Page 114 of Blood and Moonlight

He shakes his head. “We haven’t even begun to try controlling the magick itself.”

“Hmph,” says Athene. “She must be doing something. Usually a freshmoon is cowering in shadow after less than a minute. Some even vomit.”

“She says she’s able to focus through it,” says Gregor. “Which implies she’s not as strong as you believe.”

Athene rolls her eyes. “Or she’s simply a natural at using it. The ancients used voidstones as weapons, not tools for managing themselves. It’s also not a full moon.”

“You only see what you want to see in her,” Gregor grumbles.

“And you refuse to see what’s there, Uncle,” she replies smoothly. “My theories are yet to be disproved.”

I’m tired of being talked across. “Excuse me. What exactly are these theories you keep mentioning?”

Athene motions to the plaza. “Would you rather sit to discuss this?”

I agree, and we walk around the open area to a table with chairs in front of what smells like a bakery. Such outdoor places are common in wealthier areas of Collis, where people can afford to spend daylight hours drinking tea and eating cakes. I suppose to Selenae, this is like a pleasant afternoon. Gregorfollows, his face set in stone. Athene requests three cups of tea, and the server hurries away.

Without the need to focus on anything, the cacophony of senses is starting to give me a headache, which I admit to Athene.

“Use the voidstone, then,” she replies. “Focus on one particular sense and push it into the stone with your mind until what’s left is bearable.”

Smell seems like the easiest to try first, so I close my eyes and turn my mind to the dizzying bouquet of scents—maple wood from the table, the floral soap in Athene’s clothing, smoke from the nearby fire under the boiling vat of dye—and imagine all their vapors flowing into the stone in my hand. Suddenly I can’t smell a thing.

I reopen my eyes and confess I went too far and lost my sense of smell completely.

Athene shakes her head. “You can’t go lower than normal Hadrian senses.” She snaps a narrow leaf off the plant in the decorative pot on the table and holds it up to my nose. Lavender.

I look up to the moon to refresh my magick and try again. Putting all of something in the stone is easy. Putting an exact fraction in is less so. It takes several more attempts for me to achieve anything resembling success. Then, self-conscious at how closely I’m being watched, I do a messy job with the other senses, leaving them all at different but bearable levels before dropping the stone on the table, glad to not be touching it anymore.

Athene smirks at Gregor as the server places our tea in front of us. “See? She’s a natural.”

I wipe sweat from my upper lip and reach for my cup. “I don’t know. That took a lot more effort than you implied.”

“It will become second nature with practice,” Athene assures me.

I sip the tea, which is a burst of orange and clove on mytongue. Taste had been difficult to judge with nothing in my mouth. “So why do you need to touch a moonstone or moonlight if the magick is already in your—our—blood?”

Athene sets her cup down. “Simply put, it’s contained. The moonlight—or a moonstone—on your skin connects it to the outside world.” She pauses. “It’s like putting hot water into a cup. You can warm your hands on it, but only if you touch it.”

“I think I understand.” My fingers dance on the edge of the glazed earthenware, letting the heat seep into my skin as she described. “Why doesn’t it work when the sun is present?”

“Sunlight essentially washes it out,” replies Gregor, slurping his drink. “Which is why eclipses are our most sacred days.” His teacup has pink flowers on it, which contrasts rather comically with his rugged features.

“You look uncomfortable,” says Athene when I don’t say anything for half a minute.

I grimace. “I’ve been told all my life that the moon is cursed. Using its magick feels… wrong, especially when you tell me the Sun washes it away.” I may have told Marguerite the opposite, but it’s hard to ignore seventeen years of solosophy lessons and sermons.

Athene chuckles. “Would it help if I told you moonlight is only sunlight reflecting off the face of the Moon?”

Gregor said something like that to Marguerite: that the Moon was gifted the same light as everything else, but chose to give it back. “Does that mean magick actually comes from the Sun?” I ask, and she nods. “Why do you only use the reflection then, and not the source?”

“Magick from the Sun is too intense,” Athene answers. “Its radiance overwhelms.” She leans forward. “What happens to bright dyes and paints that are in the Sun too long?”

I get a sense of what she means. “They fade.”

Athene nods. “And what happens to dough or meat in a pan set too close to a fire?”

That I know from experience. “It burns.”