Jade Fire Gold(5)

Willing myself to forget that image of myself: an abandoned child with nothing but the clothes on her back and the shoes on her feet. A jade ring in one hand and a snowflake in the other.

A snowflake that would not melt, even in the summer heat.

After an hour’s walk, I arrive at my village. The sorry sight in front of me brings a familiar pang: sunbaked houses made of hard clay and rough-hewn stone, each sitting in an enclosure of short stone walls demarcating the limits of property. East of the diminishing oasis, the land here is so parched my feet kick up steady clouds of dust as I walk.

I have little memory of arriving here ten years ago, but I know it wasn’t the desert village then that it is now. It was a thriving place full of life. There was green in the landscape and crops grew on patches of arable land. I loved to listen to the rush of water streaming down the ancient irrigation channels, to feel its cool bliss at the end of the day when we would wash.

But the years went by, and the desert crept closer and closer. The land turned to dust and the topsoil never returned. I can count on one hand the number of neighbors I have now. Most have moved in search of healthier land.

If I could, I’d have left, too.

I walk through the gap in the old stone wall of the farthest and smallest property, hands taming my hair and tidying my clothes. Plastering a smile on my face, I push the wooden planks back.

Now that we have sold most of what we own, the house is sparsely furnished with a table, two old beds, and a few flimsy chairs. Spare, but it’s the only home I’ve ever known. And in this home is a welcoming and familiar face. Ama lies in bed, surrounded by a heap of threadbare blankets.

“Ahn, you’re back early,” she says, lifting her head up gingerly.

I drop what remains of my stolen food on the table and go to her. “Old Pang was kind enough to let me come home early. He knows you’re not feeling well, Ama.”

It hurts to lie to her, but it would hurt her more to know the truth. Her wavy white hair falls across her face as she struggles to sit, and I fluff up the pillows for her to lean back on. Even in the desert warmth, the fever radiating from her skin is noticeable.

“How are you feeling, Ama?”

“I’ve been better,” she says wryly. She brushes loose strands of black hair off my face. “I’m more worried about you, waking so early every day and working so hard.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need much sleep.” I force a smile back to reassure her. “I’ll get dinner ready.”

I wash the last of our rice and coax out a thin gruel over the fire, adding more water so that it will last more than a meal. I share tales from my day as we eat—all lies, but I’ve grown so good at telling stories I almost believe them myself.

We go to bed, and after waiting for an hour or so, I get up and tiptoe back into the kitchen. There, I pry open a floorboard as quietly as possible and grab the small leather pouch hidden underneath.

“Ahn?”

I freeze on the spot. “I thought you were asleep, Ama.”

“What are you doing?” she asks, shuffling closer.

It’s too late to hide what’s in my hands. I open my palm and the jade ring gleams in the light of the lamp. My thumb runs over the silver etching of a fènghuáng—the mysterious Phoenix that is said to dwell on the peaks of the Wudin Mountains in the north. The metal is tarnished; the long train of plumage splitting into several curling tendrils has turned dark. And there’s a notch on the ring near the bird’s feet with a faint mother-of-pearl sheen. A missing piece must have broken off. Still, it’s the most beautiful thing that belongs to me.

Ama settles onto the floor, wrapping her blanket around her. “Are you thinking about selling your ring?”

I nod.

“No,” she says firmly. “It is an heirloom, the only thing you have from your parents.”

“Parents I don’t remember,” I remind her. Parents who might have abandoned me. Parents who are probably dead. All I have is a hazy memory of them: a voice and a blurred face. My father and my mother.

“My dear child.”

Ama’s milky gray eyes meet mine. Her smile is so kind and so warm, like a beacon guiding me through the murky depths of an ocean. She pulls me into an embrace, and even though she has become weak and thin, I feel safe. Hers is a love that shields me endlessly.

“Why did you save me? Why didn’t you give me up to the Diyeh priests?” I ask, nestling into her arms. “Why weren’t you scared when you found out that I have magic?”

“Because every life is precious—”

“And every child deserves a fighting chance,” I finish.

Ama strokes my hair. “You were only a child, not a demon or a monster, no matter what the priests say.”

“But sometimes, I feel it inside me. I don’t want magic, it scares me. It . . .” I trail off, shuddering. I’ve tried to suppress my magic all these years, for fear of getting captured by the priests or getting Ama into trouble for harboring me. It was easier when I was younger. All I had to do was not think about it. To forget it exists. But lately, something feels different and I’m not sure why.

Just the other day, when I was still working at the inn, I accidentally froze the tea in a cup because Old Pang was yelling at me again. I was so angry that I forgot myself. Thank Heavens he didn’t notice.