Chapter 7 A Question for the Smoke
A QUESTION FOR THE SMOKE
Buna had been adamant when she taught me her magic: it was to be used only for certain things.
Protection—for myself, for those I loved, and for our people.
And healing, though I'd always suspected that true healing lived in the plants we used as much, if not more, than in the spells we whispered over them.
She had warned me never to use magic as a means of power for its own sake—or for personal gain. That, she said, was how people lost their souls: by twisting magic until it served ambition instead of need.
Buna was always clear on this point. Magic was neither good nor evil—people were. And more often than not, those born with the greatest talent were the first to abuse it.
Luckily for me—or perhaps unluckily—I possessed no great gift. Nothing grand or dazzling. Only a steady hand for mixing healing herbs, and a burgeoning ability to read the smoke.
But Buna was superstitious. And I…I was prepared to wield whatever magic at my disposal to claim what I believed was my true destiny—to stand at Caius's side. To give love and receive his, despite my low birth. Despite her warnings.
Warnings not to be careless with magic. Warnings to stay away from Caius.
I knew the heat in Caius's eyes when he looked at me—the way his gaze lingered longer than it should when we passed in the village, how he leaned in close when we spoke, holding my eyes like he didn't want to let go.
Of course there were rumors. Some teased me kindly, calling me the young boyar's sweetheart.
But others were cruel. They whispered that I was so blinded by love, I couldn't see the truth—that his father would never allow it, that I could never be more than his whore.
I knew what Buna said—that though Caius looked at me like a man dying of thirst, and I a cool, clear stream, only ruin and sorrow could come if we reached for one another.
But what did my grandmother know of the ache in my chest?
Of the way my heart clawed for something more—more than my low birth, more than a life of smallness, more than one spent in a drafty, dirt-floored cottage.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps all roads did lead to tragedy.
In our region, tragedy was as familiar as the sound of our own names.
Not only for the Romani people—for all of us.
We knew violence. We knew loss. We knew illness, and we knew death.
It came for the rich as often as the poor, sweeping through our lives like a bitter wind, leaving nothing untouched.
Caius and I had known this truth from the moment we drew breath—each of us motherless from birth, each born beneath the Blood Moon.
I was raised by Buna, wrapped in her fierce love and hard-won wisdom.
Caius was handed to a nursemaid until his father remarried years later, left to stand at the edges of his own household, watching affection poured over his half-sisters while he learned to go without.
A boy with every worldly need answered and an aching hole inside him.
And still, I couldn't stop the seed of longing from taking root.
I had already begun shaping a plan to claim what my heart insisted was mine.
But I needed to know—truly know—whether what Caius and I felt could take hold, could grow and bind us in a way no one could sever.
I needed to know if what stirred in him was as real, as consuming, as the ache that lived in me.
I told myself it would be harmless. A question, nothing more.
A looking, not a taking. But even as the thought formed, I felt the familiar tightening in my chest—the quiet place where warnings lived.
Where lines were drawn for a reason. Where magic, once bent toward desire, rarely returned unchanged.
I did not name that fear. I did not turn away from it, either.
I chose to step over it.
And I knew exactly how.
I pulled the grimoire from the shelf and set it near the candlelight, running my fingers over the worn leather cover before carefully thumbing through its fragile pages.
This was why Buna had taught me to read, to write, to count—not just so I wouldn't be cheated at the market, but so the recipes and spells of my people, passed down from woman to woman, would never be lost.
Scrying was a useful tool—but only as a means of preparation, Buna taught, a way to ready ourselves for whatever might come.
Scrying was a form of divination, the art of seeing what was hidden or not yet known.
There were countless methods, none more effective than another.
It was a matter of personal preference. Some witches used crystal orbs.
Others gazed into bowls of still water, searching for symbols or images to ripple across the surface.
Some turned to fire, watching the flames dance for meaning.
But Buna’s method was smoke—and that was what she taught me.
It had been a while since I'd practiced, so I turned to the grimoire to refresh my memory.
I closed the windows of the cottage—stillness was important.
Any draft could stir the smoke, twist the patterns, and obscure the message.
I took a few moments to quiet my thoughts, to hush the noise in my mind until all that remained was breath and intention.
When I was calm—my breath even, my focus sharp—I placed a small stone bowl on the table. I reached for the bundle of dried herbs I'd collected and tied with twine, cradled it in my palm, and set my question firmly in my mind.
“Spirit, guide this smoke to reveal to me the truth.” I held the bundle—dry tinder—to the candle flame until it caught, then placed it carefully into the stone bowl. The herbs began to smolder, the edges curling, a thin thread of smoke rising before the flame took hold.
“Does Caius love me and want to take me as his wife?” I whispered.
I moved my hands slowly over the bowl, one after the other, cupped like I was cradling something delicate and sacred.
I guided the smoke with subtle motions, watching as it curled and twisted through the still air, then pulled my hands back to rest on the table.
Softening my gaze, I stared ahead, letting the smoke rise. Waiting for the truth to take shape. The smoke rose in a slender column, then drifted directly toward me—as if it had seen me, heard my question, and chosen to answer.
In a love reading, the grimoire said this was a positive sign.
It felt like confirmation. A warm glow bloomed deep in my chest, fragile but bright, and I held perfectly still as the smoke neared.
Just before it reached me, the column split in two—one arm curling to my left, the other to my right—parting around me as though my body had cleaved the message in two.
According to the grimoire, smoke that split into two clear streams represented duality—a fork in the road, two possible outcomes.
I didn't want to read too much into that.
No one could see the future completely, not even those of us who tried.
But it was enough for me that the smoke had risen…
and reached for me. That was confirmation enough. Caius's heart was mine.
The slam of the door jolted me from my reverie.
Buna stood in the doorway, her eyes sweeping the room with a fury I hadn't seen in years.
The smoke still hung in the air, curling in lazy ribbons above the extinguished herbs, and the grimoire lay open on the table like a confession.
She didn't need to ask. Her gaze fixed on me, blazing with the kind of rage that comes not just from defiance—but from fear.
She knew. Maybe not the exact words I'd spoken or the question I'd sent into the smoke—but she knew it had been about Caius. And that was enough.
“What have you done, girl?” she spat, her voice sharp as a lash. “You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? What question did you ask?”
Her face was red with indignation, the creases in her brow deepening as her gnarled hands clenched into fists at her sides. There was no use in lying. And truthfully, I was done with her cryptic warnings and half-whispered fears. She wasn't going to stop me. Not now.
“I asked if Caius loved me,” I said, lifting my chin in defiance. “And if he wanted to take me as his wife.” I didn't flinch. Didn't look away. I was done letting her superstition and fear hold my life hostage a moment longer.
Her eyes widened, just for a moment, and I thought—foolishly—that I'd bested her.
But then her expression shifted. The surprise drained from her face, replaced by something far more dangerous: calculation.
Her eyes narrowed, and her voice coiled like a snake preparing to strike.
“And what, pray tell, did the smoke reveal to you?” she asked, drawing out every word, each one laced with slow, deliberate venom.
I forced myself to stand tall, trying to hide the recoil I felt at her disapproval. “The smoke drifted straight up, and then toward me. He loves me, Buna—and he wants me as his wife.” I said, as if that settled everything.
“Stupid, reckless girl!” she snapped. “Of course he loves you.
It didn't take the smoke to tell you that.
Anyone with eyes could see it. So does the other one, the armorer's son. So what?” She stepped closer, her voice rising, trembling not just with anger—but sorrow.
“But it doesn't matter what Caius wants. Or what you want. You asked the wrong question.” Her eyes bore into mine, fierce and unyielding.
“You should have asked not if he loves you…but if you’ll ever be his wife. That's the question, Magda.”
I was done living in the shadows. Buna couldn't bully me anymore—not with her rules, her warnings, her worn-out sense of right and wrong.
“You're just angry I used magic for myself, Buna,” I spat, my ire rising to meet hers. “Well, I did—and you won't make me feel guilty for it.”
She crossed the room in three long strides and came to within an inch of my face. Her cheeks were flushed crimson with rage, and though she was several inches shorter, her presence towered. It made me shrink before I could stop myself.
“You think I've never used magic for the wrong reasons?” she hissed. “I have, Magda. Just like you.” Her voice dropped, but the weight of her words only grew heavier. “And you know what I asked? I used magic to ask a question about you and Caius. The right one. And the smoke gave me an answer.”
She paused, her eyes glistening—not with tears, but something still sorrowful. “I've done everything in my power to protect you from that answer. To steer you away from the future the smoke showed me. Because that's what it isn't, Magda. It isn't a future. It's an end—and not just yours.”