“The raw silk blouse the color of parrot plumage and edged in red. The heavy gunghroo bells and jimikki earrings that looked so like her mother’s. Laila raised the costume to her nose, inhaling deeply. It even smelled of India. That mix of camphor, dye, and sandalwood incense. Looking at the outfit, a cold fury spread through her. She heard her mother’s voice curling through her thoughts: You want to feel real, my daughter? Then dance. Dance and you will know your truth. Laila had thrown her soul into dance, giving her body to the rhythmic invocations, the sharp movements that stamped out whole stories with nothing but her limbs. It could be sensuous. But it was always sacred. It was, as her mother used to say, proof that she had a soul. That she was real.”
“...they stole more than just objects... They stole histories, swallowed cultures whole, smuggled evidence of illustrious antiquity onto large ships and spirited them into indifferent lands.”
“She tucked a strand behind her ear, and Severin wished a strong wind would blow through the room if only so that she’d do it again.”
“People die for symbols. People have hope because of symbols. They’re not just lines. They’re histories, cultures, traditions, given shape.”
