I’ve been thinking a lot about power lately. What with the Supreme Court ruling that “official” presidential acts are immune from prosecution; Louisiana’s governor signing a bill requiring the Ten Commandments to be displayed in public-school classrooms; and the devastating news that beloved late author Alice Munro and a cadre of adults around her covered up the sexual abuse of her daughter by Munro’s husband, things have been pretty bleak on a variety of fronts. It’s sometimes difficult to believe I have any agency at all in a world where sinister forces seem to occupy every seat at the table.

Luzia Cotado, the protagonist of Leigh Bardugo’s novel The Familiar, never held such beliefs in the first place. A kitchen maid in 16th-century Spain, Luzia uses magical snatches of songs and words — refranes — to make her life easier: Un-burn the bread, lighten the load, dissolve the stain, double the eggs. Until Guillén Santángel enters her life, she hardly imagines she’s capable of more.

But this isn’t the story of a man meeting a woman and increasing her power. The power has been within Luzia all along; Santángel merely teaches her how to use it. Luzia discovers she can fan the ember that has always glowed within her — almost without her knowledge or acknowledgement — into more than just a flame: She can build a bonfire that reaches the sky.

Viewed from certain angles, The Familiar is an edifying and uplifting tale: Someone who feels helpless and alone realizes that she is neither and takes her life back. As I read it, however, I couldn’t help but think about the millions of people who feel helpless and alone in the world today, without magic or an immortal guide to lead them out of the woods.

Unable as we are to solve their problems, what do we say to those dying of thirst or starvation in war zones, or held captive in abusive relationships, or persecuted merely for voicing their beliefs?

“Fear men, Luzia,” Santángel tells her. “Fear their ambition and the crimes they commit in its service.”

I started worrying that, without magic, this was all we could offer to those struggling: Live in fear and keep out of the way of the powerful. Then I realized the greatest gift Santángel gives Luzia isn’t knowledge of how to use her power but simply to believe in herself.

“I was wrong when I told you to fear men and their ambition,” he tells her later, while watching her power unfurl its wings after being stuffed into a dusty corner of her heart for far too long. “Fear nothing, Luzia Cotado, and you will become greater than them all.”

And she does.

Perhaps bearing witness is the first step to offering support. Perhaps it’s not true that there’s no magic in the world, only that the word “magic” is as changeable as the phenomena it describes. If we open our eyes to, and engage with, the world’s injustices, might not we, too, feel our power?

I’m not suggesting this battle is easy, or that everyone has the bandwidth for it at all times. But some engagement some of the time is surely better than impotence. Yes, the world can be a frightening place, but I’ll try to go forth armed with hope rather than fear.

May it serve me — and others — well.

Mariko Hewer is a freelance editor and writer, as well as a nursery-school teacher. She is passionate about good books, good food, and good company. Find her occasional insights of varying quality on Twitter/X at @hapahaiku.