“Wizards. We’d put on shows for hundreds of thousands of people. Fire-Spitters shooting flames toward the moon. Changers dancing in the flickering light. They say Smiling Toms were given leave to create anything they could imagine.”

I snort. It seems like such a childish thought. These days Smiling Toms are forbidden from using their strength for anything but the war: stratagems, camouflage, misdirection.

“It’s important,” I say, repeating a bit of propaganda I heard once, “that we dismiss the childish fancies of our yesteryear, and fight for a better tomorrow.” I scowl even as I speak, the words sounding callous. One glance at Bellara’s face shows that she disagrees.

“What is more important?” she demands in a gentle voice. “Killing the enemy? Or creating wonder for children?”

“Winning the war,” I say automatically, as if the answer is obvious.

Bellara scoffs. “You’re right,” she admits. “But you’re also wrong.” She looks at her fingertips showing through the ends of frayed wool gloves. “I want to create something wondrous. I want to dazzle. I want to make people smile. I don’t want to just hide or distract.”

“Perhaps,” I say, wondering if she’s been considering the same offers of amnesty from the enemy, “that is the better tomorrow we fight for.”

“Then why am I forbidden from doing so now?”

“Because you have to save your strength.”

Bellara sighs. “If we allow ourselves no happiness, and we win the war tomorrow, then what have we fought for? We will be a bleak generation on a broken world, and we will never know joy again.”

The proclamation seems incredibly poetic from someone her age, though she’s only a couple years younger than me.

“Don’t you want to dance?” she asks.

“I don’t know how,” I respond. My mother used to dance when she made bread, but that was a long time ago.

“Is there anyone left to teach you?”

“I don’t know.”

Bellara spreads her hands, as if to indicate the futility of it all. “I would like to dance,” she says. “I would like to create light shows that make children and adults laugh. But no one ever taught me, so if this war ever ends I will be forced to teach myself, and then to convince everyone else that it is no longer taboo.” She speaks as if it’s a burden that has been placed upon her. Her face is set, stubborn.

I open my mouth to assure her that someday the war will end and she will find someone to teach her. It’s a happy lie, as these things go. But a change in the air stops me, and I tilt my head to listen. I shift, crawling out of the cave.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

I point at my ear. “Single engine, flying low.”

Bellara’s face lights up instantly. “Rodrigo!”