“You have talent.”
I jump at the sudden voice beside me. I’d forgotten Deva was even there. Together, we look down at what I painted: the pond at the bottom of my grandmother’s garden. Home to my happiest childhood memories. I painted it from memory but looking at it now, a sudden pang of nostalgia tugs at my heart.
“Thank you,” I say, remembering Deva just paid me a compliment. I look across the table to see what she painted. It’s a stunning rendition of five moons, starkly purple against the midnight black, star-studded sky. Hard to say whether the day time or night time sky here is more beautiful—Ulfaria has five moons, and three suns. Astronomers from Earth would have a field day studying it all. “Your picture is gorgeous.”
Deva waits until I’ve made eye contact, then she winks. “Ready for the magic?”
Another surge of excitement steals my breath. I was so lost in my memories, I forgot about that part. “We’re going to make them move?”
“We are.” She picks up the jar of what looks like finely ground flour, unscrews the lid, and glides back to her painting. “Watch.” There are tiny holes in the top of the jar—like you’d have for herbs back on Earth—and she shakes it over her canvas. The powder is so fine, I can barely see it dust her painting. “Now we wait.”
“How long for?” I’m as impatient as a kid on Christmas morning.
“Not long.”
I join her, and stare closely at her picture. I realize I’m holding my breath.
“There.” She gives a little sigh. “You see?”
At first I thought she had simply painted the stars so skillfully that it looked like they were sparkling but now I realize they really have begun to twinkle. It’s subtle but so impressive.
I rub the sudden goosebumps which have appeared on my arms. “That’s incredible.”
“Want to do yours?”
“Yes please.” We move to the other side of the table until we’re standing in front of my canvas. “Can I do it, or do you have to?”
“You can try.” Deva shrugs. “It may work.”
I take the jar of powder from her and sniff it cautiously. It doesn’t smell of anything. “I just sprinkle it over?”
“Yes. Like I did.”
Again, I can’t see any of the dust either leave the jar or land on the paint but I shake the jar gently until I’m sure every inch of my picture has been covered. Then I hold my breath.
I want the pond to ripple, and the leaves of the old oak tree I had so much fun climbing as a kid to move. I wonder how the dust knows what parts of the picture to animate.
“Do I need to do anything else?”
“Not a thing.”
I’m holding my breath again, and let it out in a slow, careful exhale. It can’t possibly be this easy. It’s not going to work. Deva is some kind of witch, surely—after all, she said you had to study the craft for years.
“Maj—Emma! See? It’s working!”
Sure enough, the surface of the pond is rippling gently, as if caressed by a gentle breeze. I stare at the leaves I so painstakingly drew on the tree, willing them to rustle.
When they do, I let out a delighted cry, startling Deva.
“It’s working! Look! It’s moving!”
“You have a great talent indeed,” Deva says. “As I said, most have to study for years—”
“My Emma is special.” Khan slides his arms around me from behind, nuzzling my neck.
“Look!” I’m practically bouncing in his embrace. I can’t take my eyes off my painting. “Look!”
“Earth?” he asks.
