the evening

  cloistered in his tent.

  I spend it with Zahra

  and praying to the god

  of my childhood, the god

  of these many wars.

  Will vengeance

  heal these wounds

  rebuild the ruins of my life?

  I realize now it won’t.

  That doesn’t mean

  it’s pointless.

  I have Zahra

  and we are here

  united in a purpose.

  My first, my only thought:

  my sisters.

  If we fight, it’s not

  for vengeance, not to bring

  the Prince of Orange down

  or prove a thing to men

  who think us weak

  because we bleed.

  If we fight, we show

  each other that we’re strong,

  remind each other

  that our blood

  is stuff of life,

  that we have been broken

  and also rebuilt

  through our love for each other,

  our refusal to curl up and die.

  A woman broken, rebuilt,

  can conquer any sword.

  I unfold

  the cloth,

  my sister’s work of art

  filled with her rage

  but also:

  her hope.

  Fine, even stitches,

  the sort done

  by a noble girl

  who stitches not

  for function but for form.

  So ladylike, stitchery.

  A pastime for quiet contemplation,

  sitting with one’s head bowed

  lips sealed, knees closed.

  But the fury

  roiling within

  as Helene’s needle

  pierced the cloth

  produced a lance

  spearing an orange.

  Ainsi tu seras.

  Thus shall you be.

  Morning light.

  Armor on.

  Ismidon tries

  one more time:

  You could wait

  the battle out.

  I’ll fight for you.

  I do not need

  his chivalry.

  Zahra holds

  hushed conversation

  with her officer

  and then

  returns to join me

  always at my side.

  For Helene?

  For Helene.

  For Zahra.

  For my mother

  and every woman

  left bleeding

  on the stones,

  their blood

  the stuff of life until death,

  for Isabella, the baby inside her.

  For Helene.

  The battle cry.

  We fight.

  RESOURCES

  Among the organizations dedicated to helping survivors of sexual violence are the National Sexual Violence Resource Center (www.nsvrc.org) and the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network, known as RAINN (www.rainn.org). These organizations also have resources for the families and loved ones of survivors.

  If you would like to speak confidentially with someone trained to hear your story, you can call 800-656-HOPE (4673).

  We are in this fight together.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book about—among other things—the process of writing a book is an illuminating experience. (That’s it, the one illumination joke, I promise.) What I had that Em did not was an extraordinary editor journeying with me at every stage. My endless gratitude to Andrew Karre, who is the very best at what he does.

  Also in my corner, my incomparable agent, Jim McCarthy—sort of my Jess, with less swordplay and more contracts. But the same amount of reality checks, talking me down from panic, and making me laugh.

  Maia Kobabe’s extraordinary illuminations exceeded all possible hopes and perfectly brought Jess’s collaboration to life. I am so grateful for eir willingness to join me on this journey.

  This book would not exist without the dedicated work of Julie Strauss-Gabel, Natalie Vielkind, Melissa Faulner, Anne Heausler, Anna Booth, Rob Farren, Jennifer Dee, Theresa Evangelista, Dana Li, and everyone at Penguin Young Readers who pours their heart into getting books into the hands of readers, especially the unparalleled School & Library team—thank you thank you thank you to Rachel, Venessa, Trevor, Carmela, and Summer. And special shout-out to my local reg
ional sales rep, Colleen Conway!

  The spark of this book was struck when Mackenzi Lee retweeted a post from Jason Porath about Marguerite de Bressieux. Thank you both for bringing her into my life.

  Katie Henry, Katharine Manning, Elle Jauffret, Faith Waggoner, and Ray Stoeve gave me valuable input on all things Catholicism, legal system, and nonbinary identity. Any mistakes are my own.

  I could not navigate this business without the people who started as my “writing friends” and whom now I call simply friends, including Jessica Lawson, Sharon Roat, Rajani LaRocca, Rachel Lynn Solomon, and Brent Taylor. Thank you for always being there.

  All the booksellers, teachers, librarians, bloggers, bookstagrammers, and readers who supported my first novel, Blood Water Paint: This book would not exist without your love for Artemisia. Thank you for coming along with me again. Keep painting the blood.

  And finally, my family, who referred to this book as Lady Knight throughout the years of its process and will probably keep calling it that because the actual title is so long, thank you for always letting me complain about publishing stuff for at least fifteen seconds before you start singing “Hard to Be the Bard” from Something Rotten. I love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joy McCullough writes books and plays from her home in the Seattle area, where she lives with her family. She studied theater at Northwestern University, fell in love with her husband atop a Guatemalan volcano, and now spends her days surrounded by books and kids and chocolate. Her debut novel, Blood Water Paint, was longlisted for National Book Award and was a finalist for the William C. Morris Debut Award.

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