“With that in mind,” the high magistrate said, “I believe it’s time for all of us—the surviving representatives of the Fallen Isles—to take another look at the Mira Treaty. Let us decide, here and today, about its future, and in turn, the future of our people.”

All around the room, people nodded, and a sick feeling coiled up inside of me. Wasn’t this supposed to be about the Great Abandonment? Wasn’t this supposed to be about how we’d prevent more islands from rising up out of their seabeds and sending hundreds of thousands of innocent people into the unforgiving ocean?

I breathed deeply. One. Two. Three.

The high magistrate found Mother and beckoned her forward. “Please,” he said. “I think it’s only right that we hear from you first. Wife of the architect of the Mira Treaty. Mother of the Hopebearer herself. Without the Luminary Council here, you are the natural choice to tell us whether Damina still supports the Mira Treaty.”

Others nodded, and again, I felt the absence of Elbena and Tirta. He had them—Nine had confirmed it—so where were they?

My heart thundered as Mother slipped from her seat and sidled into the aisle. One, two, three, four: she took the stairs down to the main floor and stood next to the high magistrate while he introduced her more fully to the other representatives, as if they didn’t already know her.

Then, instead of going to his bench, like I thought he might—he was arrogant enough—he took an empty seat on the first tier to listen to Mother speak.

She looked beautiful today, her hair pressed straight how she liked it, and a light touch of cosmetics around her eyes and cheeks and lips. The soft blue dress was of Anaheran style—provided by the high magistrate, no doubt—but it hung nicely on her, emphasizing the proud way she held herself in spite of everything.

Her eyes swept the chamber, and though she was facing me now, she didn’t notice me. Not in the guard uniform. Not where she didn’t expect me. Even if she’d noticed a guard, she wouldn’t have been able to see my scar; I stood in the shadow beneath a noorestone sconce, which threw light away from my face.

“My daughter is the Hopebearer,” Mother began. “And it is a burden, hope. In the darkest of times, it’s easy to sink into despair: to believe the world has never been worse off than this, to fear we can never recover. Therefore, hope is a light against the oppressive darkness of misery, one that must be vigilantly maintained.

“I have seen that struggle in my oldest daughter. In my Mira.” Mother’s voice cracked. “From the time she was born, she has endured hate-filled attacks from those who wish to move backward. While I’ve done my best to protect her from the ugliness of the world, it’s impossible to ignore. It seeps in. It corrupts. But Mira still sees what the world ought to be, and she fights for it. Every day. Every breath. She did not ask to bear the burden of our hope, nor did she offer. But nevertheless, it is what she does.