“Burned them!” Julia’s deep voice swelled on the word “burned” as though she still felt the scorching agony of that moment.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Julia asked their question for them. “Do you want to know why I did it?” And without waiting, she answered, “Because I wanted to mark in some way the end of my desire to fly. We must stop wanting to fly, we women. We must stop wasting our energy brooding over what’s past. We must stop it at once. Not only that but—for Angela’s sake and for the sake of all girl-children who will be born on this island—we must learn to walk.”
“Learn to walk!” Peachy repeated. “Julia, have you gone mad? We have always held out against this degradation. We must continue to do so.” Again came that proud lift of her shoulders, the vibrant stir of wing-stumps. “That would lower us to a level with men.”
“But are we lowering ourselves?” Julia asked. “Are they really on a lower level? Isn’t the earth as good as the air?”
“It’s better, Julia,” Lulu said unexpectedly. “The earth’s a fine place. It’s warm and homelike. Things grow there. There’s nothing in the air.”
“There are the stars,” murmured Peachy.
“Yes,” said Julia with a soft tenderness, “but we never reached them.”
“The air-life may not have been better or finer,” Peachy continued, “but, somehow, it seemed clearer and purer. The earth’s such a cluttered place. It’s so full of things. You can hardly see it for the stuff that’s on it. From above it seems beautiful, but near—.”
“Yet, it is on the earth that we must live—and that Angela must live,” Julia interpolated gently.