Lumina Opalknight's Arc

Chapter 4 of 11

Lumina gave the single blossom to the woman with the coughing baby. The others turned away, slow and angry. But they did not leave. They waited on the moss below the willow, watching her, sure she could make more. The old man coughed. His son glared. Lumina held the harp and knew she had to bloom another flower before the crowd broke apart. She knelt in the dew-soil and played. Her fingers found the strings, but the notes came wrong. Thin. Flat. The seedlings did not stir. She tried again. The same dead sound. Last night the music had come from somewhere inside her, from fear and grief. Now she reached for it and grabbed only air. The crowd murmured. Someone stood up. "You can't do it twice," the son said. "She got lucky once." The dwarf still sat near the willow's roots. He had watched her fail last night, then watched her succeed. Now he pushed himself up and shuffled over. "You're chasing the tune," he said. "You'll never catch it that way. I know. I chased mine for years." Lumina looked up. "Then help me. Please." He stared at the harp a long moment. Something moved in his tired face. He reached into his coat and drew out a folded sheet, brittle and yellow, the creases soft with age. Faded notes ran across it in fading colors. "Melancholy Willow," he said. "The song I played when my garden lived. I kept it after everything died. I don't know why." His voice cracked. "Maybe for this." He smoothed the page against a root. "I can't play anymore. My hands are done. But I can read it to you." Lumina set her fingers on the strings. The dwarf leaned close and named each note, slow and steady. She played them one by one. At first they stumbled. Then they linked, and the melody rose, sad and sweet, the same shape as last night's sound but surer now. A blue hummingbird darted from the willow branches. A small white crescent marked its eye. It hovered by the harp and hummed along, holding the tune when Lumina's fingers faltered. The crowd went quiet. One seedling shivered. A bud swelled and opened. Then a second plant bloomed. Two opal blossoms glowed pale in the moonlight, side by side. Lumina let the last note fade. Two flowers. She could learn the song now. She had the page, the bird, and the dwarf who knew every note. She could bloom them again tomorrow, and the night after. The dwarf stared at the two blossoms. Tears cut down his cheeks into his beard. "It works," he whispered. "My song still works." Lumina plucked both flowers and held them out to the waiting people. But even as they reached, she saw more figures climbing the stones below. Ten had become twelve. Word had spread. Two flowers a night would never be enough.