Page 113 of Claiming Glass

I pressed a sigil stone into the woman’s hand. “Stay inside tonight. Don’t eat what’s offered.” Her annoyance slipped through our connection. She would not listen.

I repeated the action until afternoon became twilight, and instead of the thousands of Spirits they expected only one appeared. Lumi illuminated the night, her features clear and solid. At no other time were the dead as strong as the Day of the Dead.

The drums faltered. The dancers stopped.

Awe and fear and belief soared like griffons.

One whisper was on everyone’s lips. “Goddess.”

Lumi’s left hand closed over mine, the right held a woman I had tried to convince.

“Listen,” my sister said. “Blood will run tonight. Don’t make it yours. Stay indoors. The Spirits do not celebrate this year. Some told you the Goddess wants you to attack the palace. Theylied.”

The words were repeated through the chains of dancers and magic swelled with their devotion.

They would listen to Lumi, and perhaps some would hear their story and follow. If only she had time to speak to all of Tal.

The sharp mind I recognized as Popova approached. She would be bringing her volunteers, then set off to join Morovara’s priestesses outside the palace. The wedding party would have started with the setting sun. There was no more time.

“Spread the word,” I said anyway. “The dead who walk tonight are not your friends.”

I had done everything I could through mundane means. Once, I had communicated directly with hundreds of minds, almost killing myself. But it was time to stop holding back. Time to believe in myself and magic.

I leaned closer to Lumi.

“If I’m flagging, pull me back.”

Popova stepped up to the edge of the crowd, seemingly dissatisfied with the attention we were gathering. Before either she or my sister could argue, I broke down the mental wall Morovara had instructed me to build. I would not let all the people celebrating tonight die like my mother had, victims in another’s war.

I closed my eyes.

Ask and listen, my great-grandmother had said.

The world around me vibrated with bright emotions. Each street in Rivertown was packed. The barges overflowing—open to all thanks to Nataliya and Lana, who were both there still. In Midtown, the night market’s coins clinkered. North’s Place was unusually quiet, the nobles celebrating in the palace, but people were gathering in Gateways, lured there by the rumor of hidden food.

Beyond them, an ancient cold gathered on Palace Road. Lumi’s magic responded to it.

The dead were approaching.

The celebrants around me waited for their ancestors’ Spirits to rise, unknowing their own would be the ones walking the streets too soon.

Joy and anger blended as my mind screamed that there were too many people. It could not encompass them all.

I don’t want to change or shape, force or move. Only help them listen, I whispered to the world. Somewhere, a drum still beat.

I tapped my finger. Moved my foot.

Magic could not be forced, only allowed to flow.

The people watched as I danced to the sounds of our city. To theclick-click-clickof bones. To wind chimes and bat calls. To the hawkers’ shouts and pilgrims’ prayers.

The pure laughter of children as the first soaring lanterns were released, the lovers’ embraces, hot and tender. The angry grumblings became a deep undertone because I would not pretend Tal was all light. Especially not tonight.

In Rivertown, whores called to customers; in Lowtown, beggars and thieves readied themselves for their best night of the year; in Midtown, the sound of dice mixed with tables waiting to be filled and the longing of all those seeing the wares they could not afford. In the Temple District the priestesses too young to help welcomed our ancestors, pretending this Day of the Dead was no different from any other.

Someone moved next to me, then the dancers resumed their sways and spins as I shared the melody of Tal.

Without halting my movements, I brought the cries and pain to the forefront. Shared my own death and the cold that came after, because nothing is more Talian than death itself.

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